A faint, rusty sound escaped Cole's throat before he realized it was a chuckle. "Wyoming cold is its own breed. It gets into your bones. You have a heavy coat in that bag?"
"No," she admitted softly. "Only sweaters."
"We'll get you a proper coat in town tomorrow," he said. "Before we go to the courthouse."
The mention of the courthouse brought the suffocating reality of their arrangement rushing back into the cab. Elena looked out the window into the dark. "Thank you. For this. I will work hard, Cole. I am not here to be a burden."
"It's a trade, Elena," Cole replied, his tone softening just a fraction. "You're saving my neck just as much as I'm saving yours. You don't owe me anything beyond what we agreed on."
They arrived at the ranch near midnight. The house was a modest, two-story structure of weathered timber and river stone. Inside, it was exactly what one would expect from a bachelor who spent fourteen hours a day outside: sparsely furnished, utilitarian, and coated in a thin layer of fine prairie dust.
Cole showed her to the spare bedroom on the ground floor. It had a sturdy oak bed, a single dresser, and a window that looked out over the eastern pastures. "You take this one," he said, setting her bag by the door. "I'm upstairs. Bathroom is down the hall. Kitchen is yours if you want it, but I usually just make coffee and toast before sunrise."
"It is a good room," Elena said. She looked around, her hand brushing the edge of the quilt. "It is quiet here."
"Too quiet, mostly," Cole admitted. "Get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."
The wedding was a brief, sterile affair conducted by a bored county judge in a room smelling of floor wax and old paper. Frank was there as their witness, clapping Cole on the shoulder and giving Elena a warm, encouraging smile. They exchanged simple silver bands Cole had bought at a pawn shop that morning. When the judge pronounced them husband and wife, there was no kiss, only a stiff, formal handshake and the scratching of pens on legal documents.
Within two hours, the paperwork was overnighted to Sterling’s office in Cheyenne. The foreclosure was stayed. The ranch was temporarily safe.
But the real challenge began when the ink dried.
For the first week, they moved around each other like strangers in a waiting room. Cole woke at four, worked the herd, fixed fences, and came back smelling of diesel and sweat. Elena kept the house. She scrubbed the floors until the linoleum shone, organized the chaotic pantry, and learned the quirks of the old wood-burning stove. Cole would return at dusk to find hot meals waiting—spicy stews, fresh tortillas, roasted beef with peppers—flavors the old ranch house had never witnessed.
He tried to insist she didn't have to cook for him, but Elena shook her head stubbornly. "A house must have life in it, Cole. Food is life. Eat."
By the second week, she stopped staying in the house.
Cole was out near the northern ridge, wrestling with a broken hydraulic line on the tractor, cursing into the freezing wind. He heard the crunch of snow and turned to see Elena walking toward him. She was wearing the oversized canvas Carhartt coat they had bought her, a wool hat pulled low over her ears, carrying a thermos.