Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  His words went unheeded. Pepe continued on to his sleeping room. He slammed the door in Reece’s face. It took three banging knocks before the barrier opened.

  “What do you want?” Pepe asked.

  “To talk with you, of course.”

  With a shrug, Pepe turned, stepped back into his quarters and began to throw clothes into a crate. Sullen, he refused to look up.

  Reece closed the door and glanced around. Although they had lived here for months, this was his first visit to Pepe’s room. Somehow the room didn’t pattern to the man he had come to know. Crucifixes and paintings of Jesus and the Virgin Mary dominated the decor. Reece had never figured him for religious. Well, there were a lot of things he hadn’t figured.

  “Look, Pepe, there’s no reason for you to leave.”

  Pepe unhooked the icon above his narrow bed. “None but my principles.”

  “I didn’t set out to offend you. You caught me off-guard, dumping that cold water on my head. Besides, I was in a foul mood to begin with. Alejandra and I had words.”

  “That, I know.”

  Reece took a straight chair, the sole one in the room, and sat down. His toes touched the bed’s foot. “What exactly did she say to you?” he asked.

  “She had to say nothing. I have eyes.” The mestizo pointed to them. “I saw what you did to her. And I don’t like it. Not one bit. You told me you loved her, but what did you do? Abused the fine lady of Campos de Palmas, that’s what!”

  Reece wasn’t comfortable explaining himself, especially about something so personal, yet Pepe had defended Alejandra and the two men were pals. Reece, furthermore, wouldn’t have anyone—friend or foe—thinking Alejandra had been sexually violated. “I didn’t have my way with her.”

  “Then how do you explain ripped clothes?”

  “I didn’t say I was completely innocent of wrongdoing,” Reece returned, shame-faced. “I did some things I’m not proud of. That I regret.”

  “You should say this to la doña, not to me.”

  “She and I are finished.”

  “You brought her nothing but sorrow.” Pepe sat down on the bed, bringing a knee to his chest. “It’s best that you’ve ceased your attentions.”

  Reece knew that to be true, but hearing it from a third party—now that was a peculiar feeling. It gave finality to the relationship. Finality he wasn’t prepared to accept despite his determination.

  Elbow on a knee, Reece dropped his head to rub his brow. “How was she, when she left here?”

  “Dressed in one of your shirts.”

  “I don’t mean that. How was she?”

  “Enlightened.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Enlightened.”

  Reece moved his arm and eyed Pepe. That was an odd look on his face. Really peculiar. “What did you say to her? Dammit, Pepe, tell me.”

  “I told her you loved her. And would not have harmed a hair on her head, if you had been thinking straight.”

  Reece breathed in relief. He parked his arm on the table beside him. It hit wrong. He looked to the right, saw the Holy Bible, and moved it aside.

  Holy Bible!

  He picked it up, turning to the frontispiece. His heart stopped. “What . . . what are you doing with an English-language version of the Bible?”

  Pepe eased off the bed to stand. Moving slowly to his employer, he took the Book from Reece’s hand, then set it aside. “I take it to heart.”

  The implications of Pepe reading and understanding English hit Reece with the force of grapeshot. “Jeezus H. Christ,” he muttered in his native tongue. “God damn.”

  “The Ten Commandments say that we are not to take the Lord’s name in vain,” Pepe said.

  In English.

  Reece got to his feet. “What in the name of hell is going on?”

  They stood as if they were two animals, bracing for attack. Reece sweated. Shoulders hunched and teeth bared, Pepe eyed him with malice.

  “Answer me, damn you, Zecatl!”

  “In the beginning I was prepared to hate you, but I came to respect your sorry bones. But no more. Not after seeing the trouble you inflicted on one of Mexico’s greatest and most beautiful flowers.”

  In a swift move, Pepe plowed his fist into Reece’s jaw. The blow puny, considering the bigger man’s size and physical strength, the Mexican used another weapon: truth.

  “I am the spy who spies on the spy. I work for Presidente Anastacio Bustamante.” Pepe straightened his shoulders. “Long ago I was sent to spy on you. And with the looseness of the American part of your tongue, Señor, I know all that troubles you. Like, for instance, the brother you wish to find. And should I mention, the alliance you have to the Tejano rebels who grabbed land from Mexico?”

  “Jeezus.”

  A curl to his lip, Pepe reached for a pistol. Gone was the servant’s mien, as well as any trace of an underling’s deference. “Perhaps you don’t remember me from the Battle of San Jacinto. May I introduce myself, Señor Montgomery? I am Capítan Guillermo Zecatl of the Mexican Army.”

  It might as well have been the cannonball from a sixteen-pounder, the blast of reality and consternation striking Reece. Pepe, an officer at San Jacinto? Why would that shock him? The mestizo had proved himself proud and determined, time and again.

  But to hell with San Jacinto—Reece had trusted Pepe, at least in the Spanish and Totonac languages, and what had he gained? Treachery. He had imperiled not only his search and assignment, but also his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Had Reece reneged on his promise to secure passage for Don Valentin to the French fleet?

  The elderly Yucatecan snoozing in the carriage, her driver at his post awaiting instructions, Alejandra paced the pier jutting into the river at the deserted village of Antón Lizardo. The sun faded. Stars began to twinkle over the waters. She shivered as night set in. Upon arrival this evening, she had been somewhat surprised at Reece’s absence. Of course, he hadn’t promised he would be here, not in so many words, but she had figured his anger should have cooled by now. Apparently that supposition was wrong.

  He had said he was through with her. She guessed those words had been truthful. Her chin trembled. Already she was lonely . . . again. So long she had taken his affection for granted, she’d become complacent. Hadn’t Erasmo warned her that complacency was folly?

  Oh, Reece. Ending their affair was best. Her denouncements had been spiteful, and his words and actions reprehensible, but why did it hurt so much, breaking away from an enemy of Mexico? But was he her enemy? Although Reece had faced down her countrymen at San Jacinto, could she fault him for his courage in fighting? He believed in something. And believing in anything should be admired.

  She heard a sound, rather like a scuffle from the waterfront, but she could see nothing. The noise ceased. The dock continued to be deserted, yet she shivered. Reece wouldn’t have suggested she place herself in a French enclave without meaning to protect her. But where was the boat? And Reece?

  Surely nothing had happened to him. Surely! But he had a spiteful servant in his midst. Her heart drummed. Although she didn’t think Pepe the dangerous sort, she shouldn’t have been so trusting. Why hadn’t she waited for Reece, and warned him away?

  And why would she want to?

  Her old frustrations returned as she glanced once more at the deserted dock. He had fought against the Mexicans at San Jacinto. He had lied to her, over and again. But what they had shared before last night had been special and wonderful, as right as an affair could be. He had awakened her to true womanhood, and she had been living life to the fullest. More than anything, though, he was a man of principles.

  Yes, he had fought against her people. But the dangers he had faced were to be admired. Even more admirable was his quest to liberate his brother. These qualities she had thought lacking in Reece. They had kept her heart chained.

  But was it too late for their relationship?

  Was it too late to save Reece
from the clutch of his enemy? If Pepe were to spread word to Santa Anna. . .

  She turned and started back down the malecón. Halfway to the steps leading to ground, she heard a splash in the river. She glanced to the right. A fish had jumped. The waters of Antón Lizardo regained calm.

  Then a board creaked. Was Reece here? She smiled, but her expression faded when she realized someone was creeping up on her. That person couldn’t be Reece. Bold as brass, he would have swaggered right to her.

  “What are you doing here?” asked a man in broken Spanish. “Speak up.”

  Her heart vaulted into her throat. “I—I’m looking for Señor Montgomery.”

  The figure advanced. The glint of a pistol reflected in the moonlight.

  Nearly stumbling, she retreated. But he was fast on his feet.

  He wore black clothes and a dark knitted cap. Near her now, he asked, “What business do you have with Montgomery?”

  That was a French accent to his Spanish, she assessed. And Antón Lizardo was in French hands. No doubt he was one of Baudin’s men. “He is my friend,” she explained in his language, nervousness rendering her accent atrocious.

  “He is not here.”

  “He must have been detained.”

  The Frenchman shoved the hard, cold pistol barrel under her chin. “What hoax are you up to, mademoiselle?”

  “N-no trick. M’sieur Montgomery was to arrange for a longboat to take Don Valentin Sandoval to the Néréide.”

  “I know of no such arrangements.” He cocked the pistol. “I have never killed a lady, but you have invaded our territory.”

  Panicked, she stepped back again. The Frenchman grabbed her wrist, but she jerked away. The gun went off. Thankfully it did not strike its mark. Valiant in the face of a spent firearm, she stooped and sidestepped him.

  Running down the pier, she did not look to the rear. The carriage was no more than a half block away. “Zenon,” she shouted to her driver as she tromped down the stairs, “help me!”

  He didn’t. He could not. She spied him, crumpled on the ground beside the horses. “Zenon!”

  The assailant tripped her, and she tumbled to the earth. She rolled over, hoping to gain footing, but his knee pushed down on her stomach, his fist poised to strike her face. His murdering fist.

  “Don’t. Please don’t. Are you not a friend of M’sieur Montgomery?” Her mind working fast, she added, “Are you not a friend of his cousin, the yeoman LaTouche?”

  The fist subsided. “What makes you think he has such a kinsman?”

  A modicum of fright receded. “He told me so. You see, I am Doña Alejandra Sierra of Campos de Palmas. I am a Federalist, a friend to your cause and his.” It hurt to say those words. It hurt more to admit publicly, even to an ememy: “M’sieur Montgomery is my paramour.”

  “Sacrebleu.” The molester pushed to his feet. He grabbed his cap and threw it to the ground. And repeated his curse before announcing, “I am Jacques LaTouche.”

  Now that she really looked at his face and blond hair, she noticed a slight family resemblance. “You are the one I called to, that morning at Casa Montgomery.”

  “Yes. I remember you.” Jacques shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

  “You gave no opportunity.” She brushed tangled hair from her face; her words were accusing. “Would it have stopped you from murdering my driver?”

  “He is not dead. Only stunned from my fist.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Then, anxiously, she asked, “What did you do with the old man in the carriage?”

  “Repeat yourself, s’il vous plaît. Your accent is difficult to understand.”

  She asked her question again, and Reece’s cousin said, “What old man?”

  “Thank God you did nothing to him.” She maneuvered to an upright position, to sit. “M’sieur LaTouche, are you certain you heard nothing from Reece about a boat for my companion?”

  “Very certain.”

  “Have you spoken with him in the last few hours?”

  This could answer more than one question, but her accent had been garbled again. Luckily, LaTouche didn’t seem to have a problem with it, for he answered, “Oui. And he said nothing about you.”

  So much for her concerns for his welfare. If she couldn’t depend on Reece, perhaps she could cajole his cousin. With her luck of late, though, she wasn’t too confident of success.

  “There must have been some lapse in communication,” she understated. “You see, it’s quite important that Don Valentin Sandoval—you’ve heard of this Federalist partisan, have you not?—reach the Néréide. He is old and cannot make an arduous carriage trip, so he needs to sail north. He must rendezvous with your allies in Tampico.”

  She hadn’t planned to accompany the Yucatecan to the flagship, but she realized something she should have realized all along. A sickly old man shouldn’t be allowed to launch for the French fleet without an escort she could trust. Such as herself. But if she did follow along, would she come face to face with her father? She must take her chances, and pray Pierre Toussaint would keep his distance.

  “Will you help us?” she asked LaTouche. “We must speak with Admiral Baudin,”

  It took a bit more coaxing, but Jacques LaTouche agreed.

  Charles Baudin was as agreeable as his yeoman had proven to be. The admiral assented to sailing Don Valentin to Tampico, and he ordered his men to escort the sickly octogenarian to the infirmary. “You may stay there until a supply ship can be readied,” he told the Yucatecan Federalist.

  Sitting in Admiral Baudin’s cabin aboard the French flagship, the admiral next to her in a similar chair, Alejandra couldn’t help but respect the one-armed admiral. He was courtly and helpful, capable and self-assured. Too bad he had wreaked havoc on Vera Cruz . . . and might again.

  Baudin leaned toward her. “Madame Sierra, you have not mentioned your father. Would you like to visit with him before you return ashore?”

  “No thank you.” Her heart went stony. “We said our goodbyes before he left Jalapa.”

  “A father never says goodbye to a daughter.”

  She didn’t wish to involve the admiral in the seamier side of the Toussaint woes. On her feet now, she curtsied. “Thank you for helping Don Valentin. I must say adieu.”

  “Au revoir, madame.”

  She was halfway down the darkened and eerily calm deck before fate turned against her. Pierre Toussaint stepped in front of her path.

  “Hello, ma petite garçonne.”

  “Papa.” She elevated her chin and stepped around him.

  Her escort to the ratline disappeared as well as every sailor in sight.

  “Have you washed your hands of me, little tomboy?”

  “Papa, you made the choices, not I,” she said over her shoulder. “You are through with all of us.”

  “Not true.” Light from a nearby porthole shone in his hazel eyes as he took her arm. “I love you.”

  His words shook her. When Papa sought the nurture of his countrymen, she had been heartbroken. She had concluded that he loved country over family, just as Miguel had done. What made me think that!

  But it was true. Wasn’t it funny, how a person could put fealty over relationships? She flushed, realizing that she was more like her father than she had ever imagined. Love of country had come before her feelings for Reece. Of course, that was a moot point at the present.

  “What is the matter, little one?” her father asked, lifting her chin. “Do you not want my love?”

  Melting, she wrapped her arms around his waist. Against his bony chest, she cried. His fingers combed into her hair to destroy her chignon, as they had done thousands of times.

  “Oh, Papa, why did you leave us?”

  “Let’s sit down, garçonne.” He guided her along the deck to a planked area that would serve as seats. As if she were a child, her father pulled her onto his lap. Again, his fingers brushed into her hair. “There are many things you don’t understand,” he said, h
is voice rife with emotion. “There are many things I don’t understand. You see, I love your Mamacita. Love her with all my heart. We have fought each other over every little thing, and we thrived on the battles, though you may find that hard to believe. But of late those arguments have taken a nasty turn over her disrespect for my heritage. I could stand it no longer when Anita . . . well, you don’t want to hear all those nasty things.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Pierre cleared his throat before continuing. “She turned me out of our bedchamber when I sent fresh water to my countrymen here with the fleet. Can you imagine denying anyone, even a foe, a drink of water?”

  It would take a cruel soul to parch anyone, but Alejandra didn’t wish to discuss the merits of mercy. “Now, Papa, she wouldn’t have barred the door forever. You know how she is.”

  “This time she was adamant.”

  “She’s been missing you.”

  Pierre grimaced. “I doubt it.”

  “She loves you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Alejandra rested her palm against her father’s cheek. “She does. She cries for you every day, every night. Her letters are so smeared I can barely read them.”

  “She never shed a tear for me.”

  “In the past she never cried for anyone.” Again Alejandra nestled against his shoulder. “But she’s crying now.”

  Her mother had been dry-eyed, that was no fabrication. Anita del Lago Toussaint used a biting tongue to show anger and hurt.

  Growing up for Alejandra had been miserable. The only break had been her years in England, in the quiet of school, where adults behaved in a civilized manner. Before and after her return from abroad, Alejandra had gone to bed a thousand times with her stomach knotted. Each time she had prayed for serenity between her parents. Perhaps that was what she had sought in marriage. Peace and quiet. Her parents needed the fervor and thrill of their squabbles, she knew in light of Papa’s disclosures. And Alejandra missed that same Reece-supplied excitement.

  Papa patted her head, then asked, “Do you think she’d take me back . . . if I were to return?”