Alastair Macleod 
Ninfa Montana 

’Maria stopped after a little while and looked back. He was out of sight. She moved her hand to her hair band to adjust it. Only her mama had called her pretty before.
She felt a little flustered. She was breathing heavily from the running.
She saw his face again, the wild hair, the sincere look, his dark eyes studying her closely. There was a little fluttering in her stomach.
She continued on down the track clutching her bundle, trying to avoid the sheep droppings. Her small house stood on the side of a ravine. At this time of year the stream was dry but they had an ancient well in front of the house; it reached way down into the living rock and gave pure water, cool and refreshing. It was called the well of the mountain nymph, el pozo de la ninfa de montana. ’