She cooked for 30 ranch hands every dawn, her biscuits famous across three counties.
But the quiet stranger with dust on his boots and shadows in his eyes.
He was different.
Cole Ror asked for nothing but coffee and a chance to work.
Lyla Hart gave him both, never suspecting the truth.
He wasn’t just another drifter.
He owned every acre she stood on.
And before winter came, he’d own her heart, too.
This is their story.
Born in secrets forged in gunfire and sealed under Wyoming stars.
Stay until the end to see how two broken souls found redemption.
Drop a comment with your city so I can see how far this story travels.
The Wyoming dawn broke cold and merciless over Lone Ridge Ranch, painting the eastern sky in shades of steel and amber.
Laya Hart stood in the cook house doorway, her shawl pulled tight against the November wind that howled down from the medicine bow mountains.
5:00, the same time she’d risen every morning for the past 3 years, ever since she’d arrived at this ranch with nothing but a carpet bag and a heart full of ghosts.
She stepped back inside, letting the door slam against the wind.
The cookhouse was her kingdom, a long, rough-timbered building that smelled of woodm smoked coffee and the lingering sweetness of yesterday’s apple pie.
The cast iron stove already radiated heat, its fire stoked before dawn.
Laya had learned long ago that a warm kitchen was a working kitchen, and a working kitchen kept questions at bay.
Questions like, “Why did a woman barely 25 work herself to exhaustion 7 days a week? Where had she come from?” “What was she running from?” Laya didn’t answer questions.
She just cooked.
Her hands moved with practice deficiency.
Flour lard buttermilk measured by feel rather than sight.
Biscuits for 30 hungry men.
She’d have bacon sizzling within the hour, eggs scrambled in the big iron skillet gravy thick enough to stand a spoon in.
The ranch hands expected it.
Hank Donovan, the ranch boss, paid her fair wages for it.
And Laya, she needed the work like she needed air.
The dough came together under her palms, and she was just reaching for the rolling pin when she heard it hoof beatats.
Slow, deliberate.
A single rider approaching from the east road.
Laya wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the window.
Through the wavy glass, she could see him, a man on a rangy bay horse, silhouetted against the rising sun.
He sat straight in the saddle despite what looked like days of hard riding, his hat pulled low, a bed roll tied behind the canle.
Another drifter, she thought.
They came through often enough men looking for work, running from something, or just following the horizon.
Most moved on within a week.
A few stayed.
None of them had ever made Laya look twice.
until now.
There was something about the way this one moved, calm, controlled, like a man who’d seen trouble and learned to read it from a distance.
He rained in near the hitching post outside the main bunk house, dismounted with the easy grace of someone who’d spent more time in a saddle than out of it, and stood for a moment scanning the ranchard.
His gaze swept past the barn, the corral, the string of horses standing hipshot in the morning cold.
Then it landed on the cookhouse, on her window.
Laya stepped back instinctively, her heart kicking against her ribs.
Foolish, he couldn’t possibly see her through the glass at this distance, not with the sun in his eyes.
But something in his stillness made her feel exposed, as if those shadowed eyes had cataloged everything about her in a single glance.
She turned back to her biscuits, rolling the dough with more force than necessary.
The writer was none of her concern.
Hank would deal with him, send him on his way, or put him to work.
Either way, Laya had 30 men to feed and no time for distractions.
The biscuits went into the oven, bacon into the skillet.
She was pouring coffee into the big enamel pot when she heard boots on the cookhouse steps.
Three sharp knocks.
Laya’s hands stilled.
The hands never knocked.
They barged in at 6:30, loud and hungry, tracking mud and making demands.
Knocking was polite, unusual.
She wiped her palms on her apron again and opened the door.
Up close, he was taller than she’d realized, 6 feet, maybe more, with broad shoulders under a canvas duster that had seen better days.
His face was sunweathered and hard angled shadowed by a day’s worth of stubble.
Dark hair curled over his collar, but it was his eyes that caught her gray as smoke steady and unflinching holding hers with an intensity that made her throat go dry.
“Morning, ma’am,” he said.
His voice was low, rough-edged, but respectful.
I’m looking for Hank Donovan.
Is this his ranch? It is.
Laya kept one hand on the doorframe, ready to close it if needed.
He’ll be down from the main house around 6.
You looking for work? If he’s hiring? We’re always short-handed, she admitted, then wondered why she’d said it.
It wasn’t her place to speak for Hank.
You’ll have to talk to him, though.
I just cook.
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth.
Then I’m already grateful.
It’s been 3 days since I had a hot meal.
Something in his tone, not pleading, not demanding, just stating fact, made her hesitate.
She should close the door.
Send him to wait by the bunk house.
Instead, she heard herself say, “Coffee’s hot.
I’ve got biscuits coming out in 10 minutes.
” His eyes widened slightly, as if surprised by the offer.
I’d be obliged, ma’am.
Thank you.
She stepped aside and he entered the cook house with the careful manners of a man who knew he was invading someone’s space.
He removed his hat revealing that dark hair fully and stood just inside the door as if waiting for permission to go farther.
Sit, Laya said, nodding toward the long plank table.
I’ll get you that coffee.
Name’s Cole, he offered as she poured.
Cole Ror Laya Hart.
She set the cup in front of him and stepped back quickly, putting the table between them.
You come far, Mr.
Ror.
Far enough.
He wrapped both hands around the cup as if savoring the warmth.
Been riding since Montana.
Heard there might be a work in this part of Wyoming.
Ranching work.
Any kind.
I can handle cattle horses mending fence.
I’m good with a rope and fair with a hammer.
Laya studied him as she returned to the stove.
Most drifters bragged, inflated their skills, promised the world.
Cole Ror just stated facts his voice even and unbothered.
There was a quietness to him that seemed at odds with the hardness in his face, as if he’d learned to hold himself still in the presence of chaos.
“You run into trouble in Montana?” she asked, flipping the bacon.
His cup paused halfway to his mouth.
What makes you ask that? Most men don’t ride three days straight unless they’re chasing something or being chased.
A long silence.
Then neither, just time to move on.
Laya didn’t push.
She understood about moving on, about leaving places before the questions got too deep or the memories too heavy.
She pulled the biscuits from the oven golden and perfect, and set two on a plate for him, added bacon and a generous spoonful of gravy.
here,” she said, sliding the plate across the table.
“You look like you could use it.
” Cole stared at the food as if he couldn’t quite believe it was real.
Ma’am, I can’t pay.
I didn’t ask you to.
Laya turned back to the stove.
Eat.
She heard his fork scraped the plate, heard the small sound of satisfaction he couldn’t quite suppress.
When she glanced over, he was eating slowly, deliberately, the way people did when they’d gone hungry and learned not to waste a single bite.
“Best biscuit I’ve ever had,” he said quietly.
“You don’t have to flatter the cook.
” “Wasn’t flattery, just truth,” he looked up, catching her gaze.
“You’ve got a gift, Miss Hart.
” The sincerity in his voice rattled something loose in her chest.
She turned away quickly, busying herself with the gravy pot.
It’s just flour and lard, Mr.
Ror.
Nothing special.
Then you’ve never been hungry enough to know the difference.
The words hung in the air between them waited with shared understanding.
Laya felt his eyes on her back, felt the question he wasn’t asking.
What made you hungry? What are you running from? She was saved from responding by the sound of more hoof beatats.
Multiple riders this time and the unmistakable bass voice of Hank Donovan bellowing orders.
The ranch was waking up.
“That’s Hank,” Laya said.
“You’d better go talk to him before the hands come in for breakfast.
” Cole stood leaving exact coins beside his empty plate despite her earlier words.
“For the coffee, at least” he said when she started to protest.
“And thank you, Miss Hart, for more than the food.
” He settled his hat back on his head and walked to the door.
Then he paused one hand on the frame and looked back at her.
“I hope I see you again,” he said simply.
Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving Laya alone with her biscuits and the strange unsettled feeling that something had just shifted in her carefully ordered world.
By 6:30, the cook house was chaos.
30 ranch hands crowded around the long tables, all elbows and appetites, talking over each other in the way of men who worked hard and ate harder.
Laya moved among them with practiced ease, refilling coffee cups, setting out more biscuits, dodging wandering hands with the skilled efficiency of someone who’d learned to establish boundaries early and maintain them ruthlessly.
“Lila, you’re an angel,” called out Rusty, a gaptothed wrangler with a laugh that could wake the dead.
“Marry me, Lla!” shouted Pete, the youngest hand, earning a round of laughter and a biscuit thrown at his head.
She smiled despite herself.
These men were rough but harmless.
They respected her because she fed them well, and because she’d once blackened the eye of a hand who’d gotten too familiar.
Word had spread fast after that.
Laya Hart wasn’t looking for a husband, wasn’t interested in romance, and sure as hell wouldn’t tolerate disrespect.
But when Cole Ror walked in behind Hank Donovan, the room went quiet.
It was brief, just a moment of assessment, as 30 pairs of eyes sized up the stranger.
Then Hank’s voice boomed out.
Listen up.
This here’s Cole Ror.
I just hired him on.
You’ll treat him like any other hand.
Work him fair and teach him how we do things at Lone Ridge.
Yes, boss.
Came the chorus response, and the noise resumed.
But Laya noticed how the men watched Cole as he took a seat at the far end of the table.
Not hostile exactly, just cautious, weighing him, wondering if he’d last.
She’d seen it before.
New hands either proved themselves or they didn’t.
The ranch was hard work, brutal in winter, backbreaking in summer.
It sorted men fast.
Cole caught her eye across the room and nodded once.
She nodded back and turned to refill the gravy boat, ignoring the way her hands wanted to shake.
“Get a hold of yourself,” she thought fiercely.
“He’s just another drifter.
he’ll be gone by spring.
But she’d seen the way he moved, that coiled readiness, that careful control, and she’d heard the hunger in his voice when he’d said her biscuits were the best he’d ever had.
Cole Ror wasn’t just another drifter.
She didn’t know what he was yet, but she knew with a certainty that terrified her that he was going to matter.
The day passed in the usual rhythm of ranch work.
Laya cleaned the cook house after breakfast.
Prepared a simple lunch of cold cuts and bread for the hands to grab as they worked, then started on dinner.
Beef stew today with carrots and potatoes from the root seller and two apple pies because Hank had mentioned the hands had worked particularly hard this week.
She tried not to think about Cole Ror.
She failed.
Every time she looked out the window, she caught glimpses of him working in the corral, helping the frier shoe horses hauling water from the well.
He moved with the same quiet efficiency she’d noticed that morning, never wasting motion, never complaining.
The other hand seemed to accept him easily enough, which was unusual.
Most new hires got hazed a bit tested to see what they were made of, but Cole had something about him that discouraged testing.
Maybe it was the way he carried himself, alert, but not aggressive capable, but not cocky.
Or maybe it was something in those smoked gray eyes, a warning that said, “I’ve seen worse than anything you can dish out, and I’m still here.
” By 4:00, Laya had the stew simmering and the pies cooling on the window sill.
She was rolling out dough for tomorrow’s biscuits when the cookhouse door opened.
Miss Hart, she turned to find Cole in the doorway again, hat in hands, his shirt dusty, and his face tired but satisfied.
Behind him, the late afternoon sun slanted gold across the ranch yard.
Mr.
Ror, she acknowledged, dusting flour from her hands.
Something wrong.
No, ma’am.
Hank sent me to fetch water for the bunk house.
Said you’d know where the spare buckets were.
Behind the stove, she nodded toward the corner.
Help yourself.
He moved past her close enough that she caught the smell of horse and leather and honest sweat.
Not unpleasant, just male.
It had been a long time since Laya had been this aware of a man’s physical presence.
Cole gathered three buckets and headed for the door.
Then he paused again.
Apparently, that was a habit of his.
“You always work this hard?” he asked.
Yayla blinked.
“Excuse me.
I’ve been watching the cook house today between chores.
You’ve been in here since before dawn, and you’re still going.
Don’t you rest?” “I’ll rest when the work’s done.
” When’s the work ever done on a ranch? She had no answer for that.
It was true there was always something more to do, another meal, to prepare, another pot to scrub, but the work kept her moving, kept her from thinking too much, from remembering too much.
I manage, she said finally.
Cole studied her for a long moment, those gray eyes too knowing.
I’m sure you do, he said quietly.
But managing and living aren’t the same thing.
Then he was gone, leaving Lla standing in her cookhouse with flour on her hands and an ache in her chest she couldn’t quite name.
At dinner that night was loud and rockous, the hands celebrating the end of a long week.
Saturday meant half a day of work tomorrow, then Sunday off.
The men were in high spirits, passing bowls of stew, arguing about poker debts, making plans to ride into Milbrook for drinks and dances.
Laya served and cleared invisible as always.
She’d perfected the art of being present, but not really there of moving through their midst like a ghost.
It was safer that way, easier.
But she felt Cole’s eyes on her throughout the meal.
Not intrusive, not learing, just watching, noticing, seeing her in a way that made her feel suddenly visible again.
And she wasn’t sure if she hated it or craved it.
After the hands had cleared out, heading for the bunk house to clean up for their Saturday night in town, Laya began the cleanup.
30 men generated a lot of dirty dishes.
She was elbowed deep in sudsy water when she heard footsteps behind her.
“Need help!” Cole stood in the doorway for the third time that day.
Sleeves rolled up looking uncertain in a way he hadn’t all day.
“I’ve got it,” Laya said automatically.
“I know you’ve got it.
question is whether you’d accept help if it was offered.
She turned to face him fully water dripping from her hands.
Why would you offer? Because you fed me this morning when you didn’t have to.
Because you’ve been on your feet for 13 hours.
And because he trailed off looking uncomfortable, because you look like you could use someone in your corner even for just a few minutes.
The honesty of it stunned her.
Most people wanted something a favor, a flirtation, a way in.
Cole seemed to want nothing except to repay a kindness.
“I don’t need help,” Laya said, but her voice was softer now.
“Everybody needs help sometimes.
” Cole picked up a dish towel.
“I’ll dry, you wash.
We’ll be done twice as fast, and you can get off your feet.
” She should refuse, should maintain her distance, her boundaries.
But her feet achd and her back hurt and the idea of finishing even 10 minutes sooner was too tempting to resist.
Fine, she said, but you don’t have to.
I know I don’t have to.
He positioned himself beside her at the wash basin close but not crowding.
I want to.
They worked in silence for a while, falling into an easy rhythm.
Laya washed cold dried.
The simple domesticity of it felt strange and comforting all at once, like a memory of something she’d lost long ago.
How long have you been at Lone Ridge? Cole asked eventually.
3 years.
You like it here? It’s work.
It pays.
That’s not what I asked.
Laya scrubbed harder at a stubborn pot.
It’s fine.
Hank’s fair.
The hands are decent enough.
I have a roof over my head and food in my belly.
But do you like it? She set the pot down with more force than necessary.
“What do you want me to say, Mr.
Ror?” “That I’m thrilled to cook for 30 men 7 days a week.
That this is what I dreamed about as a little girl.
” “No,” he said, calmly, unruffled by her sudden anger.
“I want you to be honest, even if it’s just for a minute.
” The gentleness in his voice nearly undid her.
Laya turned away, staring out the window at the darkening ranchard.
“Honest? When was the last time she’d been honest about anything? I needed work, she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Three years ago, I had nothing.
No family, no money, nowhere to go.
Hank took a chance on me.
So yes, I’m grateful.
And no, it’s not what I imagined for my life, but it’s what I have, and that’s enough.
What happened 3 years ago? The question was quiet, careful giving her space to refuse, and she should refuse.
Should shut this down before it went any further.
Instead, she heard herself say, “Colola,” one word.
But it carried the weight of everything, the fever, the dying, the mass graves.
The way her whole world had burned away in the space of 6 weeks, leaving her alone in the ashes.
“I’m sorry,” Cole said.
And he sounded like he meant it.
“I lost my family to it, too.
Different time, different place, but I know what it’s like to be the only one left.
Laya’s hands stilled in the water.
She turned to look at him.
Really look at him and saw her own grief reflected in those gray eyes.
The same hollow emptiness.
The same survivor’s guilt.
How do you, she swallowed hard.
How do you keep going? You just do, Cole said.
One day at a time, one meal, one sunrise, one foot in front of the other, and you hold on to the people who remind you there’s still something worth living for.
Is that why you’re here, looking for something worth living for? Maybe.
He dried the last plate and set it carefully on the stack.
Or maybe I’m just tired of running.
The vulnerability in those words cracked something open in Laya’s chest.
She understood running, understood the exhaustion that came from never staying in one place long enough to heal.
From always looking over your shoulder, from believing you didn’t deserve peace.
Mr.
Ror.
Cole, he corrected gently.
Please, Cole.
His name felt strange on her tongue, intimate in a way that made her pulse quicken.
Why did you really come here to this ranch? He was quiet for a long moment and she thought he might not answer.
Then because I heard it was a good place.
Bear work decent people because I’m tired of being alone.
And because he met her eyes steady and sure because maybe it’s time to stop running and start living like you said managing and living aren’t the same thing.
I said you said that doesn’t make it less true.
They stood there in the gathering dusk, the cookhouse warm and quiet around them, and Laya felt something shift inside her, a loosening of the tight knot of grief and fear she’d carried for 3 years.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, “for the help.
” “Anytime, Laya.
” The sound of her name in his voice, no Miss Hart, just her name soft and careful, sent warmth flooding through her.
dangerous warmth, the kind that led to hoping and hoping led to hurting.
“You should get some rest,” she said, pulling back, rebuilding her walls.
“Tomorrow’s another work day.
” “So should you.
” “I will.
” But they both knew she was lying.
She’d stay up another hour preparing for tomorrow, keeping her hands busy so her mind couldn’t wander into dangerous territory, so she wouldn’t think about smoke gray eyes and gentle questions and the way Cole Ror looked at her like she was worth seeing.
He seemed to understand.
He settled his hat on his head and moved toward the door.
Then, because apparently he couldn’t help himself, he paused one more time.
Good night, Laya.
Good night, Cole.
And then he was gone.
And Laya was alone again in her cook house with nothing but the memory of his voice and the terrifying realization that for the first time in 3 years she wanted to stop running too.
Sunday dawned clear and cold with frost painting the windows in delicate patterns.
Laya woke in her small room behind the cook house barely more than a closet really with a narrow bed and a washand and lay still for a moment listening to the silence.
Sunday, rest day.
Except she never rested.
By 5:30, she was in the cook house starting the fire.
The hands would sleep late, stumble in around 8 for breakfast, then scatter for their day off.
Some would ride to town, others would mend gear, play cards, catch up on sleep, but they’d all expect to be fed, and Laya would feed them.
She was mixing pancake batter when she heard the door open.
Cole stepped inside, looking sheepish.
I know it’s your day off, too, he said before she could speak.
But I woke up early and thought, “Well, I thought maybe you could use help with breakfast.
Then maybe you could actually rest for a few hours.
” Laya stared at him.
“You want to help me cook? I’m not much good at it,” he admitted.
“But I can follow directions, and I make decent coffee.
” “You should be resting.
You worked hard yesterday.
” “So did you.
Harder.
” He rolled up his sleeves.
Come on, show me what to do.
She should refuse, should send him away, maintain her independence.
But the truth was she was tired, bone tired, soul tired, and the idea of sharing the load, even for one morning, was impossibly appealing.
“Fine,” she said, “but if you burn my pancakes, you’re buying me new flour.
” His grin was sudden and transformative, lighting up his whole face.
“Deal.
” They worked together as the sun rose.
Laya teaching Cole the rhythm of the cookhouse, when to flip the pancakes, how much bacon to fry, the trick to keeping eggs from sticking.
He was clumsy at first, clearly more comfortable with horses than cookware, but he learned fast and didn’t complain when he inevitably made mistakes.
“I think this one’s more charcoal than pancake,” he said rofully, holding up a blackened disaster.
Laya laughed, actually laughed, the sound surprising her.
“That’s going to the chickens.
Try again and watch the heat this time.
” Yes, ma’am.
By the time the hands began trickling in, breakfast was ready, and Laya felt lighter than she had in months.
Cole had made her laugh three more times, shared stories of his terrible attempts at cooking over campfires, and managed to produce a stack of pancakes that were only slightly lopsided.
The hands seemed surprised to see Cole in the cookhouse, but quickly decided it was a good thing more food served faster, and Laya actually smiling for once.
Rors got her laughing.
Rusty whispered loudly to Pete.
Think he’s courting her.
Shut up, Rusty.
Laya called out, not even turning around.
I can hear you.
Sorry, Laya.
Bul just shook his head unbothered by the teasing.
When breakfast was done and the hands had scattered, he helped her clean up again, moving with more confidence now that he knew where things went.
“Thank you,” Laya said as they finished.
“You didn’t have to do this.
” “I wanted to,” Cole replied simply.
and now you’ve got a few hours to yourself.
What will you do with them? Laya realized with a start that she had no idea when was the last time she’d had actual free time.
I don’t know.
Come for a walk with me.
What? A walk? He gestured toward the window where sunlight sparkled on frost.
It’s a beautiful morning.
You’ve been cooped up in this cook house since dawn yesterday.
Come outside for an hour.
Every instinct told her to refuse.
Walking together would be intimate.
It would mean conversation, revelation, connection, all the things she’d spent 3 years avoiding.
But Cole was looking at her with such hopeful earnestness.
And the son did look beautiful, and she was so tired of saying no to everything that might possibly bring her joy.
“All right,” she heard herself say.
“One hour.
” His smile made her breath catch.
One hour.
Mom, she So they walked the eastern fence line where the land rolled away toward distant mountains.
The air was cold but still, and their breath puffed white in the morning light.
Laya had grabbed her good shawl, the blue one her mother had woven, one of the few things she’d salvaged, and Cole had offered his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.
She’d taken it, and now they walked in comfortable silence, just two people enjoying the quiet.
“Tell me about before,” Cole said eventually.
Before the chalera, what was your life like? Laya hesitated, but something about the morning, the beauty, the peace.
Cole’s steady presence loosened her tongue.
Small town in Kansas, she said.
My father was a school teacher.
My mother took in sewing.
We had a little house with a garden.
It was simple, good.
She paused, memory washing over her.
I was going to be a teacher, too.
My father was training me.
I loved books, loved learning.
I thought I’d spend my life in a schoolhouse, passing on knowledge.
What happened? The sickness came in late summer, spread through the whole town in weeks.
My parents died within days of each other.
I tried to help, tried to nurse people, but her voice cracked.
There were too many, too much death.
By the time it passed, half the town was gone, including everyone I loved.
Cole’s hand covered hers where it rested on his arm.
I’m sorry.
After I couldn’t stay, everything reminded me of them.
So, I sold what little we had left, bought a train ticket west, and just kept moving until I ended up here.
And gave up teaching.
Who would hire me? Leela asked bitterly.
A woman alone with no references, no family.
Cooking was something I could do, something that paid, so I did it.
Do you miss teaching? The question pierced her.
Every day.
They walked in silence for a while.
Then Cole said, “You could still do it.
Teach? I mean, Milbrook has a school, doesn’t it?” “It does, but they have a teacher already.
And I’m just a ranch cook.
That’s all I am now.
” “No,” Cole said firmly, stopping and turning to face her.
“That’s what you do, not what you are.
You’re Laya Hart educated, strongest survivor.
You’re someone who lost everything and kept going anyway.
That’s who you are.
” The intensity in his voice, in his eyes, made her chest tight.
You don’t know me.
Maybe not yet, but I’d like to.
He reached up slowly, giving her time to pull away and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
I’d like to know all of you, Laya.
The teacher, the cook, the survivor, all of it.
She should step back, should laugh it off, rebuild her walls.
Instead, she found herself asking, “Why? Because you’re worth knowing.
Because when you smiled this morning, it lit up the whole cook house.
Because he took a breath looking vulnerable again.
Because I’ve been alone a long time, too, and I don’t want to be anymore.
Laya’s heart hammered against her ribs.
Cole, you don’t have to say anything, he interrupted gently.
I’m not asking for promises.
I just wanted you to know you’re not just a ranch cook, not to me.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of pine and earth and possibility.
Laya looked into those smoke gray eyes and saw her own loneliness reflected there, her own desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, there was still something worth living for.
I’m scared, she whispered.
So am I.
If I let myself hope, if I let myself care and something happens, then we’ll deal with it together.
Cole’s thumb brushed her cheek so gentle she almost couldn’t feel it.
But Laya, you can’t stop living just because you’re afraid of dying.
That’s not living at all.
She knew he was right.
Knew she’d been half alive for 3 years, going through the motions, hiding in her cook house, pretending that if she didn’t feel anything, she couldn’t be hurt.
But standing here with Cole with the sun on her face and hope blooming painful and bright in her chest, she realized she was tired of pretending.
One step at a time, she asked.
One step at a time, he agreed.
They stood there on the fence line, two damaged people finding their way toward each other, neither knowing that within weeks the ranch would explode into violence.
Secrets would shatter, and both of them would have to choose between safety and truth.
But for now, in this moment, there was just sunlight and possibility, and Cole’s hand warm in hers.
“Tell me about you,” Lla said as they resumed walking.
Where did you come from? What’s your story? For the first time, Cole hesitated.
A shadow crossed his face.
Gone so quickly she almost missed it.
Not much to tell.
Grew up in Oklahoma.
Lost my family young like I said.
Been drifting since looking for I don’t know, a place to belong, I guess.
No siblings, Mo.
No.
The word was clipped final.
Just me.
Laya sensed there was more something he wasn’t saying some shadow in his past he wasn’t ready to share but she understood secrets understood needing time before revealing your wounds “Well,” she said lightly, changing the subject.
“You’ve made a good impression so far.
Hank doesn’t usually warm to new hands this quickly.
” Cole relaxed, the shadow fading.
“He’s a good man, fair.
He is.
He gave me a chance when no one else would.
I owe him a lot.
You’ve earned your place here, Laya.
You don’t owe anyone anything.
They walked for another half hour talking about small things.
The ranch, the weather, the upcoming winter.
But beneath the surface conversation, something deeper was building, an understanding, a connection.
By the time they returned to the cook house, the sun was high and the ranch was quiet.
Most of the hands having scattered for their day off.
Cole walked her to her door, reluctant to leave.
“Thank you,” Laya said softly.
“For breakfast, for the walk, for seeing me.
” “Anytime,” he settled his hat on his head.
“Can I help with dinner, too? She should say no.
Should reclaim her space, her independence instead.
I’d like that.
” His smile was like sunrise.
“Then I’ll be here.
” He tipped his hat and walked away, leaving Laya standing in her doorway with a feeling she’d thought long dead fluttering in her chest.
Hope, dangerous, terrifying, impossible to ignore.
One step at a time, she reminded herself.
But as she went inside to start preparing dinner, she couldn’t stop smiling.
Dumb.
The week that followed established a new rhythm.
Cole worked hard during the day, proving himself capable with cattle skilled with horses and surprisingly good at repairing things.
The hands accepted him fully, now impressed by his work ethic and his calm competence.
Hank Donovan watched approvingly already, talking about giving Cole more responsibility.
But it was the evenings that mattered most.
Every night after the hands had eaten and scattered, Cole appeared in the cookhouse doorway with his dish towel and his quiet smile.
He’d help Laya clean up, and they’d talk about everything and nothing, sharing pieces of themselves in the warmth of the kitchen.
He told her about the horses he’d trained, the places he’d seen his dream of maybe owning land someday.
She told him about the books she’d love, the students she’d hoped to teach her mother’s recipes, that she still cooked from memory.
They were careful, both of them, circling each other like weary animals, testing for safety before revealing too much.
But slowly, steadily, trust built between them.
The hands noticed, of course.
Ranch hands noticed everything.
Ror’s sweet on Laya became common knowledge within days.
Think she feels the same.
Hard to tell with her, but she smiles more now.
That’s something.
Laya tried to ignore the gossip, but it made herself conscious.
She’d never been courted before.
Not really.
There’d been a boy in Kansas once before the caller, but it had been innocent and brief.
Nothing like this.
Nothing like the way Cole looked at her or the way her heart raced when he entered the room.
On Friday evening, exactly one week after Cole’s arrival, something shifted.
The hands had cleared out, the dishes were done, and Cole was preparing to leave when Laya heard music drifting through the evening air.
Someone was playing a harmonica in the bunk house, a slow melancholy tune that tugged at her heart.
“That’s beautiful,” she said, moving to the window.
“That’s me,” Cole admitted.
She turned in surprise.
You play a little.
Learned from my He paused from someone a long time ago.
Will you play for me? He looked uncertain.
It’s nothing special.
Please.
So Cole pulled the harmonica from his pocket and played right there in the cook house the note sweet and clear and heartbreaking.
It was a song of longing, of loss, of memory, and Laya felt tears prick her eyes as she listened.
When he finished, they stood in silence, the last notes hanging in the air like a prayer.
That was special, Laya whispered.
Cole set the harmonica aside and stepped closer.
I need to tell you something.
Her heart kicked.
What? I haven’t been completely honest with you.
Fear flooded through her.
Here it comes.
The secret.
The shadow.
What do you mean? My past.
It’s complicated.
There are things I’ve done, things I’m not proud of.
And I’m afraid that when you know the truth, you’ll stop.
Laya held up her hand.
Whatever it is, Cole, it can wait.
I’m not ready to hear it yet, and I don’t think you’re ready to tell it.
He looked relieved and frustrated all at once.
But you deserve to know.
What I deserve is to get to know you as you are now, not as you were.
She stepped closer, brave enough to touch his chest, to feel his heart pounding under her palm.
“When you’re ready to tell me, I’ll listen.
But don’t carry it alone out of some misplaced sense of honor.
Tell me when it matters, when we matter.
” “We already matter,” said Cole said roughly.
“Then trust me enough to wait.
” He covered her hand with his, holding it against his heart.
“You’re remarkable, you know that.
I’m practical.
” “You’re both.
” They stood like that for a long moment, close enough to kiss, both aware of the line they hadn’t yet crossed.
Then Cole stepped back carefully, releasing her hand.
Good night, Laya.
Good night, Cole.
But as he left, Laya knew that something had changed.
They’d acknowledged what was building between them, this fragile, powerful thing neither of them quite knew how to name.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice whispered that she was going to fall in love with Cole Ror, if she hadn’t already.
Saturday morning broke cold and clear, the kind of Wyoming dawn that promised hard work and honest sweat.
Laya woke before the sun as always, but this time she found herself humming as she started the cook house fire, a tune she recognized after a moment, as the melody Cole had played on his harmonica the night before.
She caught herself and stopped embarrassed, even though no one was there to hear, but the warmth in her chest remained stubborn and insistent, refusing to be dismissed.
The hands came in for breakfast, loud and hungry, tracking Frost across her clean floors.
Laya served them with her usual efficiency, but she found her eyes drawn to the door every few minutes, waiting for one particular face.
Cole arrived last, his hair still damp from washing at the pump his shirt clean despite the early hour.
Their eyes met across the crowded room, and something passed between them a shared secret, an acknowledgement of what had been spoken and unspoken the night before.
“Morning, Laya,” he said quietly as he took his seat.
“Morning, Cole.
” She poured his coffee, her hands steady, even though her pulse wasn’t.
“Sleep well.
” “Better than I have in years.
” The way he said it, looking directly at her, made it clear he wasn’t just talking about the bunk house mattress.
Rusty caught the exchange and elbowed Pete with a knowing grin.
“Told you,” he whispered, not quietly enough.
“Rusty, if you don’t want your eggs scrambled over your head, I suggest you focus on eating them.
” Laya called out without turning around.
The table erupted in laughter, and even Cole smiled unbothered by the teasing.
He’d been on the ranch long enough now that the hands had accepted him as one of their own, which was remarkable given that most new hires took months to earn that kind of trust.
Hank Donovan came in just as breakfast was winding down his weathered face serious.
Listen up, boys.
We’ve got a full day ahead.
We’re moving the north herd down to the winter pasture, and it’s going to take all hands.
Cole, I want you working with Eli Turner on the eastern flank.
He’s young, but he knows the land.
Yes, sir, Cole said.
Laya felt a small twist of concern at the mention of Eli.
The boy was only 16, the son of a widow in Milbrook, who’d sent him to work the ranch to keep him out of trouble.
He was skilled enough with horses and cattle, but he had that reckless confidence of youth, the kind that made him take risks older, wiser men wouldn’t.
She’d patched him up twice already this season.
once when he’d been thrown from a halfbroke Mustang once when he’d gotten careless around a Longhorn and taken a horn to the ribs.
“Nothing serious, but worrying enough.
“Be careful out there,” she said, as the hands filed out, and though she addressed the room, her eyes were on Cole.
“He understood, always am.
” But as the men dispersed into the cold morning, Laya couldn’t shake a sense of foroding that settled over her like a heavy shawl.
She tried to dismiss it as foolishness.
The ranch was dangerous work.
Every day carried risks, and worrying wouldn’t change anything.
Still, she found herself watching from the cookhouse window as the hand saddled up as Cole swung onto a rangy paint horse with easy grace as young Eli Turner, all gangly limbs and cocky grin, whooped and spurred his mount toward the north pasture.
“Be safe,” she whispered to the empty room.
Then she turned back to her work, trying not to count the hours until they’d return.
The morning passed in the usual rhythm of ranch chores.
Laya cleaned the cookhouse prepared bread dough to rise sorted through the root cellar, taking inventory of what would need to be purchased in town before winter truly set in.
But her mind kept wandering to the north pasture to Cole and Eli and the unpredictable nature of cattle work.
By noon, she had stew simmering and fresh bread cooling, ready for whenever the hands came back hungry.
The wind had picked up, carrying the scent of distant weather.
Not a storm, not yet, but the promise of one.
Wyoming weather could turn on a moment’s notice, and late November was notoriously unpredictable.
She was just stepping outside to shake out a rug when she heard it, a shout sharp and alarmed, carrying across the ranchard from the direction of the corral.
Bulls loose.
Eli’s down.
Laya’s heart stopped.
She dropped the rug and ran her skirts hitched up her feet flying across the frozen ground.
Other hands were converging on the corrals, but she got there first in time to see a scene that would haunt her nightmares.
The big Heraford bull, 2,000 lb of muscle and rage, had somehow gotten loose from the holding pen.
And Eli Turner, thrown from his horse in the chaos, lay stunned in the dirt directly in the animals path.
The bull lowered its massive head, pawing the ground, ready to charge.
Eli, move!” Someone screamed, but the boy was dazed, struggling to rise too slow, too disoriented.
The bull charged and Cole Ro without hesitation, without thinking, spurred his paint horse directly between them.
Laya’s scream caught in her throat as Cole’s horse skiitted sideways, placing itself as a barrier between the boy and certain death.
The bull’s charge faltered, confused by the new target.
Cole used those precious seconds to lean down from the saddle grab Eli by the back of his shirt and haul him up with strength that seemed impossible.
The paint horse, well-trained and brave, wheeled away as the bull’s horn swept past, missing Cole’s leg by inches.
Other hands were scrambling into position now, ropes flying, trying to control the enraged animal.
But it was Cole who’d made the difference.
Cole, who’d put himself in mortal danger without a second thought to save a boy he barely knew.
By the time they got the bull secured back in the pen, Laya’s heart was hammering so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.
Eli sat on the ground nearby, pale and shaking a gash on his forehead, bleeding freely.
Cole dismounted and crouched beside him, checking him over with practiced hands.
“You all right, kid?” “I think so.
” Eli’s voice shook.
That bull came out of nowhere.
My horse spooked and I I’m sorry, Cole.
I should have been paying better attention.
You’re alive.
That’s what matters.
Cole helped him to his feet.
But next time when you’re down, you roll.
Don’t try to stand.
Understand? Yes, sir.
Laya pushed through the gathered hands, her medical instincts overriding her fear.
Bring him to the cook house.
That cut needs cleaning.
Cole supported Eli as they walked the boy, limping, but mobile.
The other hands were already rehashing the event, their voices loud with relieved adrenaline.
Did you see that Ror rode right at that bull? Thought we were going to have to scrape both of them off the ground.
That’s the bravest damn thing I’ve seen in 20 years of ranch work.
In the cook house, Laya sat Eli down and began cleaning the gash on his forehead.
Her hands were steady.
They always were when someone needed care, but inside she was shaking.
She kept seeing that moment the bull charging coal riding directly into danger.
“Hold still on,” she told Eli, her voice sharper than she intended.
“Sorry, Miss Laya.
” The boy winced as she dabbed at the wound with carbolic.
“I really messed up today.
You made a mistake.
You’re young.
You’ll learn.
” She met his eyes seriously.
“But Eli, you have to be more careful.
Your mother sent you here to become a man, not to get yourself killed.
I know.
He looked ashamed.
I just I wanted to prove I could handle anything.
Show I was as good as the older hands.
You don’t prove anything by being reckless, Cole said quietly from where he stood near the door.
You prove it by being smart, by learning from people who know more than you, by living long enough to gain wisdom.
Eli nodded subdued.
Thank you for saving my life, Mr.
Ror Cole.
and you’re welcome.
Just promise me you’ll be more careful.
I promise.
Laya finished bandaging the cut and sent Eli off with instructions to rest for the remainder of the day.
Once he was gone, the cook house fell silent.
She stood with her back to Cole, gripping the edge of the wash basin, trying to steady her breathing.
Lla, you could have died.
The words burst out of her raw and angry and terrified.
That bull could have killed you and you just you just rode right at it without thinking.
I was thinking I was thinking that boy didn’t deserve to die today.
And you do.
She spun to face him, surprised to find tears on her cheeks.
You think your life matters less than his.
Cole’s expression shifted something vulnerable and surprised crossing his face.
I wasn’t thinking about my life at all.
I was just reacting.
Well, start thinking about it.
Yayla’s voice broke.
Start thinking that maybe your life matters.
That maybe people would care if something happened to you.
People Cole stepped closer.
Or you.
The question hung between them honest and stark.
Laya wiped at her tears angrily, hating that she’d revealed so much, hating even more that she couldn’t take it back.
Yes, she whispered.
Me.
Cole closed the distance between them in two strides and pulled her into his arms.
Laya went willingly, her face pressed against his chest, her hands clutching his shirt as if she could hold him to earth through sheer force of will.
He was solid and warm and alive, his heart beating steady beneath her ear.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair.
“I’m sorry I scared you.
Don’t do it again.
I can’t promise that.
This is ranch work, Laya.
It’s dangerous.
People get hurt.
Sometimes they die.
” I know that.
She pulled back enough to look up at him, her hands still gripping his shirt.
But I also know that some men charge toward danger, and some men are more careful.
Promise me you’ll try to be more careful.
Why? His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs brushing away her tears.
Why does it matter so much to you? Because I’m falling in love with you, she thought.
because the idea of losing you terrifies me more than anything has in three years.
Because you make me want to live again instead of just survive.
But she couldn’t say any of that.
Not yet.
Not when everything was so new and fragile.
Because you matter, she said finally.
To me.
You matter to me, Cole.
His eyes darkened with emotion, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her.
She wanted him to wanted it with an intensity that shocked her, but instead he pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her lips.
“You matter to me, too,” he whispered.
“More than I knew was possible.
” They stood like that, wrapped in each other, while outside the ranch continued its daily rhythm, and Laya felt something inside her chest crack open, something that had been frozen and protected for three long years.
She was letting herself care, letting herself hope, letting herself fall, and it was terrifying and wonderful all at once.
Eventually, Cole stepped back, his hands sliding reluctantly from her face.
“I should get back to work.
Hank will need all hands for the rest of the day.
” “Be careful,” Laya said.
“I will.
I promise.
” He settled his hat on his head and paused at the door, looking back at her with such warmth in his eyes that her breath caught.
Thank you, Laya.
For what? For caring whether I live or die.
It’s been a long time since anyone did.
Then he was gone, leaving Yla alone with her racing heart and the terrifying realization that she’d just handed Cole Ror the power to destroy her.
If something happened to him now, she wouldn’t survive it.
She’d barely survived losing her family.
Losing Cole would finish what the chalera had started.
But even knowing that even understanding the risk, she couldn’t make herself pull back, couldn’t make herself stop caring.
She was in too deep already.
The afternoon stretched long as Laya prepared dinner, her mind only half on her work.
The other half kept drifting to coal, wondering if he was safe, if he was being careful like he’d promised.
The wind outside had grown stronger, rattling the cookhouse windows, and dark clouds were building on the western horizon.
Storm coming, she thought, and Wyoming storms in late November could be deadly.
By the time the hands started trickling back at sunset, the wind was howling, and the first fat drops of rain were beginning to fall.
The men were tired, mud splattered, and hungry, cramming into the cookhouse with their usual noise and energy.
But Cole wasn’t among them.
Neither was Eli.
Laya’s heart began to pound as she served stew and bread, her eyes constantly drawn to the door.
“When Hank came in shaking rain from his coat, she couldn’t help herself.
” “Where’s Cole?” “He and Eli are bringing in the last of the strays from the east canyon.
” Hank said, “should be back within the hour.
” “There’s a storm coming.
They know they’ll make it back.
” But even Hank looked worried, glancing toward the windows where rain was now lashing against the glass in earnest.
Laya tried to focus on serving dinner, on keeping the cookhouse running smoothly, but anxiety nawed at her stomach.
The storm was getting worse by the minute.
Wind screaming around the building, rain turning to sleep visibility dropping fast.
An hour passed, then two.
No coal, no Eli.
The hands finished eating and retreated to the bunk house, leaving Laya alone in the cook house with cold coffee and mounting dread.
She stood at the window, peering out into the darkness, seeing nothing but rain and wind, and her own reflection pale-faced and frightened.
“Come back,” she whispered.
“Please come back.
” It was nearly 9:00 when she finally heard hoof beatats slow-leed, struggling through the storm.
Laya grabbed her shawl and ran outside, heededless of the rain soaking through her dress.
Within seconds, two riders emerged from the darkness.
Eli was slumped in his saddle, clearly exhausted, and Cole was leading both horses, his face grim with cold and effort.
“Help!” Cole shouted over the wind.
“Eli’s hurt!” Laya and several hands who’ emerged from the bunk house rushed forward.
Eli had taken a fall, his ankle twisted badly, and hypothermia was setting in from hours exposed to the storm.
They got him inside the cook house quickly, and Laya went to work building up the fire, wrapping him in blankets, checking his ankle.
“Just a bad sprain,” she determined after a thorough examination.
“But he needs to stay warm and dry.
He can sleep here tonight near the fire.
” “I’ll sit with him,” Cole said.
“You need to get dry yourself.
” Laya protested, seeing how Cole was shivering despite trying to hide it.
“I’m fine.
” “You’re hypothermic.
Don’t argue with me, Cole.
” Roor.
She pointed toward her small room.
There are dry clothes in the chest.
They were my father’s.
Go change before you freeze to death in my cook house.
For a moment she thought he might argue.
Then he saw the fear still lingering in her eyes and nodded.
Yes, ma’am.
While cold changed, Laya got Eli settled with warm broth and a heated brick wrapped in cloth for his feet.
The boy was already half asleep, exhausted from fighting the storm.
“What happened out there?” she asked when Cole emerged wearing her father’s old shirt and trousers, too small in the shoulders, but dry.
Cole settled into a chair near the fire, accepting the coffee she pressed into his hands.
We were rounding up the last strays when the storm hit.
We tried to make it back, but visibility got so bad we couldn’t see 10 ft ahead.
Eli’s horse stepped in a hole through him.
He landed wrong, twisted his ankle.
So, you stayed out there in that.
Laya gestured toward the windows where the storm continued to rage.
We found an overhang, waited for a break in the weather when it led up enough to see I got us back.
He sipped the coffee, his hands still trembling slightly.
I wasn’t going to risk getting lost in the dark.
That’s how people die.
Despite everything, the danger, the storm, the injury, he’d kept his head, made smart decisions, kept them both alive.
“You saved him again,” Laya said softly.
“Just did what needed doing.
” “No.
” She sat down across from him, her own hands wrapped around a coffee cup for warmth.
Most men would have panicked, would have tried to rush back and gotten lost or killed.
You stayed calm.
You kept Eli calm.
You made the right choices.
Cole looked uncomfortable with the praise.
I’ve been in storms before.
Learned the hard way that nature doesn’t care about bravery.
It only respects caution.
Where did you learn that? His eyes went distant.
Different life, different time.
There it was again.
That shadow, that hint of a past he wasn’t ready to share.
Laya let it go, understanding that trust was built slowly, piece by piece.
“Will you stay tonight?” she asked.
“Help me watch over Eli.
” “If you want me to,” I do.
So they settled in for a long night.
Laya in her chair, Cole and his with young Eli sleeping peacefully between them and the storm raging outside.
The fire crackled softly, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
It should have been awkward sitting in silence for hours with a man she barely knew and yet somehow understood completely.
Instead, it felt right, natural, like they’d been doing this for years.
Around midnight, Laya spoke into the quiet.
Tell me about the chalera.
About what you lost.
Cole was silent for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then I was 14.
We lived in a small town in Oklahoma.
My parents, my older brother, me.
The sickness came in late July, spread through the whole town within weeks.
His voice was flat, emotionless, but Laya recognized the tone.
It was the same way she talked about her own losses.
detached clinical because feeling it all at once would drown you.
My mother died first, Cole continued.
Then my father, my brother, he lasted the longest, but he was the sickest.
I watched him suffer for days before he finally he stopped swallowed hard.
I was the only one in my family who didn’t get sick.
I buried them all.
Then I left.
How old were you when you left? 15, almost 16.
That’s so young.
Lla’s heart achd for the boy he’d been alone, grieving with no one to help him carry the weight of his loss.
I survived.
Taught myself to work ranches, handle horses.
Moved from place to place, never staying long.
He looked at her across the firelight.
Until here.
What made this place different? You, she thought he might say.
Instead, he said, “I got tired.
Tired of running.
Tired of being alone.
Tired of pretending the past didn’t matter.
I figured it was time to stop and face things and have you face things.
” Cole’s eyes held hers intense and honest.
“I’m trying.
Every day I’m here.
Every day I talk to you.
Every day I let myself hope for something better.
I’m trying.
” The vulnerability in his words pierced her.
Here was this strong, capable man admitting that he was scared too, that he was fighting his own demons, trying to build a life worth living.
“I’m trying too,” Laya whispered.
“I know you are.
” Cole stood and moved closer, kneeling beside her chair, “And I’m honored to try alongside you.
” He reached up slowly, giving her time to pull away, and took her hand in his.
His palm was rough with calluses, warm and solid.
Laya laced her fingers through his, holding tight.
I’m scared, Cole.
So am I.
What if we fail? What if we can’t do this? Then we fail trying.
But Laya, he squeezed her hand gently.
What if we succeed? What if we actually build something good here? Something worth having? She wanted to believe it.
Wanted to believe they could outrun their ghosts, could forge a future from the ashes of their pasts.
But belief was hard when you’d lost everything once already.
“One step at a time,” she said, echoing his earlier words.
“One step at a time,” he agreed.
They sat like that through the night hands clasped, keeping watch over Eli as the storm raged outside.
And Laya felt something settle inside her, a quiet certainty that whatever came next, whatever dangers or challenges they’d face, she wouldn’t face them alone.
Cole Ror had become her partner, her friend, and maybe someday soon something more.
By dawn, the storm had passed, leaving the world washed clean and cold.
Eli woke feeling better, his ankle still sore, but improving.
Laya made breakfast while Cole helped the boy to the bunk house, supporting his weight with patient care.
When Cole returned, the other hands were starting to arrive for breakfast, and the moment of intimacy was lost.
But Laya caught his eye across the crowded room, and his small smile told her he remembered that last night had mattered.
Over the next few days, something shifted on the ranch.
Word spread about how Cole had saved Eli twice in one day, first from the bull, then from the storm.
The hands who’d already accepted him now looked at him with something approaching reverence.
“That Roor’s got ice in his veins,” she heard Rusty say one evening.
“Brave as they come,” Pete agreed.
but smart with it.
That’s what makes the difference.
Even Hank Donovan seemed impressed.
On Wednesday morning, he pulled Cole aside after breakfast, and Laya heard him say, “You’ve proven yourself 10 times over, son.
I’m promoting you to head Wrangler means more responsibility, more pay, and more say in how we run things around here.
” “I appreciate the opportunity, Mr.
Donovan.
” Cole said, “I won’t let you down.
” “I know you won’t.
You’ve got good instincts and a level head.
Those are worth more than fancy skills any day.
Laya felt proud watching the exchange.
Proud of Cole for earning Hank’s trust.
Proud that others were seeing what she’d seen from the beginning.
Cole Ror was special.
He was the kind of man you wanted beside you when things got hard.
That evening after dinner cleanup, Cole asked Laya to walk with him again.
The weather had turned clear and cold with stars scattered across the sky like diamonds on black velvet.
They walked toward the barn, their breath puffing white in the frozen air.
Congratulations on the promotion, Laya said.
“Thank you.
It means I’ll be staying through winter at least, maybe longer,” he glanced at her.
“Is that would that be all right with you?” “Yes,” she said simply.
“More than all right.
” They walked in comfortable silence for a while, and Laya found herself relaxing in ways she hadn’t in years.
Being with Cole didn’t require performance or pretense.
She could just be herself scared and hopeful, damaged, and healing all at once.
“Can I tell you something?” Cole asked as they stopped near the corral fence.
“Always.
” That night in the storm, sitting with you while Eli slept, that was the most peaceful I’ve felt since I was a boy.
Even with the wind howling and the danger all around us, I felt safe, like I’d finally found somewhere I belonged.
Laya turned to face him, her heart swelling.
I felt it, too.
I know we’re taking this slow.
I know we both have reasons to be careful, but I need you to know.
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle.
I care about you deeply, and I’m not going anywhere unless you send me away.
I won’t send you away, she whispered.
Good, because I’m planning to stay.
His thumb brushed her cheek.
I’m planning to prove to you that I’m worth the risk of caring, that we’re worth the risk.
Laya leaned into his touch, letting herself feel the full weight of her emotions for the first time.
You already have, Cole.
You already have.
He smiled, that rare full smile that transformed his whole face, and Laya felt her last defenses crumble.
She was in love with him, completely, terrifyingly, wonderfully in love.
And judging by the way Cole was looking at her with tenderness and heat and promise all mixed together, he was falling too.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly.
Her answer was to rise on her toes and meet him halfway.
The kiss was gentle at first tentative, both of them testing this new territory.
Then Cole’s arms came around her, pulling her close, and Laya melted into him, into this into the rightness of finally letting herself feel.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Cole rested his forehead against hers.
I’ve wanted to do that since the day I met you.
Why didn’t you? Because you weren’t ready.
And I wanted to earn the right to kiss you, not just take it.
God, she loved him.
Loved his patience, his respect, his understanding that she needed time to learn to trust again.
I’m ready now.
She said, I’m ready to try this.
To try us.
Are you sure? Because Laya, once we start this, I’m all in.
I don’t do things halfway.
Neither do I.
She framed his face with her hands, memorizing this moment.
I’m scared, but I’m sure.
I want this.
I want you.
Cole kissed her again, slower, this time, deeper, and Laya let herself fall completely.
let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, happiness was possible after loss, that maybe she deserved to be loved again.
When they finally walked back to the cook house, hand in hand, the stars wheeling overhead and the future stretching bright with possibility.
Laya Hart was no longer just surviving.
She was living again, and it was all because of the quiet stranger who had appeared at her door, asking for nothing more than a cup of coffee and a chance to prove himself.
Kolor had given her back hope, had given her back her heart, and she was ready, terrified, but ready to see where this might lead.
Together, they stood on the threshold of something new, something worth fighting for, something worth the risk of loving again.
Neither of them knew that within days, gunfire would shatter their peace, secrets would surface, and both of them would be tested in ways they couldn’t imagine.
But for now, in this moment, there was just the two of them.
The cold night air and the promise of a future they’d build together, one careful step at a time.
The week following, their first kiss passed in a haze of stolen moments and growing closeness.
Cole and Laya found ways to be together despite the demands of ranch life.
Early morning conversations over coffee before the hands arrived, evening walks after dinner, clean up, quiet hours sitting by the cookhouse fire, talking about everything and nothing.
The hands noticed, of course, and their good-natured teasing became a constant backdrop to daily life.
But neither Cole nor Laya minded.
They were too wrapped up in discovering each other and learning the small details that made a person real.
How Cole took his coffee black and strong.
How Yayla hummed when she was content.
How they both still woke from nightmares about the chalera, but found comfort in knowing they weren’t alone.
“You’re glowing,” Rusty told Laya one morning as she served breakfast, his gaptothed grin wide.
Never seen you look so happy.
I’m not glowing, Laya protested.
But she couldn’t quite suppress her smile.
You are, Pete confirmed.
And Ror walks around like he won the lottery.
It’s disgusting how happy you two are.
Then stop looking, Cole said mildly, but his eyes found Laya’s across the room and held warm with unspoken affection.
Even Hank Donovan seemed pleased by the development.
Good to see you settling in, Ror, he said one afternoon.
And Laya deserves some happiness.
Lord knows she’s earned it.
But happiness Laya was learning made you vulnerable.
Made you care about the future in ways you didn’t when survival was your only goal.
And caring about the future meant having something to lose.
She tried not to think about that.
Tried to live in the present to savor each moment with coal without worrying about what tomorrow might bring.
But late at night, alone in her small room, fear would creep in.
Fear that this was too good to be true.
that something would happen to shatter it all.
She’d lost everything once.
What would stop it from happening again? Thursday evening brought the first hint that her fears weren’t unfounded.
Laya was preparing dinner when Hank came into the cook house looking troubled.
His weathered face grim.
“Everything all right?” she asked, pausing in her work.
“Hope so.
Just got word from town.
Seems there’s been some trouble brewing.
Cattle rustlers hit the Morrison ranch last week, made off with 40 head.
Sheriff’s got a posi out looking for them.
Laya’s stomach tightened.
You think they might come this way? Hard to say.
We’re keeping extra watch on the herds and I’ve told the boys to be vigilant, but Laya Hank hesitated.
If anything happens, if there’s trouble, you stay in this cook house with the doors locked.
Understand? I understand.
But that evening when Cole came to help with cleanup, Laya couldn’t hide her worry.
Hank told me about the rustlers.
Cole’s expression darkened.
I heard we’ve got men posted watching the herds tonight.
Should be fine.
Should be isn’t the same as will be.
No, it’s not.
He set down the dish he was drying and turned to face her fully.
But Laya, this is ranch life.
There’s always risk weather accidents.
Sometimes bad men doing bad things.
We take precautions, stay alert, and hope for the best.
I just got you, she said quietly.
I don’t want to lose you to some cattle rustlers.
Cole crossed to her in two strides and pulled her into his arms.
You won’t lose me.
I promise.
I’ve survived worse than rustlers.
Something in his tone made her pull back to look at him.
What do you mean? He went still, that shadow crossing his face again.
Just I’ve had a hard life.
I know how to handle trouble.
Colt, what aren’t you telling me? For a moment, she thought he might finally reveal whatever secret he’d been carrying, but then he shook his head.
Not yet.
Please, Laya, let me have a few more days of this of us before I burden you with my past.
She wanted to push, wanted to demand answers, but she also understood the need to protect fragile happiness, to postpone difficult truths just a little longer.
A few more days, she agreed.
But then, Cole, then you have to trust me enough to tell me everything.
I will.
I swear it.
He kissed her forehead gently.
Thank you for being patient with me.
That night, Laya lay awake listening to the wind and thinking about secrets.
Everyone had them pieces of their past.
They’d rather forget choices they regretted.
Whatever Cole was hiding, it couldn’t be worse than the grief and guilt she carried.
And she’d already decided she loved him.
His past couldn’t change that, could it? Friday dawned cold and overcast, the kind of day that made your bones ache and your breath fog white.
Laya rose early as always, but found Cole already in the cook house building up the fire.
“You’re up early,” she said, surprised.
“Couldn’t sleep.
Figured I’d make myself useful.
” He straightened dusting ash from his hands.
“Coffee’s on.
” They worked together, preparing breakfast in comfortable silence, and Laya marveled at how natural it had become, this partnership, this rhythm they’d found.
It felt like they’d been doing this for years instead of weeks.
The hands came in for breakfast and hungry as always, but there was an undercurrent of tension Laya hadn’t noticed before.
The men ate quickly, speaking in low voices, checking their weapons before heading out to work.
“Stay alert today, boys,” Hank called as they filed out.
And nobody works alone.
You see anything suspicious, you fire a shot and get back here.
Understood.
Yes, boss, came the chorus response.
Cole lingered after the others had gone, helping Laya clear plates.
You’re worried, he observed, aren’t you? Some, but I’ve learned not to borrow trouble.
It’ll come or it won’t.
Worrying doesn’t change anything.
That’s very philosophical of you.
I’ve had a lot of time to think over the years.
He caught her hand as she reached for another plate pulling her close.
But I’d rather think about this, about you.
About how lucky I am.
Laya leaned into him, drawing strength from his solid presence.
Be careful today.
Always.
He kissed her once soft and sweet, then headed for the door.
But he paused on the threshold, his habit, and looked back.
Laya, whatever happens today, remember that I love you.
I should have said it before now, but I do.
I love you.
Her breath caught.
Cole, you don’t have to say it back.
I just needed you to know.
Then he was gone, leaving Laya standing in her cook house with her heart racing and tears pricking her eyes.
He loved her.
Cole Ror loved her.
And she loved him too desperately, completely, terrifyingly.
I love you too,” she whispered to the empty room.
The day passed slowly, every minute stretched taut with waiting.
Laya prepared lunch cleaned, started dinner preparations, but her mind was elsewhere with coal, with the hands watching the herds with the nameless threat that seemed to hover over everything.
By late afternoon, her nerves were frayed.
She stood at the cookhouse window, watching the ranchyard, seeing nothing unusual, but unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Then, just as the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold, she heard it a gunshot sharp and clear echoing across the valley.
Then another, and another.
Suddenly, the evening exploded with the sound of rifles men shouting, “Horses screaming.
Laya’s heart slammed against her ribs as she watched chaos erupt across the ranch.
Raiders, at least a dozen of them, came thundering in from the east, firing as they rode.
They were after the horses in the corral, trying to scatter them, create confusion.
The ranch hands scrambled for cover, returning fire, but they’d been caught off guard.
Laya dropped below the window, her mind racing.
“Stay in the cook house,” Hank had said.
“Lock the doors.
” But even as she thought it, she saw young Eli Turner stumble from the barn, clutching his shoulder, blood streaming between his fingers.
She didn’t think.
She just moved.
Grabbing her father’s old medical bag from under her bed, Laya burst out of the cookhouse and ran toward Eli.
Bullets winded overhead.
A raider rode past so close she could smell horse sweat and gunpowder, but she reached Eli and hauled him toward the cookhouse with strength born of desperation.
I’m shot.
Eli gasped, his young face white with shock.
Miss Laya, I’m shot.
I know, honey.
I’ve got you.
Just hold on.
She got him inside and slammed the door, her hands shaking as she lowered him to the floor.
The wound was high on his shoulder, through and through, thank God, but bleeding badly.
She worked quickly, her training taking over, packing the wound with clean cloth, applying pressure.
“Am I going to die?” Eli asked, his voice small and scared.
“Not if I have anything to say about it.
” Laya’s voice was steady even as her hand shook.
“You’re going to be fine, Eli.
I promise.
” Outside the gunfire continued through the window.
Laya could see the battle raging ranch hands taking cover behind fences and water troughs raiders trying to reach the corral.
And there was coal rifle in hand moving with deadly purpose.
His shots precise and controlled.
He was a different person in combat.
Calm, focused, efficient, like he’d done this before, like he’d been trained for it.
Another hand stumbled toward the cookhouse wounded, then another.
Laya propped the door open and worked frantically treating injuries as fast as she could.
Bullet grazes, a knife wound, a broken arm from being thrown from a horse.
Her cook house became a field hospital blood on her floors.
Men groaning in pain, the smell of gunpowder and fear thick in the air.
Laya.
Rusty burst through the door, his face desperate.
They’re trying to get to the main house.
Hanks pinned down.
We need every gun we’ve got.
Laya looked at the wounded men she was treating, then at the cabinet where her father’s old colt revolver hung on the wall.
She’d learned to shoot as a girl.
Her father had insisted, said every woman in the West needed to know how to protect herself.
She’d never imagined she’d need to.
Watch them, she told Rusty, gesturing to the wounded.
Then she grabbed the colt, checked that it was loaded, and ran back outside.
The ranchard was hell.
Smoke hung thick in the air, stinging her eyes.
A raider saw her and wheeled his horse around, raising his rifle.
Laya didn’t hesitate.
She raised the colt and fired.
The shot went wide, but it was close enough to make the raider duck and spur his horse away.
Her second shot caught him in the leg, and he tumbled from the saddle with a scream.
Get down.
Cole’s voice roared above the chaos.
She hit the dirt as bullets winded overhead.
Then Cole was there, covering her with his body, returning fire over her head.
What the hell are you doing out here helping? You’re going to get yourself killed.
So are you.
She pushed against him, trying to see.
Cole Eli’s in the cook house, wounded others, too.
I had to help them.
Something in his face shifted.
Pride mixed with fear mixed with resignation.
You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known, and you’re going to give me a heart attack.
He fired twice more, driving back another raider.
Can you make it back to the cook house? Yes.
Then go now.
and Laya.
He grabbed her face and kissed her hard and fast.
Stay alive.
You hear me? Whatever happens, you stay alive.
Then he was gone.
Running toward where Hank was pinned down, laying down covering fire.
Laya scrambled back to the cook house.
The cult still clutched in her hand.
The battle raged for another 20 minutes, the longest 20 minutes of Laya’s life.
She treated wounds, reloaded the cult twice, and fired out the window when raiders got too close and prayed harder than she’d prayed since the chalera took her family.
Please, she begged whatever God might be listening.
Please let Cole survive this.
Please.
Finally, blessedly, the gunfire began to taper off.
The raiders, realizing they were outnumbered and outgunned by determined men defending their home, began to retreat.
The ranch hands gave chase for a short distance, then let them go, more concerned with securing the ranch and tending to the wounded.
Laya stood at the cookhouse door, her dress bloodied, the colt heavy in her hand, watching as the men returned.
She counted them desperately.
Rusty Pete Hank, others she recognized, but no Cole.
Her heart stopped.
Then she saw him limping but alive, supporting another wounded hand.
Their eyes met across the yard, and the relief that flooded through her was so intense, she nearly collapsed.
He was alive.
They’d both survived.
Cole helped the wounded man to the cook house.
His face stre with powder smoke and blood, not his own, thank God.
When he reached Laya, he just stood there for a moment, looking at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.
“You’re bleeding,” she said, noticing the gash on his arm.
“It’s nothing.
You I’m fine.
” They stared at each other.
the enormity of what had just happened settling over them.
Then Cole pulled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest, and Laya held on like he was the only solid thing in a world gone mad.
“I thought I lost you,” she whispered against his shirt.
“I thought the same.
When I saw you out there with that gun,” his voice broke.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again.
” “Then don’t you dare get shot.
” He laughed, the sound slightly hysterical.
Deal.
Around them, the ranch was beginning to assess the damage.
Two raiders lay dead in the yard.
Three more had been captured, wounded, and tied up, waiting for the sheriff.
The ranch had lost some horses, but no men, just injuries.
Some serious, but none fatal, thanks to Laya’s quick medical work.
We were lucky, Hank said grimly as he surveyed the scene.
Could have been much worse.
Who were they? Pete asked.
Buck Lawson’s gang.
One of the captured raiders spat.
And Buck, don’t give up easy.
He’ll be back.
Cole went very still at the name.
Laya felt at the sudden tension that locked his muscles the way his breath caught.
She looked up at him questioningly, but his face had gone carefully blank.
“Buck Lawson,” Hank repeated.
“The outlaw.
” “That’s right.
And he’s got a score to settle.
” The raider grinned through broken teeth.
heard there was someone at this ranch he wanted someone from his past.
Who? Hank demanded.
But the raider just laughed.
Ask Ror.
He knows.
Every eye turned to Cole.
Laya felt him tense further.
Saw something flicker across his face.
Fear.
Resignation.
Grief all mixed together.
Cole.
Hank’s voice was careful.
You know Buck Lawson.
The silence stretched taut.
Then Cole stepped away from Laya.
his expression shuddering.
“We need to talk, all of you, but especially Laya.
” He looked at her, his gray eyes full of pain.
“You wanted the truth.
You’re going to get it now, whether I’m ready or not.
” Laya’s stomach dropped.
“Cole, let’s go inside.
This isn’t a conversation for the yard.
” He turned to Hank.
Can you spare 15 minutes for this? Yeah.
I think we all need to hear it.
They gathered in the cook house, Hank, Rusty, Pete, a few of the senior hands, and Laya.
The wounded had been moved to the bunk house for rest.
Cole stood by the window, his back to them, all his shoulders rigid with tension.
“My name isn’t Cole Ror,” he said finally, his voice flat.
“I mean, it is now, but I was born Colton Prescott.
” The name hung in the air like a death sentence.
Laya saw recognition dawn on Hank’s face, saw shock ripple through the assembled men.
Prescott.
Hank repeated slowly.
As in James Prescott, the outlaw.
My father.
Cole turned to face them.
And Laya’s heart broke at the naked pain in his eyes.
James Prescott was my father.
And yes, before you ask, I rode with his gang.
From the time I was 15 until I was 19.
Jesus.
Rusty breathed.
Cole’s jaw tightened.
After the caller took my family, my real family, I was alone and angry and stupid.
Buck Lawson found me, took me in, introduced me to my father’s cousin, who was running with their gang.
They told me my father had been a great man, that he’d been wronged by the law.
I was young and grieving, and I believed them.
What did you do? Hank’s voice was hard, held up stage coaches, rustled cattle, robbed banks.
Cole’s voice was steady, but his hand shook.
I never killed anyone.
I swear that on everything I hold sacred.
But I participated.
I was part of it.
And when I finally realized what I’d become, what I was doing, I ran.
Ran where? Everywhere.
Nowhere.
I changed my name, moved, constantly, took legitimate work where I could find it.
That was 6 years ago.
I’ve been clean since.
No robberies, no gangs, nothing illegal.
But Buck Lawson never forgave me for leaving.
He’s been looking for me ever since.
And now he’s found you, Hank said grimly.
Seems like it.
Cole looked at Laya, his eyes pleading.
That’s why those raiders came tonight.
Not for the horses.
For me.
They knew I was here somehow, and they came for revenge.
Laya felt like the ground had dropped out from under her.
Coler Cole had been an outlaw, had ridden with criminals, had stolen and robbed.
Everything she thought she knew about him was built on a lie.
Laya Cole started toward her.
Don’t.
She held up a hand, her voice shaking.
Just give me a minute.
I wanted to tell you.
I tried to tell you, but I was so afraid.
Afraid of what? That I’d see you for what you really are.
Pain flashed across his face.
Afraid that you’d hate me.
That I’d lose you before I even really had you.
You lied to me, Cole, or Colton or whoever the hell you are.
I never lied.
I just didn’t tell you everything.
That’s the same thing.
Her voice broke.
I trusted you.
I let myself care about you.
I let myself fall in love with you.
And all this time, you were hiding this because I knew this would happen.
Cole’s voice rose rough with emotion.
I knew you’d look at me exactly the way you’re looking at me right now, like I’m a stranger.
Like everything we shared meant nothing.
It means everything, Laya said, tears streaming down her face.
That’s why this hurts so much.
They stared at each other across the cook house, the distance between them suddenly vast.
The other men shifted uncomfortably clearly, wishing they were anywhere else.
I should ride out, Cole said finally, his voice hollow.
Tonight, before Lawson comes back.
If I’m gone, you’ll all be safe.
No, Hank’s voice cut through the tension.
You’re not going anywhere, Prescott.
Cole’s head snapped up.
What? You heard me? You’re staying.
Whatever you did 6 years ago, you’ve more than made up for it here.
You’ve worked hard, saved lives, proven yourself a dozen times over.
I don’t care about your past.
I care about who you are now.
But Buck Lawson is a problem we’ll face together.
This ranch doesn’t abandon its own.
Hank looked at the other men.
Any of you got a problem with that? Rusty spoke up first.
He saved my life tonight.
Saved all our lives more than once.
As far as I’m concerned, his past is his business.
“Same here,” Pete added.
Others nodded in agreement.
Cole looked stunned.
“You’re saying you’ll stand with me, even knowing what I was.
We’re saying we’ll stand with who you are,” Hank corrected.
“The man who rode into a storm to save a kid? The man who threw himself between a bull and a boy.
The man who fought like hell tonight to protect this ranch.
That’s who we’re standing with.
” Cole’s throat worked.
I don’t deserve.
None of us deserve half of what we get in this life, good or bad, but we take it anyway and do our best with it.
Hank clapped a hand on Cole’s shoulder.
You’re one of us, son.
That means something.
The men filed out, leaving Yla and Cole alone in the cook house.
The silence was heavy broken only by the sound of Laya’s ragged breathing as she tried to process everything.
“I understand if you can’t forgive me,” Cole said quietly.
I understand if this changes everything between us.
Laya turned away, staring out the window at the darkening ranchard.
Her mind was chaos, anger, and hurt and fear, all tangled up with the love she still felt despite everything.
I told you about the chalera, she said finally.
About losing my family, about how I blamed myself for not being able to save them.
Laya, do you know why I blamed myself? Because I was the one who brought the sickness home.
I’d been helping at the neighbor’s house nursing their children.
I didn’t know one of them had chalera until it was too late.
I brought it home to my parents and they died because of me.
Cole sucked in a sharp breath.
That wasn’t your fault.
Wasn’t it? I made a choice to help those children and my parents died because of it.
I’ve carried that guilt for 3 years.
She turned to face him, tears still streaming.
But here’s what I learned, Cole.
What we’ve done in the past, the mistakes we’ve made, the things we regret, those things don’t define us.
What defines us is what we do after, how we try to make things right.
I’ve tried, Cole said horsely.
God knows I’ve tried.
I know you have.
I’ve seen it, Laya crossed to him slowly.
You saved Eli.
You saved me tonight when you didn’t have to.
You’ve been kind and patient and honest about everything except this one thing.
this one pretty big thing.
Yes, pretty big.
She stopped in front of him, looking up into his tortured face.
But Cole Coloulton, whoever you are, I’ve spent 3 years half alive punishing myself for things I couldn’t control.
I’m not going to punish you for the same thing.
Hope flickered in his eyes.
What are you saying? I’m saying I’m angry.
I’m saying I’m hurt that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me sooner.
I’m saying we’re going to have to work through this and it’s not going to be easy.
She reached up and touched his face, feeling him tremble under her palm.
But I’m also saying I love you.
I love the man you are now.
And I’m not going to let your past destroy our future.
Yla.
His voice broke completely.
You don’t get to run away from this.
From us.
You told me you were tired of running.
Remember? You said you wanted to stop and face things.
Well, now you have to.
You have to stay and face this face me.
Face what we have.
Face whatever Buck Lawson brings.
He’ll come back.
And when he does, it’s going to be bad.
Then we’ll deal with it together.
She pulled his face down to hers.
I’m not sending you away, Cole.
I’m not giving up on us.
But you have to promise me no more secrets.
No more hiding.
Whatever happens from here on out, we face it honestly.
I promise.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tight she could barely breathe.
I promise, Laya.
No more secrets.
No more running.
I’m staying right here, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving that I’m worthy of your trust.
You already have, she whispered.
By being willing to tell the truth, even when you were afraid.
By staying to face the consequences, by loving me enough to let me make my own choice.
They stood there in the gathering darkness, two damaged people choosing each other despite everything, despite the past, despite the danger, despite all the very good reasons to walk away.
“What do we do now?” Cole asked.
“Now? Now we prepare.
If Buck Lawson is coming back, we need to be ready.
” Laya pulled back enough to look at him.
And Cole, this time you’re going to tell us everything, every detail about Lawson, about the gang, about what they might do.
No more protecting us by keeping us in the dark.
All right, he nodded slowly.
You’re right.
They deserve to know what they’re up against.
So do I.
So do you.
He touched her face gently.
Thank you, Laya.
For believing in me, for seeing past what I was to what I’m trying to be.
That’s what love is, she said simply.
Seeing the whole person, the good, the bad, and everything in between, and choosing them anyway.
They kissed then slow and deep and full of promise.
A promise to face whatever came next together to build something true on a foundation of honesty and trust and hard one hope.
Outside the ranch settled into an uneasy quiet.
The wounded were resting.
The dead raiders had been wrapped and would be taken to town in the morning.
Guards had been posted to watch for any sign of Buck Lawson’s return.
And in the cook house lit only by fire light, Llaya Hart and Cole Prescott held each other and made plans to survive what was coming.
Because Buck Lawson would be back.
Of that they were certain.
But this time they’d be ready.
This time they’d face the storm together.
And maybe, just maybe, when the dust settled and the danger passed, they’d still be standing, still fighting, still loving each other through whatever hell the world threw at them.
It was a fragile hope, a desperate hope, but it was hope nonetheless.
And sometimes hope was all you needed to survive.
Dawn came cold and gray, the kind of morning that made everything look washed out and weary.
Laya hadn’t slept, couldn’t sleep.
So she’d risen before first light and thrown herself into the familiar comfort of cooking.
Biscuits, bacon, eggs, coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
Work kept her hands busy and her mind from spiraling into the hundred fears that wanted to consume her.
Cole found her there an hour later, standing at the stove with flour in her hair and shadows under her eyes.
He looked no better, his face drawn, his movements careful like a man expecting to be struck.
The gash on his arm had been properly bandaged during the night, but he favored it slightly as he entered.
“You should be resting,” he said quietly.
“So should you.
” Lla didn’t turn from the stove.
But here we are.
He moved closer, stopping just behind her.
She could feel his presence like heat could hear the way his breathing had gone unsteady.
Laya about last night.
We said what needed saying.
She finally turned to face him, seeing the question in his eyes.
I meant every word, Cole.
I’m not running from this.
From you.
The relief that crossed his face was so profound it almost broke her.
I was afraid you’d change your mind.
that you’d wake up and realize you made a mistake.
The only mistake would be letting you face this alone.
She reached up and touched his cheek, feeling the rough stubble under her palm.
We’re in this together now.
Whatever comes.
Cole caught her hand and pressed his lips to her palm, his eyes closing briefly.
I don’t deserve you.
Stop saying that.
You deserve happiness just as much as anyone else.
She pulled her hand back gently.
Now sit down.
You need to eat and then we need to figure out what happens next.
What happened next arrived 20 minutes later in the form of Sheriff Tom Reynolds and four deputies riding hard into the ranchyard.
The law men dismounted with the grim efficiency of men who’d seen too much violence, their eyes scanning the ranch for threats before Reynolds approached the cook house where Hank was already waiting.
Laya watched from the window as Cole stepped outside to join them, his shoulders squared despite the exhaustion that lined his face.
She couldn’t hear the conversation, but she saw the way Reynolds expression changed when he recognized Cole, or rather when he realized who Cole really was.
The sheriff’s hand went to his gun.
“Hold on now.
” Hank’s voice carried clearly across the yard.
“Before you do something, we’ll all regret you need to hear the full story.
” “The full story is that’s Colton Prescott standing there,” Reynolds said, his voice hard.
“The last of the Prescott gang.
There’s wanted posters for him in three territories.
Six-year-old posters for crimes committed when he was barely more than a boy.
Hank shot back.
He’s been clean since working.
Honest, and last night he helped save this ranch from Buck Lawson’s raiders.
Reynolds eyes narrowed.
Buck Lawson was here.
His men were.
Three of them are tied up in my barn.
Two more are dead in the yard.
They came looking for Prescott here.
Admitted as much.
said Lawson has a score to settle.
The sheriff’s attention sharpened.
The prisoners talked.
Some might talk more if they thought it would help their case.
Hank crossed his arms.
Point is, Sheriff, we’ve got bigger problems than a man who rode with outlaws 6 years ago and has been straight ever since.
We’ve got an active gang that just attacked my ranch and will probably hit others.
That’s where your focus should be.
Laya couldn’t stand it anymore.
She pushed through the cookhouse door and marched across the yard, planting herself beside Cole with her chin raised defiantly.
Sheriff Reynolds Cole Ror or Prescott or whatever name he goes by is a good man.
He saved young Eli Turner’s life twice.
He’s worked harder than any hand I’ve seen, and last night he fought to protect this ranch while I treated wounded men.
If you’re going to arrest him, you’ll have to go through me first.
Reynolds stared at her in surprise.
Miss Laya, this ain’t your concern.
It absolutely is my concern.
This man is part of this ranch, part of this community and part of my life.
Whatever he did 6 years ago, he’s paid for it a hundred times over through honest work and decent living.
She felt Cole’s hand find hers and squeeze tight.
So unless you have current charges against him, actual evidence of recent crimes, then I suggest you focus on the real criminals.
A slow smile spread across Hank’s weathered face.
She’s got a point, Tom.
Reynolds looked between them all, clearly weighing his options.
Finally, he sighed and let his hand fall away from his gun.
All right, for now, we’ll table the question of old warrants.
But Prescott, you and I are going to have a long talk after I deal with these prisoners, and if I find out you’ve been involved in anything illegal recently, anything at all, I’ll drag you to jail myself.
Understood, Sheriff Cole said quietly.
I’ve got nothing to hide.
Not anymore.
The captured raiders were brought out from the barn hands bound looking worse for wear in the morning light.
The youngest of them, barely 20, kept his eyes on the ground.
But the older two hardened men with scars and dead eyes stared at Cole with pure hatred.
“There he is, B.
” The one called Jack Spat.
The Prescott boy who turned yellow.
Buck’s been looking for you a long time, Colton.
Why? Reynolds demanded.
What’s Lawson’s interest in ancient history? Because Prescott here made Buck look like a fool.
Ran off in the middle of a job, left us short-handed, nearly got us all caught.
Jack grinned through broken teeth.
Buck don’t forget betrayal.
And he don’t forgive it neither.
So this raid was about revenge, Hank asked.
This raid was just the beginning.
Buck’s got plans for your boy here and for anyone who stands with him.
Jack’s eyes found Laya.
pretty thing like you shouldn’t be standing so close to a dead man walking.
Cole moved faster than seemed possible, grabbing Jack by the front of his shirt and hauling him close.
You threaten her again and I’ll finish what we started last night.
Understood.
Cole, Laya said sharply.
He’s not worth it.
Cole held the Raiders’s gaze for another moment, then shoved him back roughly.
Keep talking, Jack.
Every word you say makes it easier for the sheriff to hang you.
Reynolds stepped between them.
That’s enough.
Prescott stepped back.
Jack shut your mouth before I gag you.
He turned to his deputies.
Get them loaded up.
We’re taking them to Milbrook for trial.
As the deputies hauled the prisoners away, Reynolds pulled Cole aside.
Laya watched anxiously, unable to hear the low conversation, but reading the tension in Cole’s posture, the way his jaw tightened at whatever Reynolds was saying.
Finally, Cole nodded and shook the sheriff’s hand.
Reynolds mounted up and led his men out the prisoners secured on horses, leaving the ranch in an uneasy quiet.
“What did he say?” Laya asked when Cole returned to her side.
“He said he’s putting out word that I’m cooperating with law enforcement, that I’m under his protection as a witness against Buck Lawson.
He thinks it might keep some of the bounty hunters away.
” Cole ran a hand through his hair.
He also said if Lawson comes back, I should let him know immediately.
No trying to handle it myself.
Will you let him know? Cole looked at her seriously.
Yes, I’m done running Laya.
Done hiding.
If Lawson comes for me, we’ll face him the right way with the law on our side.
Hank joined them, his expression thoughtful.
Well, that went better than I expected.
Tom Reynolds is a fair man, but he’s also a stickler for the law.
The fact that he’s willing to look the other way on those old warrants says something.
It says he’s practical, Cole replied.
He knows Buck Lawson is the bigger threat.
But Hank, I understand if you want me to leave anyway.
I’ve brought danger to your door.
Stop right there, Hank interrupted.
I meant what I said last night.
You’re one of us, and we don’t abandon our own just because things get difficult.
He clapped Cole on the shoulder.
Besides, we’re going to need every capable hand we’ve got if Lawson tries again.
You’re staying, and that’s final.
Over the next few days, the ranch transformed into something resembling a fortress.
Extra guards were posted day and night.
The hands took turns on watch rifles always within reach.
Hank sent word to neighboring ranches about the threat, and soon a loose network of cooperation formed.
If Lawson’s gang hit anywhere in the valley, word would spread fast.
Cole worked harder than anyone, as if trying to prove his worth with every fence he mended, every horse he trained, every task he completed.
Laya watched him drive himself relentlessly, saw the guilt that still haunted his eyes despite her forgiveness.
“You’re going to work yourself to death,” she told him one evening as he stumbled into the cookhouse well after dark, exhausted and hungry.
“I’m trying to make up for the trouble I’ve caused.
” He sank into a chair, his shoulders slumping with fatigue.
“You’ve caused less trouble than you think and fixed more problems than you know.
” Laya set a plate of food in front of him.
eat.
Then we’re going to talk about this need you have to punish yourself.
I’m not.
Yes, you are.
You’re working yourself into the ground trying to earn redemption you’ve already been given.
She sat across from him, her voice gentle but firm.
Cole, everyone here has forgiven you.
Hank, the hands the sheriff.
When are you going to forgive yourself? He stared at his plate, his jaw working.
I was part of something terrible, Laya.
I stole from people, scared them, hurt them even if I never killed anyone.
How do I just let that go? You don’t let it go.
You carry it, but you don’t let it crush you.
She reached across the table and took his hand.
You use it.
Let it make you better, kinder, more understanding of other people’s mistakes.
Let it fuel your determination to live differently.
Now, is that what you do with your guilt about the chalera? I’m trying to.
Laya squeezed his hand.
Some days are better than others, but having you here, having something to fight for besides just survival, it helps.
You help.
Cole’s eyes met hers, and she saw the love there mixed with the pain.
I want to deserve you.
You already do.
Now eat your dinner before it gets cold, and then you’re getting a full night’s sleep.
No sneaking out early to work.
You need rest.
Yes, ma’am.
A small smile touched his lips.
You’re bossy when you’re worried about me.
Someone has to be.
You’re terrible at taking care of yourself.
They fell into an easier rhythm after that conversation.
Cole still worked hard, but he allowed himself to rest to accept help to acknowledge that he was part of a community rather than someone who had to earn his place every single day.
The hands noticed the change, too.
Rusty commented one morning.
Ror seems more settled lately.
Less like he’s got one foot out the door.
That’s because Laya won’t let him run.
Pete said with a grin.
Woman’s got him wrapped around her finger.
More like he’s got her wrapped around his Rusty countered.
Never seen her so happy as when he’s around.
Eli, who’d recovered from his shoulder wound and was back to light work, spoke up quietly.
He saved my life twice.
I don’t care what he did 6 years ago.
I care that he was there when I needed him.
The sentiment was echoed throughout the ranch.
Whatever else Cole Prescott might have been, he was now simply Cole reliable, brave, and one of their own.
A week after the raid, the trial for the captured gang members took place in Milbrook.
Cole and Hank rode into town to testify with Laya, insisting on accompanying them despite the men’s protests.
“If Buck Lawson wanted to ambush Cole, this would be the perfect opportunity,” she’d argued.
And if that happens, you’ll need someone to patch up bullet holes.
I’m coming.
The courtroom was packed curious towns people eager to hear about the raid.
Ranchers worried about their own safety.
And a handful of hard-faced men Laya suspected were bounty hunters eyeing Cole with predatory interest.
Sheriff Reynolds maintained order with a firm hand, and the trial proceeded quickly.
The evidence was overwhelming.
The Raiders had been caught red-handed, and their own testimony about Buck Lawson’s vendetta only sealed their fate.
All three were found guilty and sentenced to hang within the month.
But it was during Cole’s testimony that things got interesting.
Standing in the witness box, he laid out everything his history with the Prescott gang, the jobs they’d pulled, the reasons he’d left, and every detail he could remember about Buck Lawson’s methods and hideouts.
“Why are you telling us this?” the prosecutor asked.
You’re essentially admitting to multiple crimes because it’s time, Cole said simply.
Time to stop running time to face what I did and time to help put Buck Lawson away for good.
Whatever consequences I face for my past actions, I’ll accept them.
But that man is dangerous and he’s hurt too many people.
If my testimony can help stop him, then it’s worth it.
The courtroom buzzed with reaction.
The judge banged his gavvel for quiet, then fixed Cole with a penetrating stare.
Mr.
Prescott, given your cooperation with this court and Sheriff Reynolds recommendation, I’m prepared to suspend any charges related to your past crimes on the condition that you continue to assist law enforcement in apprehending Buck Lawson.
Do you accept these terms? Yes, your honor.
Absolutely.
Then this court considers you under its protection.
If Lawson or his associates attempt retaliation, it will be met with the full force of the law.
The judge’s expression softened slightly.
Young man, everyone deserves a chance at redemption.
Don’t waste yours.
I won’t, sir.
I promise.
Outside the courthouse, Laya threw her arms around Cole, not caring who saw.
You did it.
You really did it.
I just told the truth.
But he was shaking slightly, the weight of what he’d done finally hitting him.
For the first time in 6 years, I don’t have to hide who I am.
How does it feel? Cole pulled back to look at her, his gray eyes bright with unshed tears.
Terrifying and wonderful, like I can finally breathe.
Hank joined them, looking pleased.
That took guts, son.
Real guts.
The judge was impressed, and Reynolds says they’re already organizing a posi to go after Lawson.
With your information, they might actually catch him.
I hope they do.
But Hank, Cole’s expression grew serious.
Until they do, he’s still out there, still dangerous, still looking for revenge.
Then we stay vigilant.
Hank’s tone was matter of fact.
Same as we have been.
We’re ranchers, Cole.
We know how to deal with threats, whether they’re from nature animals or men.
We’ll handle it.
The ride back to the ranch was quiet.
Each of them lost in their own thoughts.
Laya found herself watching the landscape with new eyes, seeing both its beauty and its danger.
Wyoming was harsh country, unforgiving and wild.
But it was also honest what you saw was what you got.
And survival depended on facing reality headon.
Much like love, she thought, much like the choice she’d made to stand with coal despite the risks.
Back at the ranch, life continued with its usual demands.
Cattle needed tending.
Fences needed mending.
Winter preparations had to be completed before the worst of the weather hit.
Cole threw himself into the work with renewed purpose, no longer trying to prove himself, but simply being himself capable, dedicated, and increasingly at home.
“It was Hank who made the announcement 2 weeks after the trial gathering, all the hands in the cook house after dinner.
I’ve been thinking about the future of this ranch,” he said, his weathered face serious.
I’m not getting any younger, and I need someone I can trust to take on more responsibility.
Someone who knows cattle and horses, who can lead men, and who’s proven himself time and again.
Laya felt cold tense beside her, but Hank was looking directly at him.
Cole Prescott, I’m offering you the position of ranch foreman.
You’ll be second in command, responsible for day-to-day operations, managing the hands, and helping make decisions about the ranch’s direction.
It comes with a significant raise in pay and a bigger say in how things are run.
The cookhouse fell silent.
Every eye turned to Cole, who looked genuinely shocked.
“Hank, I I don’t know what to say.
” “Say yes,” Rusty called out.
“You’ve earned it, Ror.
Sorry, Prescott.
Still getting used to that.
” “Doesn’t matter what you call me,” Cole said, standing slowly.
“But Hank, are you sure?” Given my history, I’m sure because of your history, not in spite of it.
Hank stood too, extending his hand.
You’ve made mistakes and owned them.
You’ve faced consequences and come out stronger.
That’s the kind of man I want running my ranch when I can’t.
So, what do you say? Cole took Hank’s hand, his voice rough with emotion.
I’d be honored, sir.
Thank you.
I won’t let you down.
I know you won’t.
Hank’s grip was firm.
Now, let’s celebrate.
Yla, you got any of that apple pie left? For this, I’ll make a fresh one.
Laya was beaming pride and love swelling in her chest as she watched Cole accept congratulations from the hands.
Later that night, after the celebration had died down, and the ranch had settled into sleep, Cole found Laya in the cook house finishing the last of the cleanup.
She heard him enter and turn, seeing the wonder still written on his face.
Foreman, she said softly.
That’s quite an achievement.
I can’t believe it.
6 months ago, I was just a drifter with a false name and too many secrets.
Now I’m He shook his head.
I’m actually building a life here.
A real life.
You deserve it, Cole.
Everything good that’s happening, you’ve earned it.
He crossed to her, pulling her into his arms.
I couldn’t have done any of it without you.
You believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
You gave me a reason to stop running.
Laya rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
We saved each other.
You gave me a reason to start living again instead of just surviving.
They swayed slightly dancing without music in the warm cook house, and Laya felt a peace she’d never expected to find.
This wasn’t the life she’d imagined as a girl in Kansas.
Wasn’t the teaching career she dreamed of, but it was real, and it was hers, and it was good.
Laya Cole said quietly.
I want to talk about the future.
Our future.
She pulled back to look up at him.
What about it? I want to make sure you know my plans include you.
Everything I’m building here, everything I’m working toward.
It’s because I see a life with you in it.
A real life.
A future.
He touched her face gently.
I know it’s soon and we’ve been through a lot and there’s still the threat of Lawson out there somewhere, but I need you to know I’m not going anywhere.
I’m staying right here with you for as long as you’ll have me.
Cole Prescott.
Laya said, her voice shaking slightly.
Are you trying to propose? Not yet.
Not until I can do it properly.
He smiled that rare full smile that lit up his whole face.
But I’m letting you know my intentions.
So when I do ask, and I will ask, you won’t be surprised.
I won’t be surprised.
She agreed, standing on her toes to kiss him.
And for the record, my answer will be yes.
His arms tightened around her.
You’re sure, even with everything? Especially with everything.
We’ve faced the worst together, Cole.
We can face anything now.
They held each other in the quiet cookhouse.
two people who’d lost everything and somehow found each other in the wreckage.
Outside Wyoming, winter was closing in, bringing its own challenges and dangers.
And somewhere out there, Buck Lawson was still free, still hunting.
But in this moment, none of that mattered.
There was just the two of them, the life they were building, and the love that had grown from pain into something stronger than either of them had thought possible.
The next weeks passed in a blur of preparation and work.
Cole stepped into his new role as foreman with natural authority earning the respect of even the most skeptical hands.
He reorganized work schedules, implemented new safety procedures, and began planning improvements for the spring.
And through it all, he stayed close to Laya, stealing moments together whenever they could, early mornings over coffee evening walks, despite the cold, quiet conversations by the fire after everyone else had gone to sleep.
Word came that Sheriff Reynolds and his posi had tracked Buck Lawson to the Montana border, but lost him in a snowstorm.
The outlaw had vanished along with what remained of his gang.
Some folks thought he’d given up his vendetta and fled the territory.
Others believed he was just waiting for the right moment to strike.
Cole remained cautious, but refused to let fear dictate his life.
“If he comes, he comes,” he told Laya one night.
But I’m not going to spend my life looking over my shoulder.
I’m going to live, really live, and trust that we’re strong enough to handle whatever happens.
It was this attitude, this determination to embrace life despite its uncertainties that Laya loved most about him.
Cole had every reason to be bitter, angry, afraid.
Instead, he chose hope.
Chose to build rather than destroy.
Chose love over fear.
As December arrived and snow began to blanket the ranch, Laya found herself thinking about the future in ways she hadn’t since before the chalera.
She imagined springs and summers watching the ranch grow.
She imagined children someday filling the cookhouse with laughter.
She imagined growing old beside Cole building a life rich with simple joys and honest work.
It wasn’t the life she’d planned, but it was the life she wanted.
And that made all the difference.
One evening as they sat by the fire after dinner, Cole said, “There’s something I need to tell you.
” Lla’s heart skipped.
“What is it?” When they sentenced those raiders, the judge put a reward on Buck Lawson’s head, $2,000.
And because of my testimony, because I provided information that led to arrest, they gave me a portion of it.
He pulled an envelope from his pocket.
$600, Laya.
More money than I’ve ever had in my life.
That’s wonderful.
You can save it.
Start building.
I want to use it for the ranch for repairs and improvements.
The winter storm damaged the east barn and we need new equipment.
Hank won’t take it as a gift, but he’ll accept it as an investment, a stake in the ranch’s future.
Cole looked at her seriously.
Our future if you’ll have it.
Laya felt tears prick her eyes.
You do that invest everything you have in this place.
This place is my home now.
You’re my home.
Why wouldn’t I invest in it? He took her hands.
Besides, I owe this ranch more than money.
I owe it my life, my second chance, my happiness.
$600 is nothing compared to what I’ve been given here.
You’re a good man, Cole Prescott, Laya whispered.
I’m trying to be every day.
I’m trying.
They talked late into the night about plans and dreams about the ranch and the future, about all the possibilities that lay ahead.
And when Cole finally walked Laya to her door, he kissed her with a tenderness that promised forever.
Soon, he murmured against her lips.
Soon I’m going to make this official.
I just want everything to be perfect.
It already is, Laya said.
Don’t you see? We’ve already survived the worst.
Everything from here is just life.
Beautiful, ordinary, wonderful life.
Cole smiled and kissed her again.
Then let’s start living it.
Really living it together.
Together.
Laya agreed.
As winter deepened and the ranch settled into its cold weather rhythm, life found a new balance.
Cole’s investment in repairs went forward with Hank accepting the money and immediately putting Cole’s name on the ranch deed as a junior partner.
A gesture that moved Cole to speechless gratitude.
The threat of Buck Lawson faded to background noise, still present, but no longer dominating every decision.
Life, as Laya had said, went on, and it was good.
The hands adjusted to Cole’s leadership, finding him fair but firm, always willing to work alongside them rather than simply give orders.
Young Eli, in particular, seemed to view Cole as a mentor, following him around and soaking up everything he could learn.
And Laya watched it all with quiet pride, seeing the man Cole had become, or perhaps had always been underneath the fear and secrets.
He was building something here, building himself into someone worthy of the trust that had been placed in him.
On a clear night in late December, Laya stood at her cookhouse window, watching snowfall in the lamplight, thinking about how far they’d both come.
A year ago, she’d been alone, surviving, but not living.
And Cole had been running, hiding, carrying the weight of his past like chains.
Now they were both free.
Free to hope to plan to love without reservation.
She heard his footsteps crunching through the snow before she saw him bundled against the cold, his breath puffing white in the frozen air.
When he entered the cook house, stamping snow from his boots, his eyes found hers immediately.
Thought you might like some company, he said.
Always.
She poured him coffee, and they sat together by the fire, comfortable in the silence that came from truly knowing each other.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges.
Spring would bring more work.
Life would bring its inevitable mixture of joy and sorrow, triumph, and struggle.
But they would face it together.
these two people who’d found each other in the aftermath of loss and built something real from the ruins of their pasts.
And that was enough, more than enough.
It was everything.
January arrived with a vengeance, bringing blizzards that buried the ranch under 3 ft of snow, and temperatures so cold that water froze in the buckets before you could carry it from the well to the barn.
The hands worked in shifts, breaking ice, feeding livestock, keeping the ranch functioning through the worst Wyoming had to offer.
Cole proved his worth as foreman a dozen times over during those brutal weeks, organizing work details, ensuring no one stayed out in the cold too long, personally checking on the most vulnerable cattle.
Laya watched him come in each evening, exhausted but satisfied.
Snow crusted on his coat, his face weathered by wind, but his eyes bright with purpose.
“You were born for this,” she told him one night as she helped him out of his frozen coat.
I was born for you,” he corrected, pulling her close despite his cold hands.
“The ranch is just a bonus.
” They’d fallen into a rhythm that felt like marriage, even though no vows had been spoken.
Cole spent his evenings in the cook house after the hands had retired, helping Laya prepare for the next day, talking about plans and dreams and the future they were building together.
Some nights he fell asleep in the chair by the fire, too exhausted to make it back to the bunk house, and Laya would cover him with a blanket and let him rest.
The hands teased them mercilessly about it, but there was affection in the ribbing.
Everyone could see that Cole and Laya belonged together, that they’d found something rare and precious in this harsh land.
“When’s the wedding?” Rusty asked one morning at breakfast, his gaptothed grin wide.
When Cole gets around to asking properly, Pete added with a laugh.
Cole just smiled and said nothing, but Laya caught the look in his eye, the one that said he had plans and she’d know them when the time was right.
The piece lasted until midFebruary when a rider came thundering into the ranchard at dawn.
His horse lthered despite the cold.
Laya was just starting breakfast when she heard the commotion, heard Hank’s voice raised in alarm, heard Cole shouting orders to the hands.
She ran to the window and saw them gathering.
Every man who could hold a rifle, faces grim checking their weapons.
Her heart dropped.
“What’s happening?” she called from the cookhouse door.
Cole broke away from the group and jogged over his expression tight.
Buck Lawson hit the Morrison ranch last night, burned their barn, ran off half their cattle beat Morrison so bad he might not make it.
Sheriff Reynolds sent word Lawson’s heading this way.
Yla’s blood went cold.
when could be hours could be today.
Sheriff’s bringing a posi, but they’re still an hour behind.
Cole took her shoulders, his eyes intense.
Lla, I need you to promise me something.
When the shooting starts, and it will start, you stay in this cook house.
You lock the doors, you stay down, and you don’t come out until I come for you.
Cole, promise me, please.
His voice cracked.
I can face Lawson if I know you’re safe.
But if I’m worried about you, if I’m trying to protect you while fighting him, people will die.
Good people.
So please, Laya, promise me.
She wanted to argue, wanted to insist she could help.
But she saw the fear in his eyes, not for himself, but for her, and she understood.
Sometimes love meant letting someone protect you, even when you wanted to stand and fight.
I promise, she whispered.
But Cole, you come back to me.
You hear? Whatever happens with Lawson, you come back.
He kissed her hard and fast.
I will.
I swear it.
Then he was gone, running back to join the defense preparations.
The ranch transformed into a fortress within the hour.
Hank positioned men at strategic points in the barn loft behind the water troughs in the bunk house windows.
Extra ammunition was distributed.
The few women on the ranch, a cook’s helper, and the wife of one of the hands who lived in a small cabin, were sent with Laya to the cook house with instructions to stay put.
Eli Turner, his shoulder fully healed, now took position near the cookhouse with his rifle.
“I’ll watch over you, Miss Laya,” he said with the fierce determination of youth trying to prove itself.
“Nobody’s getting past me.
” “I know, Eli.
Thank you.
” Laya forced herself to prepare food.
food the men would need to eat regardless of what happened.
But her hands shook as she worked through the window.
She could see Cole moving among the hands, his voice calm, his presence steady.
He’d become a leader these past months, and the men looked to him with trust.
But she also saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand never strayed far from his gun.
This was personal for Cole.
Buck Lawson wasn’t just an outlaw.
He was a ghost from Cole’s past, come to destroy everything he’d built.
The waiting was agony.
Minutes stretched into hours.
The sun climbed higher, painting the snow-covered ranch in brilliant white light that hurt to look at.
Laya made coffee, checked the wounded supplies she kept stocked after the last raid, and tried not to imagine all the terrible things that could happen.
It was just past noon when the lookout in the barn shouted, “Riders coming.
” At least 15 of them.
Yayla’s heart stopped.
She moved to the window, saw the line of horsemen approaching from the east, dark shapes against the white landscape.
They rode with the confidence of men who’d done this before, who expected fear and surrender.
They were about to be disappointed.
Buck Lawson rode at the front.
Laya recognized him from descriptions Cole had given.
He was a big man, barrel-chested and mean-l looking, with a scar running down one cheek and eyes like chips of ice.
He rained in his horse just outside rifle range and called out in a voice that carried across the frozen air.
I’m here for Colton Prescott.
Send him out and nobody else has to die.
Hank stepped forward.
His rifle held casual but ready.
Prescott’s under the protection of the law.
Lawson sheriff’s on his way with a posi.
You ride out now.
Maybe you live to see another sunset.
Lawson laughed the sound harsh and mocking.
The law boy turned on his own blood testified against his brothers.
And you think the law will save him? He’s a traitor and a coward, and I’m here to deliver justice.
The only coward here is you.
Cole’s voice rang out as he stepped into view, standing tall and unafraid.
Hiding behind revenge because you can’t accept that I saw what you really were, a thief and a killer who twisted a grieving boy into something he never should have been.
You ungrateful? Lawson spurred his horse forward a few steps, his hand on his gun.
I gave you a family when you had nothing.
You gave me a life of crime.
You used my grief and my father’s name to turn me into a criminal.
Cole’s voice was steady, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
But I’m not that boy anymore, Buck.
I’m not running.
I’m not hiding.
And I’m not letting you hurt anyone else because of your twisted sense of honor.
The standoff held for a long moment.
The air so tense Laya could barely breathe.
Then Lawson’s expression twisted with rage and he went for his gun.
“Take cover!” Hank roared.
The world exploded into gunfire.
Laya dropped below the window, her hands over her ears as bullets shattered glass and thudded into wood.
She heard men shouting horses screaming the constant crack crack of rifles.
The two women with her huddled in the corner, holding each other and praying.
Through a gap in the window frame, Laya could see the chaos Lawson’s men had scattered, using whatever cover they could find, laying down heavy fire.
But the ranch hands were dug in and prepared returning fire with deadly accuracy.
Two of Lawson’s gang went down in the first minute.
Another fell from his horse, clutching his leg.
And there was Cole moving between positions with his rifle, calling out orders, keeping the defense organized.
He was magnificent and terrifying all at once, every motion purposeful, every shot counting.
A raider broke from cover and charged the cook house.
Eli fired mist, fired again.
The raider went down 10 ft from the door.
“Stay back!” Eli shouted, chambering another round.
“Stay away from here.
” The battle raged for what felt like hours, but was probably only 15 minutes.
Lawson’s gang, realizing they’d miscalculated badly, began to retreat.
But Lawson himself wasn’t done.
He dismounted and was working his way toward Cole’s position, using the chaos as cover, his face twisted with murderous intent.
Laya saw it happening and screamed, “Cole, behind you!” But her voice was lost in the gunfire.
Lawson raised his gun, took aim at Cole’s unprotected back, and went down as a rifle shot rang out from an unexpected direction.
Sheriff Reynolds and his posi thundered into the ranchyard, rifles blazing.
They’d arrived just in time, and Reynolds first shot had taken Lawson in the shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him to the ground.
“Drop your weapons!” Reynolds roared.
“You’re surrounded.
” The remaining raiders, seeing their leader down and facing a fresh posi, surrendered quickly.
Within minutes, the shooting had stopped and an eerie quiet fell over the ranch, broken only by the groaning of wounded men and the heavy breathing of those who’d fought.
Laya burst from the cook house despite her promise running toward Cole.
He turned at the sound of her footsteps and caught her as she threw herself into his arms, both of them shaking with relief and residual fear.
You’re alive.
She sobbed into his chest.
You’re alive.
So are you.
Thank God.
So are you.
He held her so tight she could barely breathe, his face buried in her hair.
Around them, the aftermath of battle played out.
Sheriff Reynolds secured the prisoners, seven captured alive, including Buck Lawson, who cursed and threatened, even with a bullet in his shoulder.
The rest of Lawson’s gang laid dead or dying in the snow.
The ranch had taken casualties, too.
Three hands were wounded, one seriously, but miraculously, no one was killed.
Laya immediately went to work treating injuries, her hands steady despite a racing heart.
Cole stayed close, helping where he could, checking on each of his men.
It was young Eli who’ taken the worst hit.
A bullet had grazed his ribs, leaving a deep furrow that bled heavily, but wasn’t fatal.
Laya worked on him first, cleaning and bandaging the wound while Eli tried to smile through the pain.
Did I do good, Miss Laya? Did I protect you? You did wonderfully, Eli.
So brave.
She squeezed his hand.
Your mother would be proud.
By evening, order had been restored.
The dead raiders were wrapped and loaded onto a wagon.
The prisoners were bound and under guard.
Sheriff Reynolds stood in the ranchard talking to Hank and Cole, his weathered face satisfied.
“Well, that’s the end of the Buck Lawson gang,” Reynold said.
“With him in custody and his men either dead or captured, this territory just got a whole lot safer.
and Prescott, your testimony is going to hang him.
He’ll never see freedom again.
” Cole nodded, but his expression was somber.
“I take no pleasure in it, Sheriff.
He was a bad man, but he was also the only family I had for a while, even if it was a poison family.
That shows the measure of who you are now,” Reynolds replied.
“A lesser man would gloat.
You just look sad.
” He clapped Cole on the shoulder.
But take heart.
You’re free now.
Really free.
No more looking over your shoulder.
No more worrying about the past catching up.
You did the right thing and it’s finished.
After the sheriff and his posi left with the prisoners, the ranch settled into exhausted quiet.
Laya served a late dinner to men too tired to do more than eat mechanically and stumble off to sleep.
Cole helped her clean up in silence, both of them processing what had happened.
“It’s really over,” Laya said finally.
“Buck Lawson can’t hurt you anymore.
” “I know.
I should feel relieved, and I do.
But I also feel Cole trailed off, searching for words.
Empty.
Like I’ve been carrying this weight for so long that now that it’s gone, I don’t quite know what to do with myself.
You live, Laya said simply.
You take all that energy you spent running and surviving and fearing, and you use it to build something good, to be happy, to let yourself have the life you deserve.
Cole pulled her close, resting his chin on top of her head.
And what life do I deserve? One filled with love and purpose and peace.
One where you wake up every morning grateful instead of afraid.
One where you get to be simply Cole, not the boy who made mistakes or the man running from them.
Just coal.
My coal.
Your coal, he repeated softly.
I like the sound of that.
They stood together in the quiet cookhouse, the fire burning low, the ranch settling into winter sleep outside, and Laya felt something shift, a final letting go of fear, a full embrace of hope.
The worst was behind them.
The future stretched ahead, full of possibility.
Winter gradually released its grip on Wyoming, and as February melted into March, and March into April, the ranch transformed.
Snow retreated to reveal brown earth that slowly greened.
Cattle that had survived the harsh months grew sleek again.
The damaged barn was repaired using Cole’s investment money stronger and better than before.
Cole grew into his role as foreman with quiet authority, respected by every hand trusted by Hank and loved by Laya.
The shadow that had haunted him for years was finally gone, leaving behind a man at peace with himself and his choices.
Buck Lawson and his surviving gang members were tried and convicted in early April.
Lawson was sentenced to hang the others to long prison terms.
Cole attended the trial, but didn’t stay for the execution.
He’d said his peace, had faced his past, and had no desire to watch a man die, even a man who’d tried to kill him.
“It’s done,” he told Laya when he returned from town that day.
“All of it.
The past is finally truly in the past.
” “Good,” she said.
“Because I’m much more interested in the future.
” Cole smiled and there was a lightness in his expression she’d never seen before.
Funny you should mention that.
I have plans for the future.
Big plans.
Oh, should I be worried? Only if you’re afraid of being happy.
Spring arrived in earnest in late April, bringing warm rain that washed the last traces of winter from the land and coaxed wild flowers from the soil.
The ranch erupted in color and life green grass purple lupine yellow buttercups.
Everything felt renewed, reborn, full of promise.
It was on one of these perfect spring evenings with the sun setting in shades of gold and rose and the air sweet with the scent of rainwashed earth that Cole took’s hand and led her away from the cookhouse.
“Where are we going?” she asked, laughing as he pulled her toward the eastern pasture.
“You’ll see.
Just trust me.
” He led her to the old windmill that stood on the highest point of the ranch, its blades turning slowly in the evening breeze.
The view from here was spectacular miles of rolling grassland stretching to distant mountains, the ranch building small and peaceful below the sky, vast and open above.
Cole turned to face her, taking both her hands in his, and Laya’s breath caught at the emotion in his eyes of hope and nervousness all mixed together.
Laya heart.
he began his voice shaking slightly.
6 months ago, I rode onto this ranch with nothing but secrets and shame.
I was running from my past, afraid of my future barely existing from one day to the next.
I had no hope, no purpose, no reason to believe life could be anything more than survival.
Colt, let me finish, please.
He squeezed her hands gently.
Then you appeared at the cookhouse door and everything changed.
You fed me when I was hungry.
You saw me when I felt invisible.
You gave me a chance when I had no right to expect one.
And somehow impossibly, you loved me, not despite my past, but including it accepting all of me, the good and the bad, and everything in between.
Tears were already streaming down Yla’s cheeks.
You did the same for me.
You reminded me what it meant to live instead of just survive.
You made me laugh again.
You made me hope again.
You made me want a future.
Then let’s have one together.
Cole released one of her hands and reached into his pocket, pulling out a simple gold band, nothing fancy, but beautiful in its simplicity.
I don’t have much to offer you.
I’m an ex outlaw turned ranch foreman with more past than present.
But what I do have is yours, my heart, my devotion, my promise to love you every day for the rest of our lives.
Laya Hart, will you marry me? The world seemed to hold its breath.
Behind them, the windmill blades turned steadily, their rhythmic creaking, the only sound.
The sun touched the horizon, painting everything in golden light.
Laya looked at the man kneeling before her, this strong, brave, damaged, beautiful man who’d given her back her life, and felt joy so intense it was almost painful.
“Yes,” she whispered, then louder, laughing through her tears.
“Yes, yes, Cole Prescott, I will marry you.
” He stood and swept her into his arms, spinning her around while she laughed and cried at the same time.
When he set her down, he slipped the ring onto her finger, a perfect fit, and kissed her with a sweetness that made her heart sore.
“You gave me back my life,” he murmured against her lips.
“Now, let me spend the rest of it with you.
” “Yes,” she said again, simply because she loved saying it.
“Yes to all of it.
Yes to you.
Yes to our future.
Yes to everything.
” They stood together on that hill as the sun set and the first stars appeared, two people who’d found each other in darkness and chosen to walk into light together.
And as the windmill turned above them and the ranch settled into evening quiet below, Laya knew that this this moment, this love, this man was worth every moment of pain that had come before.
The wedding took place 3 weeks later in the small white church in Milbrook.
The whole town turned out ranchers and their families shopkeepers, even some of the saloon girls in their best dresses.
Sheriff Reynolds attended, as did the judge, who’d suspended Cole’s charges.
Hank Donovan stood as Cole’s best man, while young Eli Turner and the other ranch hands filled the front pews, grinning like fools.
Laya wore a simple dress, cream colored with lace at the throat, and cuffs borrowed from a kind widow in town, who remembered what it was like to be young and in love.
Her only jewelry was the gold ring Cole had given her, and her mother’s blue shawl draped over her shoulders.
She’d never looked more beautiful.
Cole stood at the altar in his best clothes, still ranchworn, but clean, and pressed his hair neatly trimmed, his face shaved smooth.
But it was his eyes that caught Laya as she walked down the aisle, gray, as smoke bright with unshed tears, full of love so profound, it took her breath away.
The ceremony was simple and short.
The preacher spoke about love and forgiveness, about second chances and new beginnings.
He talked about how marriage was a covenant not just between two people, but with God and community, a promise to build something lasting in a temporary world.
When it came time for vows, Cole’s voice was steady and sure.
I, Colton Prescott, take you, Laha Hart, to be my wife.
I promise to love you in plenty and in want, in sickness, and in health, in joy and in sorrow.
I promise to be faithful to protect you, to cherish you, and to build a life with you that honors the second chance we’ve been given.
From this day forward, you are my home, my heart, and my hope.
This I pledge before God and these witnesses.
Laya’s voice shook, but held, “I, Lyla Hart, take you, Colton Prescott, to be my husband.
I promise to love you without reservation, to support you through challenges, to celebrate you in triumph, and to stand with you always.
I promise to be your partner, your friend, your comfort, and your joy.
From this day forward, you are my home, my heart, and my hope.
This I pledge before God and these witnesses.
” The preacher smiled.
By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.
Cole, you may kiss your bride.
Cole framed Yla’s face with his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears, and kissed her with a tenderness that made the whole congregation sigh.
When they finally pulled apart, both smiling through tears, the church erupted in applause and cheers.
They were married.
Against all odds, despite everything they’d been through, they were married.
The celebration afterward was held at the ranch with tables set up in the yard and food enough to feed half the county.
Laya had spent days preparing with help from several ranchwives roasted beef, fresh bread pies, and cakes, vegetables from the root seller.
It was a feast worthy of the occasion.
As the sun set, someone brought out a fiddle and another a guitar, and soon music filled the air.
Couples danced in the dirty yard.
Children ran wild and laughter echoed off the buildings.
Cole led Laya to the center of the makeshift dance floor, and as the musicians struck up a waltz, he took her in his arms.
They moved together naturally, having found their rhythm months ago.
Swaying in time to the music under a sky ablaze with stars.
“Happy?” Cole asked quietly.
“More than I ever thought possible,” Laya replied, resting her head on his shoulder.
“You, I didn’t know happiness like this existed.
I thought I’d spend my life alone paying for my mistakes.
Instead, I get this.
I get you.
I get a home and a family and a future.
His arms tightened around her.
I’m the luckiest man alive.
Laya Prescott.
Lla Prescott, she repeated, testing the name.
I like it.
It sounds like a fresh start.
It is a fresh start for both of us.
They danced through three more songs, then were pulled apart by well-wishers wanting to congratulate them.
Rusty insisted on dancing with the bride, his gaptothed grin infectious.
Eli asked shily if he could have one dance, too, and Laya obliged, touched by his respect.
Even Sheriff Reynolds asked for a turn, telling her gruffly that Cole was a good man who deserved the happiness he’d found.
As the evening wore on, and the celebration continued, Laya found herself standing apart for a moment, watching the scene before her.
The ranch she’d come to 3 years ago as a refuge had become home.
The hands she’d cooked for had become family.
And the stranger who’d appeared at her door asking for coffee had become her husband, her partner, her love.
Life wasn’t perfect.
There would still be hard days challenges to face losses to mourn.
But there would also be joy and laughter and the simple pleasure of building a life alongside someone who understood you completely.
Cole appeared at her side, slipping his arm around her waist.
What are you thinking about? How far we’ve come? How much has changed since last November when you first arrived? Do you regret any of it? The danger, the fear, all the complications I brought into your life.
Laya turned to face him fully, taking his face in her hands.
Cole Prescott, I regret nothing.
Not one single moment.
Because all of it, the good, the bad, the terrifying, all of it brought us here to this.
And this is exactly where I want to be.
He kissed her gently.
I love you, Laya, more than words can say.
I love you, too, now and always.
As midnight approached, the guests began to depart, calling out final congratulations and well-wishes.
The ranch hands returned to the bunk house, tired, but happy.
Hank Donovan shook Cole’s hand one last time and told them both to take the next day off.
The ranch would survive without them for 24 hours.
Finally, Laya and Cole were alone, standing in the yard under a sky full of stars, with the windmill turning softly in the distance.
The cook house behind them.
Laya’s domain for 3 years now belonged to someone else.
Hank had given them the small foreman’s cabin on the east side of the ranch, newly renovated and perfect for starting their married life.
“Ready to go home?” Cole asked, extending his hand.
I’ve been home since the day I met you some,” Laya replied, taking his hand.
“But yes, let’s go.
” They walked together through the quiet ranch, past the barn where Cole had first proven himself, past the corral, where he worked everyday, past the cookhouse where their love had first taken root.
Everything was familiar, and yet transformed by the knowledge that they belonged to each other now, completely and irrevocably.
The cabin was small but comfortable.
A bed covered in a quilt made by the ranchwives, a table and chairs, a stove, a window looking east toward the sunrise.
It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.
Cole lit a lamp casting warm light across the room.
Then he turned to Laya and simply looked at her, his expression full of wonder.
I can’t believe you’re my wife.
Believe it, she said softly.
Because I’m not going anywhere.
This is where I belong with you in this life we’re building together.
They came together slowly, savoring the moment, knowing they had all the time in the world now.
No more secrets, no more fear, just love, and the promise of tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that.
Outside the windmill turned steadily, its blades catching starlight.
The ranch slept peacefully, safe and secure.
And in the small cabin, two wounded souls who’d found each other in the aftermath of loss began the first night of their new life together.
The seasons turned as they always did in Wyoming spring, giving way to summer, summer to fall, fall to winter again.
The ranch prospered under Cole’s management and Hank’s wisdom.
The herd grew.
Repairs were completed.
Life settled into the comfortable rhythm of honest work and simple pleasures.
Laya took over the ranch bookkeeping.
her education finally put to use.
She also began teaching some of the younger hands to read and write in the evenings, finding joy in sharing knowledge the way she’d always dreamed.
Cole encouraged her, proud of the way she bloomed when given the chance to use her mind.
They built their life one day at a time, sharing coffee at dawn, working side by side through the day, coming together each evening to talk about everything and nothing.
They had their disagreements, their hard days, their moments of frustration, but they also had laughter and tenderness and the deep security of knowing they were partners in every sense of the word.
Young Eli Turner flourished under Cole’s mentorship, growing from a reckless boy into a capable young man.
Rusty and Pete became like brothers to them both.
Hank, watching Cole and Laya’s marriage with satisfaction, began making plans to retire in a few years and leave the ranch in Cole’s capable hands.
And through it all, the love between Cole and Laya only deepened.
They learned each other’s rhythms and moods, found ways to support and challenge and comfort each other.
They built traditions.
Sunday morning walks, Friday night dances in their cabin, quiet evenings reading together by lamplight.
One evening in late summer, as they sat on their cabin porch watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of fire and gold, Cole turned to Laya with a question in his eyes.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
“Really truly happy?” Laya leaned against him, feeling his solid warmth, his steady presence.
“More than I ever imagined I could be.
” “Why, do you ask?” “Because sometimes I wake up and I’m afraid this is all a dream.
that I’ll open my eyes and find myself back on the road alone and running and you’ll just be something I imagined.
His arm tightened around her.
I need to know it’s real, that you’re real, that this life we have is real.
It’s real.
Laya assured him, taking his hand and placing it over her heart.
Feel that I’m real.
This is real.
We’re real, Cole.
And we’re going to keep being real for years and years to come.
years and years,” he repeated, smiling.
“I like the sound of that.
” They sat in comfortable silence as darkness fell and stars emerged one by one.
The windmill on the eastern hill turned steadily, a constant presence in their lives.
Somewhere in the distance, cattle loaded softly.
The ranch settled into evening quiet, safe and secure under their watch.
“You know what? I think,” Laya said eventually.
“I think we were both lost for a long time.
Am you running from your past? Me hiding from my future.
But somehow impossibly, we found each other in the darkness.
And we chose to walk into light together.
Best choice I ever made, Cole said.
Mine, too.
He kissed her temple gently.
Thank you, Laya.
For believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
For loving me when I didn’t think I deserved love.
For giving me a reason to stop running and start living.
Thank you for seeing me when I felt invisible.
for reminding me I was more than my grief, for giving me hope when I thought I’d lost it forever.
She turned in his arms to look up at him.
We saved each other Cole.
That’s what love does.
It saves us from ourselves.
As the night deepened and the stars wheeled overhead, they remained on the porch, holding each other comfortable in the silence and in the knowledge that they had found something rare and precious.
They had found home not in a place, but in each other.
They had found redemption, not through perfection, but through honest effort and mutual forgiveness.
They had found love, not the easy kind that existed without challenge, but the hard one kind that was tested and proved true.
Laya Hart had come to Lone Ridge Ranch 3 years ago with nothing but grief and determination.
She’d survived, worked, and slowly rebuilt herself in the shelter of her cookhouse.
Cole Prescott had arrived 6 months ago as a stranger, running from his past, carrying secrets that threatened to destroy any chance at happiness.
But together, they had become something neither could have achieved alone.
They had become whole.
They had become home to each other.
They had become exactly who they were meant to be.
The ranch stretched around them, their ranch now in every way that mattered.
The land they tended, the home they’d built, the future they were creating together.
It was everything they’d lost and more than they dared hope for.
And as they finally rose and went inside their cabin, closing the door on the Wyoming night, they carried with them the certainty that whatever tomorrow brought joy or sorrow, ease, or struggle, they would face it together.
Two wounded souls who had found redemption in love.
Two lonely hearts that had found home in each other.
Two people who had learned that the past doesn’t define you.
Your choices do.
And choosing love over fear, hope over despair, and forgiveness over bitterness makes all the difference.
The windmill turned steadily through the night, its blades catching moonlight, a symbol of constancy in a changing world.
And inside the small cabin, Laya and Cole slept peacefully in each other’s arms, safe in the knowledge that they had found what everyone searches for and few ever find.
They had found love.
Real lasting, transformative love.
And it was more than enough.
It was everything.
