Chapter 1
The road had been bad for the last two hours.
Then it became impossible.
Camila gripped the edge of the worn passenger seat as the driver muttered another curse in Spanish. Ahead, a cluster of men blocked the narrow mountain road. Some carried machetes. Others held rifles loosely at their sides. A burned-out truck sat half in the ditch, still smoking.
“This is as far as I go,” the driver said, voice tight. He wouldn’t look at her. “You need to get out. Now.”
“I paid you to take me to the next town.”
“There is no next town today.” He jerked his chin toward the men. “Local trouble. It will get worse before it gets better. I am turning around.”
She stepped out into the cool highland air. The smell of wet earth and coffee blossoms hung thick. Mist clung to the steep green slopes on either side of the road. Behind her, the driver already reversed, tires spinning in the mud. In seconds he was gone, leaving her alone with a backpack and the sound of distant voices rising.
One of the men near the burned truck noticed her. He said something to the others. Two of them started walking in her direction.
Camila’s pulse kicked hard. She turned and began walking the opposite way—uphill, faster than was smart on the uneven road. Her boots slipped. She kept going.
A low stone wall appeared on her left, half-hidden by coffee trees. Beyond it, a narrow track led between the rows. She didn’t think. She climbed over the wall and pushed into the plantation.
The trees closed around her almost immediately. The air grew quieter. The voices from the road faded. She walked until her legs burned, following the slope upward, deeper into the ordered lines of coffee plants.
She didn’t see the house until she was almost on top of it.
It sat on a natural terrace, low and solid, built of dark wood and stone. A wide veranda wrapped around the front. Smoke rose from a chimney. A single light glowed in one of the windows even though it was still afternoon.
Camila stopped at the edge of the cleared ground, breathing hard.
The front door opened.
A man stepped out.
He was tall, broad through the shoulders, dark hair threaded with silver at the temples. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms corded from work. He looked at her the way a man looks at something unexpected on his land—assessing, not yet deciding.
“You’re on private property,” he said in Spanish, voice low and even.
She answered in the same language, the words coming out thinner than she wanted. “There are men on the road. With guns. My driver left me.”
His gaze flicked past her, toward the lower slopes, then returned. He studied her face, her backpack, the mud on her jeans.
“How long have they been there?”
“I don’t know. I just reached them.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he stepped aside and nodded once toward the open door.
“Come inside. You’ll stay until it’s safe to leave.”
Camila hesitated only a second. The alternative was the road and the men with machetes.
She walked up the steps and into the house.
The interior smelled of wood smoke, coffee, and something clean—soap or laundry. The main room was large and sparsely furnished: a long wooden table, heavy chairs, a stone fireplace already lit. Everything looked functional, well-kept, and lived-in by someone who preferred order.
He closed the door behind her. The sound was solid.
“I’m Mateo,” he said.
“Camila.”
He nodded once, as if filing the name away. “There’s a guest room at the end of the hall. Bathroom across from it. Hot water is limited, so be quick if you use it. I’ll make coffee.”
He moved past her into the kitchen without waiting for a reply.
Camila stood in the middle of the room, backpack still on her shoulders, and listened to the quiet of the house. Outside, the highland wind moved through the coffee trees. Somewhere far below, the unrest continued without her.
She was safe.
She was also completely cut off.
And the man who had taken her in was watching her from the kitchen doorway when she finally looked up—steady, unreadable, and already calculating how long she might need to stay.
