The rumor spread faster than the wind. By Sunday, half the valley knew: the woman from Puebla not only survived the mountains, she had plunged into a frozen stream and made Julián Fierro utter “wife” with pride.
But peace in the mountains is never easily won.
Three days later, Emilia, still coughing from the icy water, saw three men on horseback. Not from the village—they were well-dressed, too well-dressed for the mountain, carrying the arrogance of men used to taking what isn’t theirs.
The center rider was Lisandro Barragán, a land speculator who had spent years buying ranches ruined by debt.
Emilia stepped into the doorway, shielding Jacinta and Tomás.
-What do you want?
Barragán smiled without warmth.
—Your husband. You have three days to transfer the stream’s water rights to me, or I claim the property for back taxes. Without water, the mountaintop is worthless.
—This land is not for sale.
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“Not up to you, ma’am. Tell Julián Fierro the judge and commissioner are on my side. Friday, we’ll come—papers or men.”
They left. Emilia froze. That night, Julián returned and recounted every word.
His reaction was terrifying. He plunged a knife into the log and paced like a caged animal.
“That bastard’s been trying to push me out for two years. I paid those taxes in Chihuahua last spring. He bribed the notary, that’s what he did. I’m going down tonight and I’m going to…”
Emilia grabbed his arm.
-No.
He spun, eyes blazing.
—So what do you propose? Wait until they leave us without water?
—I suggest we think. Men like Barragán want you to shoot first. Then they take everything and bury you.
Julián clenched his jaw.
—Paper doesn’t stop bullets.
—But it can stop thieves in suits.
The next morning, they went down to the village together. Emilia wore her new blue percale dress and carried the leather purse she had brought from Puebla. Inside were her father’s old papers—he had been a lawyer—and something else: promissory notes and other documents signed by her uncle Teodoro, hidden in the lining since the day he ran away. For weeks, she hadn’t realized their value. In the mountains, as she calmly went through her things, she discovered they proved how her uncle had forged debts to steal the family inheritance. Among those notes, a name appeared repeatedly: Lisandro Barragán.
The two men had business together.
In the registry office were the notary, Barragán, and one of his men. Julián entered first, immense, blocking the exit with his broad frame. Emilia walked in front of him and placed her purse on the desk.
—I’ve come to review the payment book for the Fierro property—she said, voice firm enough to make the notary swallow hard.
“The property is two years behind,” he stammered.
—Then the book has been altered.
Barragán laughed aloud.
—And who are you to say that, ma’am?
Emilia produced first a list of payments made by Julián’s late wife. Then she showed a bank letter, and finally, the promissory notes hidden in her wallet.
—I am Julián Fierro’s wife, and I can spot a scam when it’s right in front of me. These documents prove that you and Teodoro Robles have been using bribed notaries to seize other people’s properties. If you don’t correct the land registry today, these papers will be in the governor’s hands tomorrow.
The color drained from Barragán’s face.
—That’s a lie.
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