In the dust of the Sonoran Desert, where the sun scorched the earth like a red-hot iron, lived Elena, a widow with two young children in an abandoned ranch near the border. Her husband had died three years earlier, shot by bandits during a robbery of a train carrying silver from the mines. Since then, Elena had been managing on her own, growing stunted corn and raising a few scrawny chickens.

But loneliness gnawed at her from within, like a coyote rolling a bone. And then he appeared, Rodrigo, the wandering cowboy, with eyes as black as a bottomless pit and a revolver dangling below, always ready to spit death. Rodrigo was known in the dusty towns as the lone wolf, tall, with muscles forged in cellphone fights and endless horseback rides.

He had a scar across his left cheek. A reminder of a duel in Nogales where he killed three men over a rigged deck of cards. They said he was evil to the core, that he’d stolen cattle in Texas and fled from an orca more than once. But beneath that armor of tanned leather, an empty heart beat, longing for something other than the echo of his boots on deserted roads.

When he first saw Elena watering her withered plants under the orange sunset, he felt a fire that didn’t come from the sun. He wanted her love, or at least what he understood by love: possession, warmth on cold nights, someone to heal the wounds of his soul. The first time he approached the cabin, Elena saw him coming on horseback, raising a cloud of dust that looked like a ghost from the past.

Her children, Pedro and Maria, were playing on the porch with sticks pretending to be rifles. “Mom, a stranger!” Pedro shouted, and Elena came out with an old shotgun in her hands, her finger trembling on the trigger. Rodrigo dismounted with feline grace, his wide-brimmed hat shading his angular face. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m just looking for water for my horse and perhaps a conversation.”

Elena stared at him, feeling his eyes devour her. He was handsome in that rugged way that attracts women weary of life. But something about him unnerved her, like the wind before a sandstorm. She gave him water, but didn’t invite him in. Here you go, cowboy. Drink and be on your way.

This land is not for strangers. Rodrigo smiled, showing white teeth beneath his thick mustache. They call me Rodrigo. And you, beautiful, what’s your name? She didn’t reply, just gripped the shotgun. That night she dreamed of him, strong hands surrounding her, but in the dream those hands turned into claws that dragged her into the abyss.

Days later, Rodrigo returned. He brought a fresh rabbit married with his Winchester rifle. “For your children, ma’am, I can’t see them so thin.” Elena accepted it reluctantly, cooking it in a stew with dried chilies that were as hot as the sun. While they ate, he sat outside on the porch telling stories of his adventures. He spoke of duels at dawn, of lost gold mines in the mountains, of women he had loved and abandoned.

But his eyes never left Elena, and she felt a chill every time his gaze rested on her neck, her hips. You are strong, Elena. A woman like you needs a man to protect you. She shook her head. I protect myself. My husband taught me to shoot, and I’m better than most. But the cowboy wouldn’t give up.

He began to appear more often, helping with chores, mending the wind-torn fence, carrying water from the dry well, even teaching Pedro how to lasso an imaginary calf with an old rope. Little Maria looked up at him with wide eyes, fascinated by his hat and spurs that jingled like death knell.

Elena watched him from the window, torn between gratitude and fear. Rodrigo was lonely, yes, but she’d heard rumors about him in the town of AOR a few miles north. They said he’d killed a rancher over a poker debt that left entire towns trembling in his wake. “Why are you chasing me, Rodrigo?” she asked him one afternoon, as the sun sank like blood on the horizon.

He came too close, his breath smelling of cheap tequila. Because you make me feel alive, Elena. In this desert, you are the oasis. One moonlit night, when coyotes howled like lost souls. Rodrigo arrived drunk. His horse whinnied nervously, and he staggered with a bottle in his hand. Elena, open the gate. I need to see you.

The children woke up crying, and Elena grabbed the shotgun, blocking the door with a chair. “Go away, Rodrigo. I don’t want you here.” But he banged on the wood, his voice hoarse and desperate. “Let me in, woman. I just want your love. I’ve been patient, but a man like me doesn’t wait forever.” Elena felt panic rise in her throat.

Love, this isn’t love, it’s obsession. Please don’t come in. Suddenly, a shot pierced the night. Not Elena’s, but from outside. Rodrigo fell to the ground with a groan, and Elena opened the door a crack, seeing a dark figure fleeing on horseback. It was a bandit, perhaps one of Rodrigo’s old enemies. The cowboy lay wounded, blood oozing from his shoulder.

Against her better judgment, Elena dragged him inside, bandaging the wound with clean rags. As she tended to him, he looked at her with feverish eyes. “See, Elena? You need to protect me as much as I need to protect you?” She didn’t respond, but that night, as she watched over his troubled sleep, she felt a forbidden spark. Was it mercy or something darker? The next few days were a whirlwind.

Rodrigo recovered in the cabin, sleeping on the floor with a blanket. He helped more, but his presence was suffocating. He touched her hand as he passed by, brushed against her waist as he helped in the kitchen. Elena rejected him, but the desert had made her weak. One afternoon, while the children were playing outside, he cornered her against the wooden table where she was kneading bread.

His strong hands covered hers over the dough, pressing firmly. Let me into your life, Elena. I’m Mean, yes, but for you I’d change places. She pulled away, her heart beating like a war drum. No, Rodrigo, my children, my past. Please don’t come in. But the suspense grew like a storm. In Acorage, the whispers ran like the wind.

That widow with the lonely cowboy, he’s evil, he’ll destroy her. One night, a group of women from the town arrived on horseback, led by old Doña Rosa, wearing long dresses and crosses around their necks. Elena, be careful. Rodrigo killed his own sister in a fit of jealousy. They say, “He’s a devil in disguise.” Elena listened to them, but her mind was clouded.

It was true. Rodrigo denied it when she confronted him, swearing by the Virgin of Guadalupe. Lies, my love. I just want to protect you. The Kimx arrived on a night of torrential rain, rare in the desert, that turned the ground into treacherous mud. Rodrigo had gone hunting, but returned early, soaked and furious.

I saw men in the village asking for you, Elena. Bandits, the same ones who killed your husband, are coming for the land he left behind. She paled. The ranch was on a bed of groundwater, valuable in that eternal drought. Let me in for real, Elena. Let’s get married, and I’ll defend this with my life. But she saw the mad gleam in his eyes, the same one she’d seen in bandits before.

No, Rodrigo, please don’t come into my house or my heart. Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminated the window, and Elena saw shadows outside, three armed men stealthily approaching. Rodrigo drew his revolver, but one of the bandits fired first, shattering the glass. The bullet grazed Elena, and she screamed as she fell to the ground. Rodrigo responded furiously, shooting two in the darkness.

The third fled, but not before wounding Pedro, who ran away upon hearing the noise. The boy lay in the mud, bleeding from his arm. Elena wept, bandaging her son while Rodrigo stood guard. See? Without me, they’d all be dead. But at that moment, she saw it clearly. He had brought the bandits.

Rumors said Rodrigo owed them a debt and was using Elena as bait to settle scores. “You brought them here,” he accused, pointing the shotgun at her. The river bitterly retorted. Maybe, but for love, Elena. All for love. The tension exploded. Rodrigo moved forward, easily disarming her, his lips seeking hers in a forced kiss.

Let me in or I’ll kill you all. Elena struggled, clawing at his face, and in the struggle the revolver fell to the floor. An accidental shot went off, and Rodrigo doubled over, blood gushing from his chest. He fell to his knees, looking at her with pleading eyes. Elena, I only wanted. She watched him die there, on the floor of his cabin, while the rain washed away the blood.

The children cried, but Elena felt a cruel relief. She had saved her home. But at what price? At dawn, she buried the body in the desert, where coyotes would claim it. Hechorre would whisper about the widow who killed the lone wolf, calling her the witch. But she knew the truth. In the Old West, love could be deadlier than a bullet.

Years later, with her children grown, Elena would tell the story softly under the stars. Never let a mean man into your life, she would say. But in her dreams, she still felt his hands pressing on the dough, and she wondered if it had ever been love or just loneliness disguised as desire. No.