The Hacienda

by Isabel Cañas

Yet a curl of intuition drew me to Padre Andrés like moth to flame. You’ve never met a priest like him before, it whispered.

Even in the candlelight, I could see her eyes filled with trust. Something in my chest fluttered pleasantly at the memory.

“I never thanked you, doña,” Paloma said softly, speaking through the doorway rather than back to me. I tilted my head to one side. I had come to understand Paloma’s reserve as a matter of fact; her volunteering any emotion—much less gratitude toward me—was enough to give me pause. “What do you mean?” I asked carefully. “For bringing him back.”

Something in the air shifted; relaxed. I am here, his presence said. And if I am here, all will be well.