A rancher was a virgin at 40, until a woman asked him to stay in his barn during a storm.

In the arid north of Mexico, where the desert wind whispers secrets only the lonely can hear, lived Diego Mendoza, a man shrouded in mystery and solitude. His ranch stretched across acres of dry land, surrounded by distant mountains that formed jagged silhouettes against the endless sky. The relentless sun had tanned his skin to bronzed leather, and his black hair contrasted with green eyes, inherited from some time-forgotten European ancestor.

At 33, Diego was an enigma even to himself. While other men already had families, he had chosen the company of cattle and the vastness of the landscape. The women of the nearby town, a three-hour horseback ride away, looked at him curiously when he appeared every two months to buy supplies, but he kept his conversations brief, almost ceremonial.
Diego’s routine was as predictable as the seasons. He woke before dawn, when the stars were still twinkling in the purple sky. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled his small adobe house, while his horses whinnied in anticipation of breakfast. Days were spent mending fences, tending the cattle, and keeping the water pump running. The nights, however, were different. After a solitary dinner, Diego would sit on the wooden porch, watching fireflies dance among the flowering cacti. Sometimes he would play his father’s guitar, letting melancholic melodies drift into the vastness of the desert.
The house reflected his personality: functional, yet warm. The adobe walls kept the temperature cool during the day and retained warmth at night. Dark wooden beams supported the roof, and small windows allowed the golden light of the sunset to create geometric patterns on the red-tiled floor. A hand-carved crucifix hung above the fireplace, next to a faded photograph of his parents.

Diego had learned self-sufficiency out of necessity. He knew how to repair engines, stitch wounds on both animals and humans, cook simple dishes, and read the weather with the precision of a
meteorologist. His large, calloused hands were adept at handling a lasso or nursing a sick calf. But there was one thing that set him apart from other ranchers: his complete inexperience with women. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity or physical attractiveness. The town’s young ladies had tried to capture his attention, but Diego, scarred by a deeply religious mother and the early loss of her, had immersed himself in ranch work, building layers of emotional isolation year after year.

His only constant companions were his animals: three horses—Tormenta, Esperanza, and Relámpago—a small herd of cows, a few goats, and a boastful rooster that religiously woke him up every morning.

The day that changed everything began like any other. Diego awoke with the rooster’s crowing, dressed in his worn jeans and blue work shirt, and went out to check on the cattle. The morning air was fresh and aromatic, but something different hung in the air. Clouds were gathering on the western horizon with unusual intensity. During breakfast, Diego listened to the forecast on his old transistor radio for a severe storm, with strong winds and the possibility of hail.

Wasting no time, he secured the barn doors, moved the vulnerable animals into covered shelters, and checked that the windows were tightly closed. As he worked, a superstition inherited from his grandmother took hold of him: drastic weather changes bring changes in people’s lives.

By mid-afternoon, the sky had become a blanket of leaden gray. The wind began to blow strongly, making branches crackle and raising dust devils. Diego, after securing everything, headed toward the house, but something made him stop. In the distance, he made out a figure moving toward his ranch. At first, he thought it was an animal, but soon he saw it was a person on foot, something extraordinary and potentially dangerous in that region.

He mounted Storm and galloped toward the figure. She was a young woman, clearly exhausted and struggling against the elements. She wore a long brown skirt and a white blouse, both covered in dust. Her brown hair was partially loose from what had once been a neat braid. When he reached her, Diego quickly dismounted. The young woman looked up, and their eyes met. They were the color of amber, with glints of gold that captured the light even under the gray sky. There was determination in her gaze, but also vulnerability and exhaustion.

“Sir, please,” she said hoarsely, “I need shelter. The storm is coming, and I have nowhere else to go.”
Diego was speechless, shocked not onlyNot for her beauty, but for something deeper, as if he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. He finally managed to utter.

“Of course. I’m Diego Mendoza.”

“Isabela,” she replied. “Isabela Herrera.”

Diego helped her mount, and they rode quickly toward the house, just as the first rumbles of thunder rumbled in the distance and the wind increased in intensity. Isabela naturally clung to Diego’s waist, and he felt a strange electricity run through his body at that contact