She wanted to hold his hand in the night, as if he were a talisman against the darkness. He was a talisman. He was rich with magic she couldn’t understand, a key to a part of herself that had been dead for a long, long time. To her, he was worth more than he knew. He wasn’t a vaquero. He was Néstor. He was hers. It was folly for either of them to pretend otherwise.
