Don Elías’s ranch lay at the edge of the world, where the land cracked open in scars 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 and her eyes greener than aged mezcal. Don Elías, a widower since fever had taken his wife and two sons, had taken her in the way one picks up a lost knife — with fear and desire.

The first night, she trembled beneath the coarse wool blanket. He said nothing. He only dropped his hat onto the table and knelt beside the cot. His calloused hands, hardened by years of roping bulls and driving stakes, traced her skin as if searching for a map.
She closed her eyes and let the warmth of the man envelop her, because the cold of the mountains was worse than any shame. When he took her, it was with the urgency of a man who hadn’t drunk water in years. She didn’t scream — only dug her nails into his back until blood rose beneath her fingertips.
And so their unspoken pact was sealed: each night, her body in exchange for a roof and a plate of beans.

The days were long and dust-choked. She milked the goats, ground the corn, washed clothes at the basin until her hands bled. Don Elías left at dawn with his rifle slung over his shoulder and returned at dusk, his beard full of dust.
They never spoke of love — only of drought, cattle prices, and the bandits roaming the border.
But when the tallow lamp went out, he found her in the darkness with the same hunger as always.
She learned to anticipate him. She knew when he came home drunk from the cantina in San Isidro, when he smelled of gunpowder from killing a rattlesnake, when his hands trembled after dreaming of his dead sons.

One night, under a full moon, he came home earlier than usual. He carried a half-empty bottle of mezcal and a smile too big for his face.
“Tomorrow the buyer from Sonora comes,” he said, sitting on the bench. “He’ll bring gold for the steers. We’ll be rich, girl.”
She smiled faintly as she served the coffee, but something in his tone made her uneasy. He wouldn’t look her in the eyes. His fingers drummed on the table as though counting down to something.

That night, when he took her, it was different — slower, gentler, like a man petting a horse before selling it. She felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

The following days were strange. Don Elías bought new fabrics in town — a red dress with lace that she never dared to wear.
He had the corral mended, painted the shack’s door, even bought a small hand mirror and placed it on the dresser.
“So you can see how pretty you are,” he said.
But when she looked into the glass, she saw only hollow eyes and dark circles that no rose water could wash away.
The ranch smelled of fresh paint and promises she didn’t understand.

One afternoon, while scrubbing the floor, she found a crumpled letter beneath the cot.
The handwriting was neat, that of an educated woman:

“Dear Elías, the boy is walking already. We’re waiting for you in Chihuahua with open arms. Don’t delay any longer.”

The paper trembled in her hands. The boy? Elías had never mentioned another child.

That night, when he arrived, she was waiting — shawl wrapped tight, a satchel slung over her shoulder.
“You’re leaving?” he asked, letting his rifle fall.
“I’m not your woman,” she said, her voice steady for the first time. “I’m your debt.”

He stepped closer, his boots creaking on the adobe floor.
“You knew the arrangement from the start. Body for shelter.”
“But you didn’t tell me you had another roof waiting in Chihuahua — with a real woman and a real child.”
His face hardened. “That letter isn’t what you think.”
“I’m not thinking,” she said. “I know.”
She stepped back. “Tomorrow the buyer comes, doesn’t he? Or is it your family?”

Don Elías froze, the shadow of his hat hiding his eyes.
“My brother-in-law’s coming,” he muttered. “He’s bringing the money for the ranch. We’re leaving — all three of us.”
“All three?”
“You, me, and the child you’re carrying.”

He pointed to her belly, barely rounded beneath her dress.
“You bear my blood, girl. You can’t leave.”

The world stopped. She pressed her hand against her stomach, feeling the pulse she hadn’t wanted to recognize.
The child — her child — the child of a man who had bought her like a mare.

That night, no bodies tangled. She slept in the corral among the goats, the kitchen knife hidden in her boot.
At dawn, when the sun brushed the mountains, she heard hoofbeats. Three riders approached along the dusty road.
The first was a heavy man in a leather vest, the other two armed cowhands.

Don Elías went out to greet them, a smile not reaching his eyes.
“All set?” said the fat man as he dismounted.
“The ranch, the cattle — and the girl.”

She hid behind the well, heart hammering. The men entered the shack. She heard voices, laughter, the clink of coins — then a shout.
Don Elías’s shout.

She ran inside. He was on his knees, hands bound behind his back. The fat man pressed a revolver to his temple.
“I told you not to play me for a fool, Elías. The ranch is mine. The girl is mine. And the child — well, children always fetch a price.”

Don Elías raised his head, blood in his eyes.
“She doesn’t go with you.”
The fat man laughed. “Of course she does. She’s part of the deal. You signed.”

She stepped forward, the knife glinting in her hand.
“No one sells me.”

The cowhands spun, reaching for their guns — but she was faster.
The knife flew through the air and buried itself in the fat man’s throat. He fell, choking on blood.

Don Elías tore free from the ropes and grabbed his rifle.
Gunfire cracked through the shack. When the smoke cleared, three bodies lay on the floor, the air thick with powder and death.

She walked toward him. He leaned against the wall, panting.
“The child is mine,” she said. “The ranch is mine. You… you can go back to your family in Chihuahua.”

He looked at her — his eyes full of something that could have been love or fear.
“I have no family. The letter was a lie. I wrote it — to make you stay.”

The world tilted. All those nights, all those bodies, all those lies.
She knelt beside him, the knife still in her hand.
“Why?”
“Because you’re all I have left,” he whispered. “The only thing that remains.”

She looked at him for a long time. Then, in one swift motion, she cut the ropes still hanging from his wrists.
“Then stay,” she said quietly. “But this time, the pact changes.”

“Each night your body will be mine — until the child is born, until the earth dries up, until the desert claims us both.”

Don Elías nodded, tears mixing with the dust on his face.

Outside, the coyotes howled to 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 beams of the shack, he crossed the corral, shawl clutched tight to his chest, heart pounding like a war drum.
She waited for him on the cot, wearing the red dress, eyes green as old mezcal.

And when he took her, it was with the thirst of a man who hadn’t tasted water in years.
She didn’t scream — only dug her nails into his back until blood came.
Thus they sealed their new, wordless pact: each night, his body in exchange for shelter and bread.

But now, the ranch was hers. The child grew inside her.
And Don Elías — the man who once owned everything — was now only the man who, each night, gave his body to the girl from the Dry River.

Until one day.