Chapter 5
"That's all I'm asking," I say, and I mean it, though something deeper stirs beneath the simple statement.
Luisa tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the morning sunlight catching the hints of amber in her eyes. Something about her has gotten under my skin in less than twenty-four hours.
Her strength, maybe—the kind that doesn't announce itself but reveals itself in the quiet moments. The way she watches Miguel when she thinks no one's looking, like he's the entire universe contained in one small body.
Or maybe it's the curve of her lips when she almost smiles, or how her borrowed t-shirt can't quite hide the soft swell of her hips. She probably has no idea how beautiful she is, standing here on our porch with the wind tugging at her ponytail, her face free of makeup and worry finally easing from her features.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware I've been staring.
"Should we head back in? I can make more coffee."
She nods, wrapping her arms around herself against the morning chill. As we walk back toward the house, I'm conscious of the space between us—close enough that I could reach out and touch her, far enough to maintain the boundaries a woman in her situation needs.
Inside, the kitchen is empty, the remains of breakfast still scattered across the counter. The house feels unusually quiet with everyone out at the stables.
"They'll be away for a while," I say, pouring fresh coffee into two mugs. “Sarah likes to introduce the kids to each horse individually and explain their personalities. Lucy will be showing off for Miguel, telling him all about how she helps feed them."
Luisa accepts the coffee with a small smile. "He's never been around animals before. We lived in an apartment where pets weren't allowed."
"Well, he's a natural, according to Sarah. She doesn't give that compliment lightly."
Pride flickers across Luisa's face before uncertainty replaces it. "I don't know the first thing about country living. I've always been a city girl."
"It grows on you," I assure her. Then, acting on impulse, I add, "Want to see something?"
Her expression turns guarded immediately. "What kind of something?"
"Nothing scary," I promise. "Just... something that might help you understand why I believe in this place."
She hesitates, then nods cautiously. "Alright."
I lead her from the kitchen to our living room, where decades of family photos cover nearly every inch of wall space. Mom started the tradition when we were kids, and Jackson's kept it going since she passed.
"This is my family's history," I explain, gesturing to the collection. "Every milestone, every Christmas, every first day of school."
Luisa steps closer to the wall, studying the images. Her fingers hover near a faded photograph of five small boys in matching cowboy hats, sitting on a fence.
"You?" she asks, pointing to the second-youngest.
I nod. "Age seven. That was the year I decided I was going to be a bull rider like my dad when he was younger."
Her eyes move across the photos—birthdays, graduations, rodeo competitions. She pauses at a recent one of all five brothers with our arms around each other, taken at Jackson's birthday last year.
"You all look so happy," she says softly.
"We weren't always," I admit. "After Mom died, we were a mess. Dad withdrew into himself. Jackson tried to hold everything together, but he was barely twenty himself."
I point to a gap in the photos. "Notice anything? Four years, hardly any pictures. That was our dark period. Almost lost the ranch, almost lost each other."
She looks at me questioningly.
"When I feel lost or uncertain," I continue, "I come here. I look at these walls and see how far we've come. Each of those photos represents a time when one of us thought we couldn't go on, but somehow, we did."
Her eyes soften as she understands what I'm trying to say.
"This one," I point to a photo of me at fifteen, trophy in hand but eyes downcast, "was two weeks after Mom died. I almost didn't compete. Thought it was disrespectful somehow."
"What changed your mind?"
"Jackson. He said Mom would've kicked my ass if I quit something I loved because I was grieving her." The memory brings a smile to my face. "He was right. I won that day, crying the whole time."
Luisa's hand brushes mine as she reaches toward another photo—me in a hospital bed, leg in a cast, giving a thumbs up.
"First major injury," I explain. "Seventeen, thought my career was over before it began."
"But it wasn't."
"No. It just took a different path." I turn to face her fully. "That's what I'm trying to say, Luisa. Sometimes what feels like the end is just a bend in the road."
She meets my gaze, something vulnerable and hopeful flickering in her eyes. "And you think Cedar Falls could be my bend in the road?"
"I think," I say carefully, "that you deserve the chance to catch your breath and find out."
Her lips part slightly, and for a wild moment, I think about kissing her—this beautiful, brave woman who ran away from her own wedding to protect her son. But it's too soon, too complicated. Instead, I step back, giving her space.
"Sarah's got therapy sessions after lunch," I say. "But I could show you and Miguel around town after lunch if you want. Give you a feel for the place."
"Why are you doing this, Cole? Really? You’ve told me why, but I still don’t get it. No one can be this nice"
“I admire you, you know?" I say simply. "And your son deserves stability. And because—" I hesitate, then decide on the truth. "Because from the moment you appeared in that torn wedding dress, I haven't been able to stop thinking about how to help you stay."
Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. "I don't know if I can trust this. Trust you."
"I know," I acknowledge. "But I'm hoping you'll give me—give Cedar Falls—the chance to prove you can."
Outside, we hear the distant sound of children's laughter drifting from the stables. Luisa turns toward it instinctively, like a flower seeking sun.
"A few days," she says again, more to herself than to me. "Just to see."
Relief washes through me. It's not a commitment, but it's a start—a far cry from the woman who was determined to catch the first bus out of town just hours ago. One step at a time.
"We can figure out the details later," I say, not wanting to overwhelm her with logistics. "There's a small guest cottage behind Aaron's house that no one's using. It's nothing fancy, but it's private and still inside the ranch."
She nods, still staring at the photos on the wall. Her finger traces the frame of a Christmas picture—all of us in ridiculous sweaters Mom knitted.
"My mother died too," she says unexpectedly. "Cancer. I was sixteen."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. "That's a hard age to lose a parent."
"It was just me and my dad after that." Her voice takes on a distant quality. "He was... traditional. Had very specific ideas about how a daughter should behave."
I stay quiet, sensing she needs to tell this story her way.
"When I got pregnant with Miguel, he said I'd made my bed and had to lie in it." Her laugh holds no humor. "Threw me out when I told him Ricardo and I weren't getting married right away."
Understanding dawns. "So you had no one else."
She glances at me, surprised by my perception. "No. Just Ricardo and his family. They were... welcoming, in their way. Gave me a place to belong."
"And when things started going bad with Ricardo—"
"Where could I go?" she finishes. "Back to my father who'd already rejected me? Out on my own with no support, no money?" She shakes her head. "I think that's why I tried so hard to believe Ricardo was still a good man. That his business was legitimate, that his temper was just stress, that he loved me in his way."
"Because the alternative was being completely alone," I say softly.
Her eyes fill suddenly with tears. "And now I am. Just Miguel and me against the world."
Her admission's vulnerability hits me right in the chest. Without thinking, I step closer, drawn by an instinct to comfort.
"You're not alone right now," I tell her. "And you don't have to be going forward."
A tear spills over, tracking down her cheek. She brushes it away quickly, embarrassed.
"I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I never—" She takes a shaky breath. "I never talk about this with anyone."
"Sometimes it's easier with a stranger," I offer. "No history, no judgment."
"Is that what you are? A stranger?" She looks up at me, her expression unguarded for the first time since we met.
Before I can answer, another tear falls, and then another. Years of pent-up fear and loneliness seem to break through at once. Her shoulders shake with the effort of containing her emotion.
This time, I don't hesitate. I step forward and wrap my arms around her, half-expecting her to pull away. Instead, she leans into me, her face pressing against my chest as silent sobs wrack her body.
I hold her steady, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other secure around her waist. She fits against me perfectly, her warmth seeping through the thin material of her borrowed t-shirt.
"It's okay," I murmur into her hair. "You're safe here."
For several minutes, we stay like that—her tears gradually subsiding, my heart racing with the trust she's placing in me. I'm aware of her curves pressed against me, the scent of her hair, the way her fingers have curled into the fabric of my shirt. But this isn't about attraction. This is about offering sanctuary to someone who needs it.
Eventually, she draws back slightly, looking embarrassed. "I don't usually fall apart like that."
"You're entitled," I say, reluctantly letting my arms drop. "You've been carrying a lot."
She wipes her eyes, a hint of a genuine smile finally touching her lips. "Thank you. For listening. For not judging."
"Anytime." I mean it more than she probably realizes.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, still looking slightly embarrassed by her emotional release.
"I thought there weren't any good men left in the world," she admits quietly. "After everything with Ricardo and my father... I just assumed all men eventually show their true colors."
I chuckle softly. "Oh, I have my problems too. Just ask my brothers."
"Like what?" She seems genuinely curious.
"I get too focused on work sometimes," I confess. "Been driving everyone crazy since this ankle kept me from competing. And my competitive streak has ruined a few relationships over the years."
"How so?"
I lean against the wall beside the photos, considering how to explain. "I've always wanted to be the best at what I do. Some women found that admirable at first, then resented the time and energy it took. One girlfriend said I cared more about eight seconds on a bull than I did about our whole relationship."
"Was she right?" Luisa asks.
"Maybe," I admit. "Or maybe she just wasn't the right woman."
Something shifts in her expression—curiosity, perhaps.
"And what would the right woman be like? Someone who could handle your competitive side?"
"Someone who'd understand it, I think. Not just tolerate it." I find myself watching her lips as she listens. "Someone who'd know when to push me and when to slow me down."
"Would you?" she asks. "Slow down, I mean. For the right woman."
"I'm starting to think I would," I answer, the words feeling more significant than I intended.
Her eyebrows lift slightly. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean..." I hesitate, then decide honesty is the only path forward. "I've known you less than a day, Luisa, and already I'm more intrigued than I've been by anyone in years."
Color rises in her cheeks. "Cole, I—"
"I'm sorry," I say, stepping closer before I can talk myself out of it. "This is probably the last thing you need right now."
And then I'm kissing her, one hand gently cradling her face. Her lips are softer than they looked, warm and yielding beneath mine. For a heartbeat, she's perfectly still, and I worry I've made a terrible mistake.
Then she sighs against my mouth and leans into me, her hands coming to rest lightly on my chest.
I know I shouldn't be doing this. She should be resting, keeping her distance from men, and focusing on her son. But the moment her smile broke through her tears, something inside me shifted—as if some part of me recognized her and had been waiting for her to appear.
I draw back slowly, our breaths hastened in the small space between us, her eyes fluttering open.
"What are you doing?" she whispers, her hands still resting lightly on my chest.
"I'm sorry," I say again, though I can't bring myself to step away. "I just... I would have regretted it if I never went for it. But I promise I won't do it again if you don't want me to."
"Stop," she says softly, and for a moment my heart sinks. Then she continues, "I liked it. I'm just... nervous. Confused. I have no idea what this means for me, for Miguel. For everything."
I take a steadying breath. "It means a new life if you want one, Luisa. Even if nothing happens between us, you can still make a home here at the ranch. There's a place for you both."
Her eyes search mine, looking for deception or ulterior motives. She won't find any.
"But right now," I continue, my voice dropping lower, "staring at you, I want nothing more than to kiss you a second time."
She fidgets with the hem of her borrowed shirt, clearly nervous. The small gesture is endearing, a reminder of how vulnerable she's allowing herself to be with me. After a moment, she steps forward, chin lifting in that determined way I'm coming to recognize.
"Do it," she says, her voice soft but firm. "If you want me this much, you have to claim me first."
The challenge in her eyes sends heat rushing through me. I smirk, unable to help myself, and I scoop her into my arms in one single movement. She gasps, her arms quickly finding their way around my neck.
"We'd better go to my bed," I whisper against her ear, feeling her shiver in response.
She nods, eyes wide but determined. I carry her down the hall to my bedroom, kicking the door closed behind us. The space is purely masculine—navy bedding, simple furniture, a few rodeo trophies on the dresser. Nothing fancy, but it's private and far from the main areas of the house.
I set her on the edge of the bed, her slight weight barely denting the mattress. For a moment, we just look at each other, the reality of what we're about to do hanging between us.
"Are you sure?" I ask, needing to hear it one more time.
In response, she reaches for me, pulling me down for another kiss—hungrier this time, with an urgency that makes my pulse race. When we break apart, her lips are pink and slightly swollen.
"I'm sure," she whispers.
That's all the confirmation I need. I step back just far enough to grasp the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head. Her eyes widen as she takes in my bare chest, and I don't miss the way her gaze lingers on the muscles honed by years of ranch work and rodeo training.
"Your turn," I say softly.
She hesitates just a moment before reaching for the borrowed t-shirt, slowly drawing it upward. The gesture reveals a strip of smooth pale skin, her curvy waist, and her beautiful jiggling boobs.
I swallow hard, suddenly aware that what began as an impulsive kiss has rapidly evolved into something much more significant. This isn't just physical attraction—though God knows that's powerful enough.
There's something deeper pulling us together, something I can't quite name but can feel as surely as the ground beneath my feet.
As her shirt joins mine on the floor, I take in the sight of her—beautiful, vulnerable, brave. The woman who fled her own wedding to protect her child. The woman who cried in my arms just minutes ago. The woman who's now looking at me with equal parts desire and uncertainty.
I sit beside her on the bed, tracing my fingertips lightly along her shoulder.
"We can stop anytime," I tell her. "No pressure."
She shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "I don't want to stop. I want..." She takes a deep breath. "I want to feel something good for a change. Something I choose."
The weight of her words settles over me. This isn't just about physical release for her—it's about reclaiming her power, her agency. Making a decision for herself after years of having choices taken away.
"Then let me make you feel good," I promise, lowering my mouth to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.