"You’re backed into a corner, Cole," Frank said softly. "And you don't have time to go courtin' some local girl—not that there are any left who want to live out on your ridge."
"I know," Cole muttered. "It’s over, Frank. I’m going to lose it."
Frank leaned in closer, dropping his voice. "Maybe not. I know someone. Down south. Near the border outside Del Rio."
Cole raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"
"Her name is Elena," Frank said. "She’s Mexican. Her family worked a ranch down there that got overrun by cartel violence. Her parents were killed two years ago. She’s been living in a legal limbo—staying with relatives on the Texas side, working three jobs, under constant threat of deportation because her temporary asylum claim is expiring. She’s honest, Cole. She’s hard-working. And she’s terrified of being sent back."
"Frank, I’m not looking to get involved in human trafficking or a fake immigration scam—"
"It’s not a scam, Cole. It’s a transaction," Frank insisted. "You need a wife on paper to satisfy the state homestead law and keep your land. She needs legal residence and stability in the United States to survive. You marry her, bring her here, provide her a safe place to live, and in exchange, she saves your ranch. No lies to the government—you’ll be legally married. You keep your distance, live under the same roof, and help each other out."
Cole stared down at his rough hands. The thought of bringing a stranger into his quiet, lonely world made his stomach turn. But then he pictured the bank’s sign planted at his gate. He pictured bulldozers leveling his father’s barn.
"Call her," Cole said, his voice barely a whisper. "Set it up."
The wind was howling when Cole waited at the small bus depot in Casper, two hours south of the ranch. The bus arrived thirty minutes late, its yellow headlights cutting through the descending dusk.
A handful of passengers stepped off. Cole recognized her instantly.
She stood beside a battered vinyl suitcase, wrapping a worn knitted shawl tight around her shoulders against the biting Wyoming chill. She looked small against the vast expanse of the parking lot, but there was no slouch in her posture. Her hair was thick, dark brown, pulled back into a neat braid, and her eyes—dark, watchful, and intensely sharp—scanned the platform until they landed on him.
Cole walked over, pulling his hat down slightly. "Elena?"
"Cole?" Her English was quiet, framed by a soft, melodic accent, but clear and deliberate.
"Yeah. That's me." He reached for her suitcase, surprised by how light it was. "My truck is just over here. The heater takes a minute to get going, but it’ll warm up."
She nodded, following him across the icy asphalt. When she climbed into the passenger seat, she folded her hands tightly in her lap. The silence between them was heavy, thicker than the frost forming on the windshield edges. Cole put the truck in gear and pulled out onto the empty highway, the high beams illuminating nothing but blowing snow and endless blackness.
"Frank said it would be cold," Elena finally said, her voice barely rising above the rumble of the engine. "I think Frank did not know enough words to explain this cold."