But unease lingered, pressing on her chest and stomach—food and exhaustion could not lift it. In towns like San Isidro del Monte, news traveled fast, and money, however little, raised questions. She was right. The next morning, while washing the children’s clothes in a puddle of rainwater outside the grotto, she heard voices approaching.
Strong, rough men’s voices, accompanied by horses’ hooves striking stones. Catalina stood quickly, heart in her throat, and told the children to hide inside the grotto without making a sound. Tomás obeyed immediately, leading Lupita and Carlitos into the darkness. Catalina stood at the entrance, hands still wet, waiting. Three men arrived.
Two were cowboys, weathered, hats dirty, rifles slung over their shoulders. The third, the ranch foreman, a tall, thin man named Jacinto, had viper-like eyes and a scar from ear to mouth. He dismounted slowly, surveying the grotto, the abandoned house, and finally Catalina. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
Catalina, her voice firm though trembling inside, told him she was seeking refuge, that she had nowhere else to go, that she only needed a place where her children could sleep without getting wet in the rain. Jacinto smiled, but it was not a kind smile; it was the smile of a man who knew his power and took pleasure in it. He told her that the land belonged to Don Erasmo, that everything on the mountain—including the grotto and the old house—was his, and if she wanted to stay, she would have to pay rent.
Catalina felt the ground shift beneath her feet. She asked how much. Jacinto scratched his chin thoughtfully, as if calculating. Then he said a ridiculous, impossible sum: twenty pesos a month. Catalina didn’t have a single one. Jacinto knew it. Everyone knew it. Then he stepped closer, too close, and suggested they could arrange another kind of payment—implying that a single woman could always find a way.
