Luz Ortega buried her husband on the second of January, in ground so hard the men took turns with the pick. The next morning she went to the loom, because the loom did not care who had died, and she counted threads by candlelight until the children woke.
The pattern was her grandmother’s: eight-pointed stars in red and indigo on natural wool. A good blanket took six weeks. The railroad lawyer in Santa Fe had given her until Easter to prove the land was hers.
This is as far as the free sample goes. The rest of The Weaver of Chimayó is waiting for you.
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