“Plant your seed inside me,” the giantess Apache Widow told the lone rancher. – thuytien

Gregoria continued looking at the sky.
“I had two,” he finally said, so quietly it was almost inaudible. “One five years old and the other three. I lost them in that attack they’re talking about in the region. I arrived late, a second late.”
Chrysostom felt his throat close up.
-My God…
“There’s no God that can help,” she said. “Since that day, I’ve carried my memory like someone carrying a sack of stones, and I can’t let go of it.”
They remained silent for a long time. Only the chirping of crickets and the wind rustling through the mesquite trees could be heard.
Then Chrysostom spoke almost in a whisper.
—Gregoria, you want a home because I need companionship and I’m not asking for love, I’m asking for a chance for both of us.
She turned her head slowly. She looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time.
—You’re crazy, Crisóstomo Valenzuela.
-Probably.

—Do you know what people say about me? That I’m a freak, that I scare children, that I bring bad luck.
—There is no one here but me to say what is done or not done.
Gregoria got up. She was so tall she had to duck to get through the door. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no. She went to sleep in the laborers’ quarters. But something had changed.
Many things happened during the following months. First came rumors. Armed groups were moving through the region. They had damaged a ranch near Galeana and stolen supplies. The Mexican army was lost. The Americans couldn’t find them either.
One full moon night, those groups arrived at La Soledad de Arriba. There were more than forty of them, painted for war, carrying spears and stolen rifles. They stormed in shouting. The cowboys ran to defend the corral. Shots were fired. Two men died. The Chinese cook was wounded.
Gregoria left the room with the Winchester in her hand and a pistol at her waist. She stood in the middle of the courtyard, vast under the moon, and began firing with a chilling calm. One, two, three attackers fell. The others hesitated. They had never seen a woman like her.
Chrysostom fought beside them with a revolver in each hand. When they saw they couldn’t defeat them, they tried to set the big house on fire.
Gregoria grabbed a barrel of rainwater and threw it at the flames like a bucket. Then she took an axe and went between the attackers. They say she single-handedly drove them back.
In the end, they fled, leaving several wounded. La Soledad de Arriba was spared, but bore the marks of the battle. When it was all over, Gregoria had an arrow wound in her shoulder and a cut on her leg.
Chrysostom carried her in his arms. Yes, he carried her, even though she weighed more than a bull, and took her inside. He removed the arrow, stitched the wound with hemp thread, and applied honey and cobwebs as his grandmother had taught him. She was delirious with fever.
“My children, my kids,” she murmured.
Chrysostom took his gigantic hand in his own.
—Here I am, Gregoria, and here I’m staying.

She opened her eyes. For the first time in seven years, she cried. She cried like a child, her sobs shaking the bed.
When she healed, something had broken inside her, but something had also been born.
One afternoon, while they were repairing the corral together, Chrysostom spoke again.
—Gregoria, that proposal still stands. I’m not asking you to love me yet, just to let me love you and to let me start a family so this ranch can laugh again and so you have someone to lull to sleep.