The first spoonful is too hot and you gasp.
Tomás chuckles softly, not mocking, just human.
The sound surprises you so much you almost cry.
You swallow hard and keep eating, because hunger is simpler than grief.
When the bowl is half-empty, Tomás speaks again.
“You’re pregnant,” he says, not as a question.
You freeze, spoon hovering.
Shame rises like bile, because you already know what people think when they see a belly and bruises.
Tomás watches your face and says, “I’m not asking how.”
His voice stays steady. “I’m asking how far along.”
You exhale shakily. “Five months,” you whisper.
Tomás nods once, then gets up and pulls a folded blanket from a trunk.
He places it on the bed, then points to the chair by the stove.
“I’ll sleep there,” he says. “You take the bed.”
You stare at him, stunned.
“You don’t have to—” you begin.
He cuts you off gently. “I do,” he says. “Because you’re not sleeping afraid in my house.”
Your throat tightens and you look down fast so he won’t see tears.
Night deepens, the desert turning quiet in that way that makes every sound feel like a threat.
You lie on the bed fully clothed, shoes still on, because safety has never lasted long enough for you to undress.
The fire pops softly, and Tomás sits in the chair with his hat tipped low, rifle across his knees like a sleeping animal.
You want to believe him. You want to believe this can be a pause.
Then you hear it.
Hoofbeats.
At first it’s just a faint rhythm, like your fear making music.
But it grows louder, more certain, and Tomás’s posture shifts instantly, all softness draining away.
He stands without a word and moves to the window, peering through a crack in the curtain.
Your heart tries to leap out of your chest.
You whisper, “It’s him.”
Tomás doesn’t answer. He just lifts the rifle and checks the chamber with quiet efficiency.
A lantern glow bobs outside, then two voices, male, familiar to the desert.
“Arrieta!” someone calls. “Open up. By order of the county!”
County.
Your blood turns to ice because your pursuer isn’t just a man now.
He brought paper. He brought authority. He brought a story.
Tomás’s eyes flick to you.
“Stay back,” he murmurs.
You slide off the bed, belly heavy, and press yourself into the shadow near the stove, trying to become invisible the way you learned to as a girl.
Tomás opens the door just enough to stand in the gap, his body blocking the view inside.
Lantern light spills across his boots.
Outside stand two men: one a deputy in a dusty uniform, the other in a fine coat, clean hat, and a smile that doesn’t match his eyes.
The clean man tips his hat.
“Evening,” he says. “Name’s Baltasar Ríos.”
Your stomach drops at the sound of his name, because you’ve heard it spoken like a prayer in your old town.
Baltasar.
The man who owned your father’s debts.
The man who decided what happened to women who said no.
The deputy clears his throat, uncomfortable.
“We’re looking for a woman,” he says. “Lucía Cárdenas. There’s a report she stole property and fled.”
Stole.
The lie is so smooth it almost chokes you.
Tomás’s voice stays calm.
“Ain’t seen her,” he says.
Baltasar’s smile widens slightly. “Shame,” he murmurs. “Because she’s carrying something that belongs to me.”
Belongs.
You clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from making a sound.
Tomás’s eyes harden, but his tone remains steady. “Nothing living belongs to you,” he says.
Baltasar’s gaze flicks past Tomás, trying to look into the cabin.
“I don’t want trouble,” he says smoothly. “I just want what’s mine. Let me step inside and I’ll be on my way.”
The deputy shifts, hand hovering near his holster, not eager but obedient.
Tomás doesn’t move an inch.
“You step inside my home without an invitation,” he says, “and you’ll leave different.”
Baltasar’s smile fades into something colder.
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” he asks.
Tomás answers without blinking.
“A man who hides behind badges and paper,” he says.
Then he adds, “And paper burns.”
Baltasar’s face tightens.
He nods toward the deputy. “Search the property,” he orders.
The deputy hesitates. “We need cause—”
Baltasar’s eyes cut him like a knife. “You have it,” he says. “Stolen property. Fugitive.”
Tomás raises the rifle slightly, not aimed, just visible.
The deputy freezes.
The desert holds its breath.
