The moment the man with the gray mustache says the name Julián Santillán, the shack feels smaller, like the walls just decided to lean in and listen. You keep your face still, but inside you drop like a stone into cold water. That last name is not just a name in these parts, it’s a warning bell.
Your daughters don’t understand the weight of it, not fully, but they feel your body go rigid. Cecilia’s eyes flick to yours, searching for instructions the way a sailor searches a lighthouse. Mariana hugs Sofía tighter, as if her little arms can build a fortress.
The gray-mustached man takes his hat off like he’s stepping into church. Rain drips off the brim and lands on the dirt floor in slow, patient beats. Behind him, two riders stay half-outside, hands close to their rifles, eyes sweeping the corners like they expect the shadows to confess something.
“Where did you find him?” the mustached man asks, voice low but edged sharp, like a blade wrapped in velvet.
You lift your chin. “On the road. Under his horse.”
He looks at the crude splint, the bandage at the duke’s temple, the fire you managed to coax out of wet misery. His gaze pauses on your torn fingers, the raw skin, the nails broken down to stubborn little moons. Something in his expression shifts, but he doesn’t soften.
“Do you know who he is?” one of the men behind him says, and it’s not a question meant to be answered wrong.
You swallow once. “I know he’s hurt. And he’s alive.”
The mustached man steps closer, boots squelching, and you instinctively move your body an inch so you’re between them and your girls. It’s not bravery, not the kind songs are made of. It’s the simpler animal truth of a mother deciding the world can fight her first.
The duke stirs on the cot of old blankets. His lashes flutter, and you see the steel-gray eyes again, now clearer, now colder. He doesn’t try to sit up, but his gaze lands on the doorway, on the armed men, and you watch his jaw tighten as if pain is an inconvenience.
“Mateo,” he rasps.
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