"Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
"Get some sleep," Cole said, stepping out into the hallway. "We’ve got a long day tomorrow." He closed the door softly behind him.
The next morning, the sky was a clear, brilliant shade of blue, though the crisp autumn air carried the sharp warning of winter.
Cole came down the stairs at six in the morning, expecting the house to be quiet. Instead, he was greeted by the rich, inviting aroma of brewed coffee and fried corn meal.
He walked into the kitchen to find Elena standing at the stove. She wore a simple blue denim shirt and jeans, her hair neatly braided back. The kitchen, which had been cluttered with unwashed mugs and dust for months, was spotless. The counters were wiped clean, and the sun cast warm geometric shapes across the scrubbed wooden floor.
"Morning," Cole said, surprised.
Elena turned, holding a spatula. "Good morning. I hope... I hope it is okay. I found coffee and eggs. I made gorditas de maiz."
"Elena, I told you last night—you don't have to cook for me."
"I know," she said, looking at him calmly. "You told me I don't haveto do anything. But I like to cook. And I like to eat. It is better to eat together."
Cole stood silent for a moment before nodding. "Fair enough."
They sat at the small kitchen table, eating in a quiet that was no longer tense, but rather tentative. Elena ate with neat, methodical movements.
"We leave for Douglas in an hour," Cole said, clearing his plate. "The town clerk, Mrs. Gable, is an old friend of my family. She knows what we’re doing—well, she knows the legal part. She’s not going to ask awkward questions, but we need to sign the marriage license and the state homestead affidavit."
"I have all my documents," Elena said, pulling a neat plastic folder from her bag. "My passport, my temporary border permit, my identification."
An hour later, they were sitting in the dusty office of the Converse County Courthouse. The air smelled of old paper, floor wax, and floor-heater oil. Mrs. Gable, a plump woman with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses, looked over the paperwork with practiced efficiency.
"Cole," Mrs. Gable said, looking up over her spectacles. "You know this binds your property taxes and your mortgage deed directly to this marriage certificate. If you dissolve this union within three years, the state tax stay is revoked instantly, and the back taxes become due."
"I know, Mrs. Gable," Cole said firmly.
She looked at Elena. "And you, young lady? You understand that under Wyoming civil law, as a registered spouse on a homestead grant, you assume co-responsibility for the property’s maintenance during the stay?"
"Yes, ma'am," Elena replied, her voice firm and unwavering. "I understand."
"Alright then. Sign here. And here."
With two strokes of a pen, Cole Vance and Elena Reyes became husband and wife under the laws of the State of Wyoming. There were no rings exchanged, no flowers, no kiss. Just the heavy click of an official steel stamp pressing into paper.
As they walked out of the courthouse onto the concrete steps, a sleek silver SUV pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and a tall, heavy-set man in a pristine wool coat stepped out. It was Richard Hargrove, the wealthiest land developer in the county. Hargrove had been trying to buy the Vance ranch for five years, aiming to divide the lower pasture into luxury hunting cabins and lease the water rights to energy companies.
Hargrove stopped at the bottom of the steps, looking up at Cole, then sliding his eyes over to Elena. A slow, condescending smile spread across his face.
"Well, well, Cole," Hargrove drawled, leaning on a polished wooden cane. "I heard a rumor down at the bank that you were pulling a rabbit out of your hat. I didn't believe it."
"Keep moving, Hargrove," Cole said coldly, stepping down the stairs and placing himself slightly in front of Elena.
"Is this the 'spouse'?" Hargrove sneered, glancing at Elena with cold disdain. "Word travels fast, Vance. You brought up a border straggler to game the homestead clause? You really think the county board is going to accept this farce when the annual review comes around?"
Elena stepped forward, moving around Cole’s shoulder. She looked directly at Hargrove, her dark eyes flashing with a sharp, dangerous pride that made the older man pause.
"My family raised cattle on fifteen thousand acres in Sonora for three generations, sir," Elena said in a cold, measured voice. "We worked land while your grandfathers were still looking for gold. I know what a ranch is. And I know what a vulture is."
Hargrove’s face flushed red. He opened his mouth to reply, but Cole stepped in, his tall frame towering over the developer.
"You heard her," Cole said, his voice dropping an octave. "Get off my steps, Hargrove. And stay off my land."
Hargrove glared at them both, then turned on his heel and climbed back into his SUV, slamming the door shut.
Cole looked down at Elena, a faint, rare smile touching the corners of his mouth. " Sonoran cattle, huh?"
Elena straightened her coat, her expression returning to its cool calm. "Fifteen thousand acres. My father had four hundred head of Hereford cattle. I grew up in a saddle, Cole. Not in an office."