Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  She hoped he was happy. But how could he be? Unless he was a war-monger, and she doubted that of her beloved Papa.

  Yet France hadn’t relinquished the fight. Papa’s new home, the flagship, along with the majority of the king’s fleet, still menaced the waters of Veracruz. While the phalanx led by François of Joinville had been pushed from the city, they had dismantled all Mexican cannons before leaving.

  And two other regiments were occupying Concepción and Santiago. Thus, Mexico’s victory had not been clear.

  Further, Santa Anna—damn him!—had tricked the grim reaper.

  From his invalid’s cot at his estate, he preyed on the gullible Mexican people by using his precarious health and his handicap to its best advantage. No more than a day after his injury, he had sympathy-seeking broadsides distributed which told of his imminent demise. Time having proved his immortality, he had begun to behave as if the loss of a leg was the ultimate sacrifice for his country. Giving up a limb was no frivolity, true, but Santa Anna had ordered the sainted limb removed to Doña Ines Garcia Santa Anna’s chapel on the grounds of Hacienda Manga de Clavo. Where it lay in state.

  Alejandra viewed such action as morbid.

  Beyond his bid for sympathy, a cornucopia of lies had spilled from his mouth. Santa Anna claimed himself the victor in the events of December fifth.

  Amazingly, his ploys were working. Mexico resounded with the happy voices of her duped people. “Hail the hero of Vera Cruz!” “Hail our martyred general!” “Long live Santa Anna!”

  He had risen from the ashes of his shame in losing Tejas.

  Damn him.

  The only thing good to come out of his comeback was that his old foe, President Bustamante, had countered a move on the presidential palace by naming three Federalists to his Cabinet. Alas, the Centralists had risen against them. The Federalist ministers had lasted three days, but at least Anastacio Bustamante knew his days as president were numbered. Who would replace him?

  Shuddering at the presidential options, Alejandra turned her attention to her sister. An oh-so-innocent expression brightened the blonde’s face.

  “Have you heard from your friend Señor Montgomery?”

  Her color rising, Alejandra turned away to fiddle with a vase. She had tried not to think about him. Had tried. “He isn’t my friend.”

  “All right. Have you heard anything from your lover?” Mercedes inspected the mangled cuticle. “From the look on your face every time I mention him, I can’t imagine your relationship being anything but intimate.” She reached for a cup of coffee that sat on a low table in front of the sofa. “Such a handsome man. So virile.”

  “Shut up, Mercie.”

  With that, Alejandra exited the grand salon and stomped upstairs to her room. Yet she couldn’t blank her mind. Yes, Reece had tried to see her, but she had had him turned away.

  By now she was somewhat comfortable with her decision to keep the untrustworthy Reece at bay. She had no reason to question her decision. There were his obvious faults. Plus, the story which circulated through the state was too improbable. Reece allowing himself to be overtaken by French troops set on freeing some lowly sailor? Something smelled foul.

  She slammed the door to her bedchamber. Halfway to her bed, she heard voices from the front lawn. Voices lifted in song and accompanied by guitars. The shutters pushed open, a blast of north wind stinging her face, she stared down at the serenaders.

  Three musicians wore sombreros, boleros, and close-fitting breeches. Another man stood in front of them, his arms filled with flowers. Reece Montgomery wore the garb of a pirate.

  He looked up at her window. “Come to the posada in Pozitos with me,” he called. “Let’s celebrate Christmas.”

  All of a sudden, her heart tripped and she felt alive! She yearned to dash downstairs and into his arms. What was wrong with her? Alejandra yanked the shutters closed. Why, though, did she experience such a low and empty feeling?

  “Since my sister has seen fit not to accompany you, Señor,” an operatically lifted voice from the lower floor rang out, “would you be offended by a replacement such as I?”

  “Not at all, beautiful lady!” His voice probably carried to the Canary Islands.

  Alejandra’s mouth dropped. They wouldn’t dare. Would they? Knowing her sister and being well-enough acquainted with Reece, she decided they would. Jealousy reared. If she had gone with her instincts, she would soon be rotting in jail alongside Erasmo, for she was on the verge of murder.

  Plumbing the depths of her spirit, she dragged up a noble cause. Her sister would bring further disgrace on the family—as if Papa wasn’t enough!—by showing herself in public.

  Not feeling as sanctimonious as her cause would suggest, Alejandra decided to stop scandal before it went further, thus saving Mercedes from herself. By the time she descended the stairs, her plans were foiled.

  The revelers were on their way to the dance.

  Her arms crossed over her bosom, Alejandra watched a carriage roll out of sight. All her problems came tumbling around her shoulders. Tears filled her eyes. Why couldn’t at least one thing go right?

  Propping up her flagged spirit, she straightened. She wasn’t going to allow anything to get the better of her. There were some things she had no control over, but the revelers situation wasn’t among them.

  She was angry, Reece knew. But seeing Alejandra was a gust of fresh air after weeks of standing vigil over an invalid’s bedside. Antonio’s pleas for attention had proved tiring and frustrating. Tiring in the long hours devoted, frustrating in purpose.

  Though Reece was growing to respect the general, he itched to further his search for Garth. Antonio was gaining physical strength and political importance; it wouldn’t be long before he could make his move on the presidency. Reece would carry on as assigned by the Texan government.

  He turned his attention back to the moment, to the posada. To Alejandra. She wore a peasant blouse and a full skirt accentuating her small waist. A shawl draped her shoulders. The hair that had looked so lovely spread across his pillow was parted in the middle and fashioned into a chignon at the nape of her neck. Gold hoops dangled from her ears. Alejandra’s gypsy-like beauty arrested his breath.

  He stood at the edge of a makeshift dance floor in the hall which had served earlier as a military barracks. Tonight it was awash with candle-holding celebrants, mostly soldiers and their women, a sprinkling of civilians among them. They went through the symbolic routine of Mary and Joseph at the inn, and they were making their way upstairs to “seek shelter”. Within the space of a few seconds, the area was deserted save for Reece and Alejandra. He took a step toward her.

  She stomped over to him, indignation boiling in her eyes. “Where is my sister?”

  “On her way to Hacienda del Noche, I should imagine.”

  “You should imagine? What have you done with her? Why isn’t she with you?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased she isn’t.”

  Alejandra’s furious expression turned to one of suspicion. “What is going on?”

  Subterfuge, as far as Reece was concerned, should be employed to a bare minimum. “We worked together to flush the little dove from her nest,” he answered honestly.

  “You mean to tell me—”

  “I do, little dove, mi paloma.”

  Was that a grin she was hiding? “Shame on the two of you,” Alejandra said.

  Grin or no grin, that was relief in her eyes. When he had called on Mercedes Navarro to draw her into his plan, both he and the devious blonde had had doubts this ploy would work. So be it, it took a trick to get Alejandra’s attention.

  He reached for the red flowers that, in anticipation of this moment, he’d placed on a handy chair. “For you, my sweet.”

  Alejandra shook her head. “Please don’t do this to me.”

  “What? Give you roses? What is the injury in this?”

  “You know flowers have nothing to do with the issue.”

  He tickl
ed her nose with a scarlet bud. “Tell me they aren’t pretty.”

  “They are. But . . .”

  “But what? They make you sneeze?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Light from the chandeliers reflected her tears. “I just don’t want your attention.”

  Reece patted his fingers against his thigh. Making peace wasn’t going to be a leisurely and merry stroll down a verdant boulevard, for certain. It might never be in the scope of things. Perhaps he should do the gentlemanly thing and back off.

  Well, they would have to add “yellow” to his name if he did that.

  The flowers were tossed aside. Reece took Alejandra’s elbow with one hand and reached for his cloak with the other. Brooking no argument, he said, “You and I need to talk. Outside would be a good place to do it.”

  He led her to the adjacent and secluded garden. Stars and a half moon brightened the cloudless night. Shrubbery swayed in the soft breezes. The muted sounds of happy voices and a stringed band drifted from the barracks, as did streamers of light. Beneath his fingers, Reece felt Alejandra shiver. He wheeled around, and as a matador would deftly wield his cape, Reece fitted his cloak around her shoulders. His fingers settled at her waist.

  Looking down into the conflicting emotions in her features, he asked in English, “Are you ready for the truth?”

  “Are you capable of it?”

  “That’s been known to happen.” With the side of his forefinger, he elevated her chin. “I’m sorry I was dishonest.”

  She moved away from him. Presenting her back, she clutched her arms and stared at the ground. “I’m not convinced you don’t work for the French.”

  Now would be a good time for the honest-to-God truth, but he just couldn’t be as candid as he wanted to be. Reece bent to sit on the grass-covered earth. Coastal breezes soughed through the trees, kissed his face as he wished Alejandra would do. He settled back against a poinciana trunk. His legs spreading, he rested his wrists on his crooked knees. He stared at Alejandra’s shoulders and wished he could be what she needed. A gentleman.

  How he wanted to pull her back into his embrace . . . and make everything better. That could be accomplished only with as much honesty as he could allow, not by physical action.

  “Jandra, I’m going to tell you something, several things, and I hope I can trust you.” He was taking a huge gamble, but Reece loved her enough to bet on a losing hand. “I do spy for Charles Baudin.”

  She sat down on a park bench no more than three feet from Reece. “May the saints protect us.”

  “Let’s pray they do. You see, Jandra my darling, that stripling I captured was a plant to divert Antonio from the expeditionary forces. The sailor is a distant cousin of mine from Caen. Jacques LaTouche.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better, knowing you hail from the shores of Normandy, or that you have schemed against my beloved country?”

  “I may be in cohoots with Charles Baudin, but I’m no more French than you are. I’m as American as apple pie.”

  She chuckled. “I have a hard time comparing you with apple pie.”

  He smiled. They were making headway. Inquiring as to what he did remind her of was the question for an idiot, though. “I like it when you laugh.”

  Ignoring the compliment, she said, “You’ve accepted the rank of Army colonel. My people are depending on you to protect them from the French. As a spy for Admiral Baudin, you are doing Santa Anna false. He, who saved you from a death sentence over your treason toward the Tejas government. What does that say about your principles?”

  He wasn’t surprised she knew about his fabricated past. No need to get into that. Yet. If ever. “I didn’t realize you’d become Antonio’s admirer.”

  “I find nothing to like about Santa Anna. My words had to do with decoro nacional. Right or wrong, he fights for Mexico. Of course, he seeks the glory of Santa Anna alone,” she added.

  Questions ran through Reece’s mind, things he had wondered about from the night she showed up at his house. “I don’t understand why you hate him so.”

  She turned to face Reece. “Everything I said at Casa Montgomery was true. I believe Santa Anna is evil.” She threw back her head and laughed. “Maybe I’m evil, too, but it’s a damned shame you didn’t let General Houston kill him when he had the chancel”

  Reece wouldn’t argue the pros and cons of that. “Wishing a man dead and trying to keep him corralled are two different things. What do you really want, Alejandra?”

  Her fingers curved around the bench seat. “I want to bring honor to my husband.”

  Miguel again. “Honor? I thought he died in battle. There’s nothing more honorable than giving your life for your country.”

  “If only the cause had been . . . No matter about that, you know how I feel about Santanista causes. What I’m trying to say is, honoring Miguel’s memory will give me peace of mind. I never want another person to die for the glory of Santa Anna.”

  Poor darling. There was nothing she could do to stop Antonio, unless she were to take his life. But Reece empathized with her feelings. It was rotten, wanting things beyond control. He needed to find Garth; she needed peace of mind. Their hands were tied by fate . . . and by the indominable General Antonio López de Santa Anna.

  “I am your ally, Jandra. Now that your Federalist friends have captured Tampico and Matamoros, and Bau—”

  “Repeat that.”

  “You didn’t know about the Federalist movement in northern Mexico?”

  “I had no idea about any insurrections up there. The newspapers said nothing.” She sighed. “You see, with ’Rasmo in prison and Don Valentin Sandoval too ill to make contacts for me, I guess I’ve been in the dark about recent events.”

  “Who is this Don Valentin you speak of?”

  “The gentleman I sought at the mesón, the day the French assaulted us.” She continued her frank explanation.

  Reece ached to protect her from the Federalist element, and wasn’t too comfortable that she’d given over her home and heart to a feeble old political zealot. Well, if Reece knew anything about the woman he loved, he knew she wouldn’t be swayed from her opinions or from her determinations. A fellow could use an ally like Alejandra Sierra.

  “You know, Jandra, you and I could make a pretty good team.” Reece glanced his fingers across his lips. “If we stopped fighting each other and worked together.”

  Her laugh was bereft of mirth. “I’ve had experience with your assistance, thank you very much.”

  “Would it be a comfort to know the Federalist to the north are friendly with Admiral Baudin? He’s allowing them free trade with the outside world, you see. Which will line the war chest for you and your amigos.”

  She rose from the bench. “Comforted? No, I’m not. I don’t know whom to trust anymore, now that my compatriots have gone over to Admiral Baudin’s side.”

  “Baudin does not want to conquer Mexico.”

  “So you say.”

  “I do. And the northern Federalists are confident of his integrity.” Reece stretched to stand. “But there’s something you should consider. Prince François has his eye on an empire here—”

  “Excuse me? The prince who botched the attack on Vera Cruz hopes for a crown?”

  “Well, he is set back a bit, since the powers in the capital haven’t conceded to the French. But François has the ear of some high potentates—countrymen of yours who’d toss him reins if they could get the proper military support. Antonio owes those clerics many favors.”

  “This is true, all you say?”

  “True enough to get me shot if it were to leak to the wrong person.”

  Her gaze, bright in the moonlight, rested on his lips before settling on his eyes. “What would you propose we do as a team?”

  Several things rushed to mind. Things such as laughing and hugging, kissing and teasing. And making mutually satisfying love right here in this garden. But, by God, he wanted more than just a roll in the grass. He wanted her ad
miration. It was time to show her that he could be a gentleman.

  “I say, we forget about Antonio and Baudin and the little prince. And everything and everyone else besides ourselves. I say, Mrs. Sierra, that we should rejoin the dance, and enjoy the remainder of this gloriously beautiful evening.”

  “That seems rather frivolous.”

  “That’s what makes life worth living.” He bowed, then offered his arm. “Mrs. Sierra, will you allow me to court you?”

  Her hand slipped through the crook of his elbow, yet a worry got to Reece. Court her? That implied a long-term relationship. He wanted it. If he could get out of Mexico alive and with his brother in tow, and if Alejandra would agree to accompany him. These were no small considerations.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He danced as if he had wings for feet. And Alejandra, whirling in Reece’s arms to the sounds of jacaba and castanets and a singer with fine pitch, had long since given herself up to music, to food, to drink. To the man. The midnight hour approached, and she whirled in Reece’s arms.

  For weeks she had told herself she didn’t want him. Nothing about him. She had tried to be strong, to deny the memory of those wondrous hours spent in the grip of passion. But her loneliness coupled with the frenzy of war and uncertainty about her personal situation—and laced with tonight’s liquid courage! —worked against her determination to keep distance between them.

  Don’t be an imbecile, a voice in her heart reminded. Those minutes in the nearby garden had changed everything.

  Maybe it was wrong to trust Reece, but somehow she did. The things he had told her were too incredible not to be true.

  And she was heeding his advice. Here, amongst Santa Anna’s troops, their soldaderas, and the refugees who had left Vera Cruz in the wake of December fifth, she refused to dwell on anything but the heed of her heart as she celebrated this Christmas season.

  Alejandra eyed the crowd. The ritual of finding Mary a place to birth the Christ child had ended, the religious aspects of the posada over. In its place was music and laughter and the promise of a long and glorious night.