Every night she gave her body to the lonely rancher… until one day
Every night, when the desert wind howled like a wounded wolf against the rafters of the thatched hut, she would cross the corral, her shawl pressed tightly to her chest, her heart pounding like a war drum. Don Elías’s ranch stood at the edge of the world, where the earth cracked and the coyotes sang to the moon.
No one knew her real name. They called her the girl from the Dry River, because she had arrived floating in a broken canoe, her dress soaked, her eyes greener than old mezcal. Don Elías, a widower since fever took his wife and two children, took her in like someone picking up a lost knife, with fear and longing.
The first night she trembled beneath the raw wool blanket. He said nothing, only dropped his hat on the table and knelt beside the cot. His calloused hands, marked by years of bullfighting and driving stakes, traced the girl’s skin as if searching for a map.
She closed her eyes and let the man’s warmth envelop her, for the cold of the mountains was worse than any shame. When he took her, it was with the urgency of someone who hasn’t drunk water in years. She didn’t scream, only dug her nails into his back until they drew blood. And so they sealed their wordless pact, each night her body in exchange for a roof over her head and a plate of beans.
The days were long and dusty. She milked the goats, ground the corn, washed clothes in the mortar until her hands bled. Don Elías went out at dawn with his rifle slung over his shoulder and returned home with dust clinging to his beard. They never spoke of love; they spoke of the drought, of cattle prices, of the bandits who roamed the border.
But when the tallow lamp went out, he would search for her in the darkness with the same hunger as always. She learned to anticipate his comings. She knew when he arrived drunk from the cantina in San Isidro, when he carried the smell of gunpowder from having killed a snake, when his hands trembled because he had dreamed of his dead children.
One full moon night, he arrived early. He carried a half-empty bottle of mezcal and a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “The buyer from Sonora is coming tomorrow,” he said, sitting down on the bench. “He’ll bring gold for the steers.” We’ll be rich, girl. She sensed this as she poured the coffee, but she noticed something strange. The man wouldn’t look her in the eye.
What she felt was neither joy nor fear, but a strange calm, like when a river dries up completely and there is nothing left to carry. She placed the cup on the table and said, without raising her voice:
—Rich for whom, Don Elias?
He laughed, a dry sound that didn’t reach his eyes.
—For both of us, who else?
She sat down opposite him. The lamp cast harsh shadows on his face, and for the first time she noticed how old he was, how tired his hands looked.
“Two men came today,” she said. “They asked for you.”
Elias stood still. The mezcal trembled in the glass.
—What men?
—They didn’t give their names. They were wearing new boots and carrying clean guns. They said they would return tomorrow.
The silence grew thick. Outside, a coyote howled as if mocking them.
“And what did you tell them?” he asked, his voice lower.
—There’s only a rancher and a girl who has nowhere to go living here.
Elias drank in one gulp.
—Then they already know too much.
She finally looked him in the eyes.
—I know things too, Don Elias.
He pressed the glass down firmly.
—What do you know?
—I know the buyer from Sonora isn’t coming for cattle. He’s coming for buried gold. I know your children didn’t die of fever. I know you hid them so those same men wouldn’t find them.
Elijah’s face broke. The smile vanished like dust in the wind.
—Who told you that?
—Nobody. I heard. I saw. The night also speaks.
For the first time since he had picked her up from the river, he seemed small.
“If they find my children, they’ll kill them,” she said. “All of this… all of it was to protect them.”
She got up slowly.
—Then there will be no deal tomorrow.
-What do you mean?
—I will go with those men.
Elijah jumped to his feet.
—You’re crazy! They’ll kill you.
She shook her head.
—No. They want me alive. They think I’m their weakness.
Elias put his hands to his face.
—I can’t let you sacrifice yourself.
“It’s not a sacrifice,” she replied. “It’s payment. As always.”
At dawn, the men returned. She went out into the corral before Elias could stop her.
“I know where the gold is,” he told them. “And I know where the children are.”
The guns were lowered.
—And what do you want in return?
She looked towards the house.
—Leave this ranch in peace.
The men looked at each other and smiled.
-Made.
She walked with them to the old fig tree, where they dug and found nothing. Only stones.
“Where is the gold?” they roared.
She pointed to the horizon.
—Nowhere. There was never any gold.
The shot rang out sharply. She fell, but didn’t die. The bullet grazed her shoulder. At that moment, Elias came out with the rifle and the men fled, cursing.
That night, she was burning with fever. Elias cared for her like he had never cared for anyone before.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “It all started badly.”
She smiled weakly.
—Everything can change.
At dawn, small footsteps were heard. Two children ran into the room and hugged him.
-Dad.
Elijah cried for the first time in years.
Over time, the girl stopped being “the girl from the dry riverbed.” She revealed her real name. The ranch filled with voices. They never spoke of the pact, nor of the silent nights. They only worked together, planted crops, and waited for the rain.
And when the rain came, they understood that even in the driest land, life returns if someone dares to break the fear.
Lesson: what is bought with shame always ends up costing dearly; what is defended with truth, even if it hurts, can save everything.
