Soldiers. A carriage. Her brother Rodrigo, polished and stern, dismounting onto soil that tried to cling to his fine boots. He stared at Jimena as if a portrait had stepped out of its frame and learned how to breathe.
“I’ve come to take you home,” he said.
Paperwork was presented, stamped and officious. A priest arrived with concern for her soul. Neighbors watched from a distance, measuring intentions. Tlacael stood at her side, straight and silent as a pine.
“We will not raise hands,” he said. “We will speak.”
And Jimena spoke. Of work that mattered. Of the people she had come to love. Of a life that did not weigh her on a scale each morning. She spoke with the authority of a woman who has looked at herself without apology and recognized her own worth.
Pressure mounted anyway. Promises were made of “protection” and “restoration.” For the first time since the carriage had brought her to the desert, she felt the old walls closing in.
“If you truly love me,” she whispered to Tlacael, “let me keep you safe. I will find my way back.”
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