Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Reece was determined to get Antonio’s signature on papers authorizing him to enter Mexico’s prisons. On the same night that he returned to Manga de Clavo, just hours after finding Alejandra at the place she had vowed never to visit, Reece entered the bedchamber where the newly drafted President of Mexico lay white-faced in bed.

  The room contained the finest European furnishings and had a splendid view from its floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the patio on one side and the sprawling estate on the other. A gold candelabra lit the interior, and gave emphasis to the oversized portrait of a dashing general in the Mexican Army—Antonio, of course.

  “Are you here simply to gaze about my quarters?” Antonio snapped.

  Reece turned to see El Presidente chug the contents of a half-filled bottle of laudanum. “I was just admiring your portrait,” he said, knowing a foul mood could be dispelled with flattery. “It’s quite commanding.”

  “It is nice, isn’t it?” Antonio’s face went from waxy to a catalog of egotism. “I shall have many more commissioned when I reach the capital. They shall hang in the grandest of public buildings so that the people may gaze upon my visage. It wasn’t the people, you know, who cast me out. It was Bustamante and his faction. The people never quit loving me, and the proof is in their demands that I be returned to my office of destiny.”

  “Of course.” The unsigned decree nestled against his chest, Reece walked to a sideboard and poured himself a shot of whiskey. Swirling the liquor, he said, “In view of my absence of the past few days, I wasn’t able to extend my congratulations on your recent triumph. It pleases me, knowing you are once again in power.”

  “Your felicitations were a foregone conclusion on my part, Cazador. What would I have done without you and your support as I walked through my Garden of Gethsemane?”

  Antonio had erred in his actions in Texas, there was no getting around it, but conscience tugged at Reece. He almost wished he were the true friend Antonio trusted him to be.

  “Cazador, mi amigo, is something troubling you?”

  “There is.” Reece downed his drink. Setting the glass aside, he walked toward the crippled man’s bed. “You know I seek the knave Garth Colby. I have been to Perote, but the warden denied my entrance. Said he didn’t answer to a general,” Reece added, bluffing. “But you are now President, and he should be forced to respect you as well as your representatives. I would appreciate . . .” He reached into his shirt and withdrew the document. “. . . your signature.”

  “It means that much to you, finding the cardsharp?”

  “It does. He dishonored me in New Orleans.”

  “I will not have you troubled, not when I need your guidance so greatly.” Clumsily, Antonio maneuvered to the side. “Fetch my quill.”

  It was all Reece could do not to laugh with triumph. As soon as the ink was blotted, he took the paper back into his hand. “I’d like your leave to return to Perote.”

  “That I can’t grant. Not right now. You’ll have time enough for retribution once I am firmly established in my office.” Antonio paused. “And as I said, I need you with me at present. Word reached me during your truancy. Her Majesty Victoria’s warships are on their way to Vera Cruz.”

  “With what intentions?” Reece asked, frustrated again at another barrier in his search for his brother.

  “It’s not certain whose side they will take in our ongoing yet becalmed Pastry War. It could be ours . . . it could be with the French.”

  “How did you come by this information?”

  “General Velasquez got word. It seems a Federalist was captured in Tampico. An hombre by the name of de Guzman. He was, shall we say, influenced out of the information.”

  Reece stomped over to the estate-side window. Yet he wasn’t perusing the darkened scenery. He regretted that Alejandra’s friend had suffered, but Reece’s worries were of a grander scope. If England sided with the Mexicans, which was doubtful but not impossible, it could cause problems for the Republic of Texas. His country needed to gain strength before El Presidente, buffeted with foreign aid, got any more ideas about invading Mexico’s former territory to the north.

  Further, he had better get word to the President of Texas about this latest development. And fast.

  But Antonio hadn’t had his final say. “Something has been bothering me, amigo. Today, in the patio, you didn’t seem happy to see Doña Alejandra. And she had a rather strange attitude when I mentioned your name. Of course, Ines tells me that talk has spread about the two of you. Perhaps our Alejandra is unsettled over it.” He paused, and receiving no reply, he asked, “Have you had a falling out?”

  Reece’s brow wrinkled into a frown. “We have.”

  “Then I shall allow her to accompany us to the capital. That will give you a chance to make peace.”

  “Please don’t grant me any favors along that line. She and I are finished.” Failed romance wasn’t his sole motivation for this request. Reece would be damned before he’d do anything to promote Alejandra’s trouble-making. “Send her home to Campos de Palmas.”

  “Now, Cazador, I believe that is the last thing she seeks.”

  The Mexicano had never been more right about that, but Reece would not be swayed. “Antonio, promise me you’ll send her home.”

  “I shall do what will make you happy.”

  Balmed with Antonio’s promise and pleased over acquiring that much needed signature, Reece took his leave. He waited for the house to settle in for the night, then he saddled his palomino stallion and headed for Antón Lizardo. His cousin LaTouche was there. Reece handed him a packet of information to be taken to Galveston before demanding that the French send someone to Tampico. “To rescue a mestizo named Erasmo de Guzman.”

  He put his foot into the stirrup, waved to his cousin, then, like the wind, he and Rayo rushed for Manga de Clavo. They arrived three hours before dawn.

  At dawn that morning, a beautiful February morning in this year of 1839 Reece helped Antonio down the stairs. Today they would leave for Mexico City.

  Part of the plan for Antonio López de Santa Anna’s grand sweep to Mexico City had been to pass through the village of Perote. Reece was set on showing the warden that he indeed had the authority to inspect the prison, but Antonio decided to travel the low road, through Corboda and Orizaba, instead.

  El Presidente insisted on riding to Mexico City in an open litter and having Reece within arm’s reach. “I am the nation and the nation is I, so I want my people to see me and my most trusted adviser,” was his explanation.

  The train stretching over a mile, a full retinue left with the wagons: grand tents and large stores of food and materiel; clothing and furniture; horses and mules; dogs and cats; chickens and goats; musicians and minions; women and children; soldiers and officers. So much stuff and people in getting one man to the presidential palace that Reece rolled his eyes. He was chagrined, anyway, for more reasons than he could enumerate beyond his frustrations.

  Most of all, it ragged him that Alejandra was with the party.

  Antonio had granted her wish. When Reece called him on his broken promise, the Mexicano explained, “I said I would do what will make you happy. And you’ll be happy, once you reconcile with your woman.” Reconciliation, Reece refused to consider.

  He kept his distance from her, both before and after the entourage departed. For days the formation traveled inland from the coastal tropics to climb high into the Sierra Oriental mountain range. Along the way, thousands of peasants and gachupíns alike lined the road to offer tributes of flowers, food, and drink to the Pastry War’s maimed hero, El Presidente.

  Each night the entourage camped, but little rest was had. Lackeys pitched grand marquees, built campfires, then prepared feasts and fiestas carrying on until the wee hours. Twelve days into the journey the usual arrangements were made for the evening. The company was two days beyond Puebla, on a plateau in the high altitudes. The air was dry and cool, but not uncomfortably so. A
fter dinner, musicians began to play. A fandango resulted.

  Reece did his best to ignore Alejandra by walking away from the dance. He hadn’t said a word to her this entire trip, but she had been harder to disregard than the scandalmongering about the two of them. Moreover, he worried about her. To this point, a great deal of his time had been spent making excuses to El Presidente for her Antonio-quizzing. The woman was just so damned obvious. It was a wonder Antonio hadn’t figured her out.

  Reece stopped walking alongside a stream. He gazed into the moonlight-limned water. All he could think about was Alejandra. He needed to do something—anything! Maybe he’d just go to bed. His path took him by the fandango. Torches lit the area where dancers whirled to the music of a trio of guitars. Laughter pealed. A certain laugh sounded all too familiar. Reece turned his head . . . and it was Alejandra laughing.

  Her long hair hung down her back and swung to the rhythm of guitars and her clapping hands. Obviously she was enjoying herself. Don’t think about her, Montgomery. Just forget her.

  “Cazador,” yelled El Presidente, “come join us!”

  Reece made for the campfire circle, then sat on his booted heels: Across the fire, a pair of crutches and a wheelchair nearby, Antonio sat propped in a chair while he smiled and warbled along with the music. A young girl, probably no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, sat on the ground next to him. His latest love interest.

  The second of the journey.

  Reece scowled and turned from the fire, making his way to an encina tree. He leaned against the trunk. Yet he couldn’t shake the image of that middle-aged, married Don Juan and his child-woman.

  Despite Antonio’s infirmity and the extended journey, he found strength for his libido. His choice of females was disgustingly young. Grudgingly, Reece admired many things about El Presidente. The loyalty he’d shown him, for one. Further, he was a military genius unparalleled in this hemisphere for making war with a minimum of equipment and a maximum of untrained troops, and he could turn most any situation to his favor. But his base desires were just that. Base.

  In all the years of their acquaintance, Reece had never known him to make good on pedophiliac gossip. Here lately, Antonio had lived up to it. That, teamed with other things Reece had learned since leaving Manga de Clavo, caused dislike to germinate again.

  Maybe Alejandra had had the right idea: kill him before he brought more harm on any individual.

  Alejandra. A tight feeling grabbed his midsection as he spied her dancing with that ass of a physician from New York, Edward Moran. Damn her. As for himself, he hadn’t gone near another woman, for none other could hold his interest. Obviously Alejandra’s interest was easily diverted.

  “You don’t want her. And you don’t want anyone else to have her.” Pepe approached and held out a bottle of pulque. “Take a drink, my friend. It will make you feel better.”

  Reece reached for the milky-colored spirits made from cactus juice. The stuff tasted like hell, but he took a swallow nonetheless. Maybe it would take the edge off aggravation.

  Pepe squatted on the ground. “Are you going to be angry with your woman forever?”

  “You’re beating a dead horse.”

  A forefinger at his lip, Pepe glanced at the dancers. “Wouldn’t it be a shame if she were to take up with that burro Moran on a full-time basis?”

  Passions—anger, hurt, indignation—roiled through Reece. “If he’s what she wants, who am I to break their step?”

  “Who are you? Oh, I don’t know. I’d say you’re a man in love watching his woman be wooed by another.”

  “Dammit, I don’t need the bother of her.”

  “Brave talk, amigo, brave talk. Everyone in this camp knows about the two of you. You are sitting on a powder keg. When is it going to explode?”

  “You’ll never hear so much as a fizzle.”

  “Uh-huh.” Pepe stretched a leg in front of him. “Look at them, dancing as if they were made for each other. If you tell me you’re not jealous, you will be lying.”

  Damn Pepe for calling attention to Alejandra and her new flame. He’d had a difficult enough time as it was. “Yeah, I’m jealous. I could break the two of them in half,” Reece admitted honestly. He turned on his heel, making for his tent.

  One could define Edward Moran as a decent man, if a person devoted to El Presidente could be admired. And Edward was devoted. All that aside, Alejandra respected his devotion to medicine. And she liked the New Yorker as a person. At first, at Santa Anna’s estate, she had thought him dour and curt. He had been. But his concern was for his patient, and thus occupied, Edward could be quite single-minded.

  Away from Santa Anna, he could be single-minded, too. His focus had turned to Alejandra Sierra. She viewed him as a companion, and he hadn’t indicated he wanted more, but loneliness was obvious with the American. He worried over her as a hen fretted over a nest of eggs.

  “Alejandra, dear,” he said, pulling her away from the dancers, “I get an odd feeling about you. It’s as if you have something devilish on your mind. Tell me—ease my mind—that you aren’t still attracted to Colonel Montgomery.”

  Reece, she wouldn’t discuss. “Deviltry? Oh no. No more so than any Mexicana. We are a tempestuous bunch.”

  “And the world’s loveliest.”

  She laughed. “Words like that will make me think you came to Mexico to court the ladies rather than to see your silver-mining interests. And wasn’t His Excellency fortunate that you chose this season for the trip?”

  Edward braced his arm on a tree branch. “Excuse me for immodesty, but, yes, he was fortunate. And I was honored to help such an illustrious leader.”

  “I should imagine he’ll want you for his permanent physician, once he reaches the capital.”

  Glancing to El Presidente, Edward grimaced. “I shall be glad when he is healthy enough to relinquish my services.”

  “Pray, why?” Alejandra asked, amazed that Edward wasn’t as devoted as she had figured.

  “My world is in the United States. But, even if it weren’t, I don’t condone his behavior with that little girl.”

  Neither did Alejandra. “That is Santa Anna’s way.” She wanted to add a scathing denunciation, but keeping mum about her sympathies was the best course, even with this doctor who didn’t like his patient. “What will you do when you leave?”

  “It’s back home for me.” He smiled. “I do love the civility of New York.”

  Civility of home. Wasn’t that a wondrous concept? Her home country, unfortunately, offered no such allure. She loved Mexico with all her heart, but wouldn’t it be nice . . .

  “Have you visited outside of Mexico?” Edward asked.

  “Many times. New York is a fascinating city, and there’s no need expounding on the charms of London and Paris.” But what was it like in Reece’s Tejas? Give yourself mercy, Alejandra. She took Edward’s hand and smiled. “Just listen to that music. Let’s dance!” She led him back into the fire-lit dancing arena. He whirled her into his arms and around the earthen floor. No one could fault Edward’s dancing skills, yet. . . he lacked the smoothness and grace of a certain Anglo mercenary wearing the braid and epaulets of colonel in Santa Anna’s army.

  A colonel who was at this moment gamboling with the horse-faced daughter of General Cruz Velasquez. Alejandra saw red. Then green.

  “What’s the matter?” Edward inquired tenderly. He glanced in the same direction as Alejandra; his tone changed. “Oh, him. He is a rogue and a rake. Consider what he’s done to you already. It pains me, all the loose talk in our camp.”

  No reply was forthcoming. Foregoing the propriety that Edward had mentioned, and that she had once held dear, Alejandra was out of his clutch and making her way through the dancers. She wanted Reece. Wanted him and needed him. And she would not allow another woman to have the man she adored!

  Her shawl falling to the ground, she cut in front of Maribel Velasquez. “Excuse me, señorita, but this is my dance.”

 
Maribel, shocked and open-mouthed, stepped back.

  Alejandra snaked her arm around Reece’s waist. He felt warm despite the evening chill. And he smelled like bay rum and virile male. Just from touching him, a rush of excitement went through Alejandra.

  “You are mine, querido, and I am yours,” she said, barely noticing the attention from the crowd. “We have denied each other long enough.”

  His mouth eased into a smile. A tight smile. “Lovely display, Alejandra. But you’d better watch your back. Right now!”

  He jerked her to the side, just as Maribel, a dagger in her hand, lunged forward. Alejandra cried out in surprise. The general’s daughter fell to the ground, having stumbled over Reece’s big feet. Reece grabbed Alejandra and hauled her away. Or tried to. Maribel jumped to stand, her fingers grabbing Alejandra’s skirts.

  “You will not make a fool of me, puta!” she roared, her teeth flashing.

  She attacked again, this time her knife catching on the sleeve of Reece’s uniform. Blood stained the material. My God, what have I started? Alejandra wailed inwardly. Her fingers moved to cover the trickle of blood. The blade tip sliced across her forearm. Pain stung her arm. She covered the wound appearing to be minor.

  “Stop this!” Santa Anna roared, hobbling on crutches to the melee. “I order you, Maribel Velasquez, to quit.”

  Maribel lowered her arm as well as her head.

  “What is the matter with you, young woman?” Santa Anna lifted a crutch to point at her. He teetered, almost falling before a minion grabbed his elbow to right him.

  “She insulted me,” Maribel came back meekly, her hair falling across her lowered face.

  “What else did you expect? Everyone in this camp knows Doña Alejandra is Colonel Montgomery’s woman, even if she has consorted with my physician. Why do you think I invited her to the capital?”