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 under 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, because the cold of the mountains was worse than any shame. When he took her, it was with the urgency of someone who hasn’t had water in years. She didn’t scream, she just dug her nails into his back until they bled. 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, and 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 talked of the drought, the prices of cattle, and 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 wore a huge grin. “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 felt it as she poured the coffee, but noticed something odd. The man wasn’t looking her in the eye.

Her fingers drummed on the table as if counting down the seconds. That night, when he took her, it was different, slower, more careful, like someone stroking a horse before selling it. She felt a shiver that wasn’t from the cold. The following days were strange. Don Elías bought new fabrics in town, a red lace dress that she never dared to wear.

He had the corral fixed up, painted the door of the shack, and even bought a hand mirror which he placed on the dresser. “So you can look pretty,” he said. But when she looked at herself in the glass, all she saw were sunken eyes and dark circles that rosewater wouldn’t fade. The ranch smelled of fresh paint and promises she didn’t understand.

One afternoon, while scrubbing the floor, she found a crumpled letter under the cot. The handwriting was neat and elegant, that of a well-educated woman. “Dear Elias, the boy is walking now. We await you in Chihuahua with open arms. Don’t delay any longer.” The paper trembled in her hands. The boy Elias never spoke of another son.

That night, when he arrived, she was waiting for him, wearing her shawl and carrying her satchel over her shoulder. “Are you leaving?” he asked, dropping his rifle. “I’m not your woman,” she replied, her voice firm for the first time. “I am your debt.” He approached, his boots crunching on the adobe floor. “You knew the arrangement from the beginning. Body for roof.”

But you didn’t know you had another roof waiting for you in Chihuahua, with a real wife and a real son. The man’s face hardened. That letter isn’t what you think. I don’t think. I know. She took a step back. The buyer is coming tomorrow, isn’t he? Or your family is coming. Don Elías stood still, the shadow of his hat covering his eyes. My brother-in-law is coming.

Bring the money to the ranch. We’re leaving, the three of us. The three of us. You, me, and the child on the way. He pointed to her barely visible belly beneath her dress. You carry my blood, girl. You can’t leave. The world stopped. She placed her hand on her belly, feeling the heartbeat she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. The child, her child, the child of a man who had bought her like someone buying a mare.

That night there were no intertwined bodies. She slept in the corral among the goats with her kitchen knife hidden in her boot. At dawn, when the sun barely touched the mountains, she heard horses’ hooves. Three riders were approaching along the dusty road. The first was a fat man in a leather vest; the other two were armed cowboys.

Don Elías came out to greet them with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Everything’s ready,” the fat man said, getting off his horse. The ranch, the cattle, and the girl. She hid behind the well, her heart pounding in her throat. The men went into the hut. She heard voices, laughter, the clinking of coins. Then a shout. Don Elías’s shout.

He ran out into the middle of the shack. The man was on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. The fat man held a revolver to his .100 caliber. “I told you not to play with me, Elias. The ranch is mine. The girl is mine. And the boy, well, boys can always be sold.” Don Elias raised his three heads, his eyes bloodshot.

She’s not with you. The fat man laughed. Of course she is. It’s part of the deal. You signed. She stepped forward, the knife gleaming in her hand. Nobody sells me out. The cowboys turned, hands on their guns, but she was faster. The knife flew through the air and lodged in the fat man’s throat. He fell, gurgling blood.

Don Elías broke free with a jerk and grabbed the rifle. The shots rang out like thunder. When the smoke cleared, only three bodies lay on the floor and the smell of gunpowder lingered. She approached Don Elías, who was panting, leaning against the wall. “The boy is mine,” she said. “The ranch is mine. You can go with your family from Chihuahua.”

He looked at her, his eyes filled with something that could have been love or fear. “I have no family. The letter was a lie. I wrote it so you would stay.” She felt the world tilt every night, all the bodies, all the lies. She knelt beside him, the knife still in her hand. “Why?” “Because you’re all I have,” he whispered.

The only thing left. She looked at him for a long time. Then, with a swift movement, she cut the ropes that still bound his wrists. Then, stay. But this time the pact changes. Every night your body will be mine until the child is born, until the earth dries up, until the desert claims us both. Dan Elias nodded, tears mingling with the dust on his face.

Outside, the coyotes howled at the moon, and the wind carried the scent of blood and freedom. And so every night, when the desert wind howled like a wounded wolf against the rafters of the hut, he crossed the corral, his shawl pressed tightly to his chest, his heart pounding like a war drum. She waited for him on the cot, wearing her red dress, her eyes greener than aged mezcal.

And when he took her, it was with the urgency of someone who hadn’t drunk water in years. She didn’t scream, she just dug her nails into his back until they bled. And so they sealed their new wordless pact: each night her body in exchange for a roof over her head and a plate of beans. But now the ranch was hers. The child was growing inside her.

And Don Elías, the man who once owned everything, was now just the man who gave his body to the girl from the dry riverbed every night. Until one day.