Around me, yellow, orange, and green pods hung from V-shaped branches, like ornaments on a Christmas tree. They resembled papayas in shape and color, but smaller and with a rougher texture, as though the fruit had encountered a bad case of acne.

I had the feeling that I’d entered an enchanted forest. Cristóbal would’ve loved it. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like to live here with him, to raise our children surrounded by cedars and guava trees and, of course, cacao pods.

The children we would never have.

Even though I’d never been here before, this place felt like home, like I’d finally found the place where I belonged. If I ever contemplated the idea of selling my portion of the estate and leaving, I was deluding myself.

Hidden between leaves and branches, I discerned arms, hands, and knives cutting down pods. As we reached the peasants, they removed their hats and murmured greetings to Martin. There were about a dozen men in the area, all wearing stained white shirts and large straw hats.

A few steps away, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a round, protruding stomach held a pod with one hand and a machete with the other. With swift, precise motions, he sliced the pod in half. The interior of the pod reminded me of brains and the smell made me think of fermented juice. A white, mucus-like membrane covered a string of cacao beans. He handed it to a man with a lengthy beard and longish hair who was kneeling by a metal bucket. With all that hair, he looked like someone who’d been stuck on an island for months. The man removed as much of the membrane as he could and dumped the beans inside the bucket. Once it was full, he carried it along a trail.

“Where is he taking them?” I asked.

“To the warehouse, for fermentation. We’ll go there next.”

I tried to follow Martin on the path, but apparently, Pacha had other plans. She darted through the woods, dodging tree trunks and branches, and picked up speed as the reins slipped from my hands.

I grasped her mane, kicking her sides to stop her, but she was immune to every attempt to dominate her. A branch hit my face and knocked Cristóbal’s spectacles to the ground. I brought a hand to my beard to protect it.

“Pacha! Stop!” My voice came out high and screechy—good thing Martin wasn’t around.

I got hold of the reins with one hand, still pressing on her sides. In the distance, I heard the hooves of another horse.

Martin!

Would he realize I was a woman without the glasses? And when was this damned horse going to stop? I could already taste the blood from a cut on my lower lip.