Inheritance of Shadows

XVIII

Time had a way of weathering even the most stubborn men.

Eight years had crawled by since the Betancourt family first tried to claw back what had been stolen—one inch of soil at a time. What began as a legal battle over inheritance had rotted into something uglier, more political, more rigged. The land, the legacy, was now reduced to a handful of court filings stamped with rejection, hesitation, and red tape, all wrapped in the sweet-smelling corruption that thrived under Lucia's shadow.

It was a cool evening when Javier, Aunt Sofía, and Damian sat in the dim light of the obrador. The satellite images on Sofía's screen cast a pale glow across their tired faces. Lines crisscrossed the land like veins drained of blood. Javier leaned in close, jaw clenched.

"Right there," he muttered, pointing to a stretch of land near the old creek. "That's where I used to herd the cattle when the rains stopped. My grandfather taught me that land was a cradle for the herd. Now it's split into four parcels and marked for residential development."

Damian looked at him, not surprised. "Lucia made sure of it. Every lot sold was a dagger aimed straight at you."

Sofía rubbed her temples. She was older now, deep in her sixties, though still sharp. "And every buyer pays their taxes. Residential property brings in more than three times what ranching land does. The city sees money, not people."

Javier exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy. His back ached more these days. His knuckles popped when he held a mug. He looked every inch his age.

"I don't want to fight like she does," he said flatly.

Damian turned toward him, a bitter look in his eyes.

"Why not? We've tried the legal route. We've shown proof, brought records, even begged. What has it gotten us?"

"Because," Javier said, voice low but steady, "you don't win anything by dragging your soul through the mud. I know what happens when people live by vengeance. Everything built on hate crumbles under its own weight."

Sofía said nothing.

"Then we lose?" Damian hissed. "Just like that? She steals from us, humiliates us, and we do nothing?"

Javier didn't answer. He just stared at the map, his legacy carved up like a butchered hog. He wasn't the same man who first came back to Topilejo, full of fire and righteous fury. The years had worn him down.

Time moved on, even if the wounds didn't.

Helena, his oldest daughter, found love. Her wedding was the first moment of celebration in a long time. Guests poured into the family home, musicians played late into the night, and the yard was filled with the smells of roasted meat and mezcal. Javier, knowing he didn't have much money left, brought what he could—alcohol, tables, chairs, and every decoration tied with twine and pride.

But it wasn't enough for everyone.

Helena's mother-in-law, a stern woman who fancied herself high society despite her humble roots, made a scene halfway through the reception. She pulled Alicia aside near the back of the tent, accusing Javier of being cheap, of embarrassing his daughter by not covering the full wedding costs.

"I raised my son alone," she hissed. "At least I gave him dignity. What did he give her? A few bottles of tequila?"

Alicia snapped. Words turned to shouting, and the shouting turned to a scuffle. Plates fell. Guests looked away. Helena cried in silence as her new husband tried and failed to calm both women.

The family fractured. For months after, Alicia refused to speak to Helena's in-laws. The bitterness tainted every reunion, every Sunday meal.

And then Victoria, the youngest, faced a different battle. Her school sent a letter questioning her registration. After eight years in Mexico, they now demanded proof of her Mexican citizenship. But the paperwork had never been filed properly. Her CURP was missing, and without it, she couldn't continue. The school labeled her "irregular," a ghost in the system.

Bureaucrats shrugged. "It's your responsibility, not ours," they said. Javier and Alicia made countless trips to city offices, bringing forms, birth certificates, translations. Nothing worked. Doors closed. One official even hinted that Lucia had made calls to "clarify" the Betancourt children's status.

Damian kept riding through it all.

The one place he still felt in control was the arena. Bull riding gave him something that courts and documents couldn't: power, however brief. Until one day, the beast didn't let go.

The bull bucked hard to the right. Damian lost his grip, flipped over the horn, and hit the ground wrong. Then came the trampling—hoof to ribs, hoof to shoulder. He heard the crack before he felt it. The pain came after, burning like fire down his spine.

His right arm broke in three places. His lower back suffered bruising near the spine. The doctors were blunt: full recovery would take months, maybe longer. Riding again was not advised.

He sat in a hospital bed, white sheets against brown skin, IV line in his arm, staring at the window as rain fell on the hospital lot.

Javier sat beside him.

"It's not over," Damian said, voice weak but firm. "She hasn't won."

Javier didn't answer at first.

"No," he finally said. "But maybe this isn't our fight anymore."

Damian clenched his jaw, then looked at his father. Something darker stirred in his expression.

"Then maybe she should be buried in the land she loves so damn much. Maybe that's the only way this ends—with her roots cut and her rotting under the soil she betrayed us for."

Javier's eyes narrowed. Without thinking, he raised his hand and slapped his son, not with rage, but with a sorrow so deep it hurt to breathe.

"Is that what I taught you?" Javier whispered, voice shaking. "She's already dead to me as a sister. But I will not lose you to the same poison that devoured her. She will not be what takes you down a path you can never come back from."

Damian's eyes brimmed with tears. He looked away, shoulders shaking.

"Father... there is nothing I love more in this world than the land. I yearn to live with the land, not just on it. I want to raise cattle, feel the rain and the dust, and one day do it with my kids. Just like your ancestors did. Just like we could've done."

Javier reached for his son's hand.

"Then listen to me, son," he said softly. "Sometimes the land we lose is only one chapter of the story. Sometimes the roots run deeper than boundaries on a map. Maybe we can't reclaim what's already sold, already poisoned. But we can plant something new. A new story. A new place. One that carries our name not in court records, but in the laughter of children, in the lowing of cattle, in the morning sun that rises over fields we tend with our own hands."

He looked out the window, rain trailing down the glass like veins.

"We rebuild, not on ashes, but on faith. Not with hate, but with vision. Something she can never touch. Something that will last."

The fire in Damian's eyes didn't die. It burned lower, steadier, like coals waiting for the right wind.

He wasn't ready to let go.

Not yet.

Eight years had gone by, and the Betancourt name was battered, bruised, and quietly surviving. The land was lost. The family scattered. But something stirred under the surface. Something waiting.

This wasn't the end.