“You have the touch, mija,” Carlos said, as he watched his daughter Lola, working amongst the blue-green agave plants, her hands moving with practiced ease.Pride swelled in his chest, although it came with a familiar worry.“Just like your Mama,” he added. “The Lord bless her soul. The land speaks to you, doesn’t it?”He saw so much of his late wife in Lola, especially in her connection to their heritage. Something he feared his son, Diego, would never understand.Lola looked up, her face smudged with dirt. Her clear blue eyes reflecting the azure sky always reminded Carlos of her mother.She quickly nodded. “It does, Papa. It always has.”It was another sunny day at the Volcans’ large agave fields in the foothills of Sinaloa and Lola loved being here. Her hands dirty from tending the agave roots, feeling this connection with the lands that belonged to her family for generations.She was still the beloved princess of Sinaloa, a title she wore with pride. Although, now at 21, Lola oft
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