Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  Before flouncing from her room, though, she had second thoughts about leaving with an emotional gulf between herself and Reece. She hastened across her room, taking Reece’s ungiving hand. “I know it’s dangerous, his appearing here, but I have worried over him. I do want to see him.”

  Reece whipped around. He stomped to her four-poster and dropped onto the bedclothes. Propping himself on an elbow, he said, “He’ll bring nothing but trouble. Stay away from him, Jandra. Stay clear away.”

  Her comfortable position in Santa Anna’s inner circle a source of complacency, she scoffed at Reece’s warning. “Goodness, darling, I’ve nothing to fear.”

  His face darkened. “Are you forgetting something? You promised to let me decide which avenues to take.”

  “Reece, this doesn’t have anything to do with our pact. I’m heeding the call of a friend, that’s all.”

  Nostrils widening, he grimaced. “You take me too much for granted, Alejandra.”

  Returning to times of arguments wasn’t to her taste, even though she continued to be peeved over his latest deception. She had to stand her ground. Her forefinger trailed down his mustache as she leaned toward Reece. “I don’t take you for granted, Reece darling. All I want is a few minutes with an old friend.”

  He feinted away from her touch. Rolling to the bed’s opposite side, he pushed to stand. One hand straightened his uniform; the other, his hair. “Excuse me, but I’ve my own duties to see to. Maribel leaves tonight for Vera Cruz, and I have a message for her to pass along.” He paused for emphasis. His eyes grew stony. “What a relief it will be, having the company of such a respectful and obedient lady . . . for a change.”

  In the aftermath of their tussle on the way to the capital, Alejandra and Maribel had become friends, and she resented his attempt at trouble-making. “Please wish Maribel a safe journey for me,” she said, affecting nonchalance. “And do give her my best.”

  “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “No. I will not be bullied over such an inconsequence as meeting with ’Rasmo.”

  “Then let’s hope you can get yourself out of the trouble you’re courting.” Reece stomped to the balcony. “Because as far as I’m concerned, you’ve broken the terms of our agreement.”

  Alejandra started to follow him. Started to. Let him go, she told herself. His jealousy really shouldn’t be humored. Besides, she felt certain they could make amends.

  Twenty minutes later she stole out of the palace and across the palm-lined zócalo to the church situated at the northwest corner. It was a grand cathedral, resplendent in gold-leaf and statuary; candles lit the interior. She found Erasmo in the chapel. On his knees, his hands holding a rosary, he cried.

  Oh, how it saddened her to see her brave friend this way. She moved to touch him, but he must have seen her skirts, for he lifted his red-rimmed eyes. “What is wrong?” she asked, concern in her tone.

  “I am praying for strength not to commit a mortal sin.” He ducked his head. “I want to take my own life.”

  Panicked, she bent to comfort him. “You must not do that! Tell me, dear friend, what causes this heartache in you?”

  “Mercedes refused my hand in marriage.”

  Their affair had been star-crossed from the beginning, and Alejandra felt terrible for Erasmo. Her palm closed over his knuckles. “What happened?”

  “After Montgomery sent his allies to free me from jail, I . . .” His voice broke.

  Reece had had a hand in the rescue? Bless him!

  Erasmo was saying, “I went to Coatlpoala–you knew she was there, didn’t you? I meant to make her my wife, even if it took abducting her. But she was ensconced with an old priest for protection. She told me . . .” His barrel chest quaked. “She said I could never be part of her future.”

  “I’m sorry, ’Rasmo. So sorry.”

  “Sorry does me no good.” His pleading expression trained itself onto her face. “Amiga, help me. Intercede with your sister. Make her understand that we are destined for each other.”

  As much as she admired Erasmo de Guzman, Alejandra felt such a move unwise. And she hoped Mercedes wasn’t on her way to Mexico City, seeing how this suit wasn’t of her wanting.

  “ ’Rasmo, you must pull yourself together,” Alejandra said softly.

  “How can I? Do you know what she’s done? She’s taken her husband’s bastard as her own!”

  Alejandra had known her sister loved Joaquin’s child, but she was archly surprised and pleased at this latest development. But what about . . . ? “What about Josie? Surely Josie wouldn’t . . . How did all of this come about?”

  “Josie is dead.” Erasmo sighed. “They found her dead.”

  Shocked, Alejandra inhaled. “What happened to her?”

  “Some sort of sickness, they decided. But she was found at an ancient pagan ceremonial site, so who knows what happened?”

  “That poor woman,” Alejandra lamented. “That poor, poor woman. She never knew much happiness.”

  Erasmo nodded. “But she has the Holy Mother to look over her now. Bless her soul.”

  It warmed Alejandra to hear him say kind words about Josie. After all, he had been imprisoned by her false testimony. Erasmo was a wonderful person . . . and he had lost his chance at love.

  In emotional agony, he shook his head. “Alejandra, it was terrible, what Mercedes did to me.” Erasmo lumbered to his feet. “She claims she’ll rear him–alone! She doesn’t want my help.”

  Heart going out to the man, Alejandra bit her lip. She wept inwardly for her dear friend, yet pride at her sister’s decision was a more powerful emotion. She watched Erasmo’s fingers. The rosary broke in his tight clutch. He needed something to think about, something to hang on to, as he learned to live with his heartbreak. “ ’Rasmo, mi amigo, we must see to the betterment of our country. The cause of Federalism needs you.”

  She continued to speak, and ultimately he agreed. She trusted him when he promised to give up his sinful wish to destroy himself. But he would not return to Tampico. “Don Valentin is taking fine charge of everything there,” he said. He wouldn’t return to Veracruz, either; he was certain to see Mercedes in their home state. Thus, Erasmo intended to remain in Mexico City. Alejandra didn’t think it a good idea, but when he promised to stay out of sight, she didn’t fight him.

  Her fight, as it turned out, was with Reece. If one could call being ignored a fight. She couldn’t take satisfaction in telling him that he had been wrong in predicting trouble.

  He did not return to her room that night, and his presence was missing the next day. Santa Anna had no explanation, though. “There’s been some unrest in Oaxaca, so Montgomery asked to lead a squadron of my soldiers to put it down. He and his aide, the one called Pepe, left with my soldiers early this morning.”

  Alejandra regretted that they hadn’t made peace before he left, and she prayed Reece would be all right. She knew, absolutely knew, he’d use his time in that southern city well. He would comb the prison for Garth Colby.

  Two weeks passed, and still he hadn’t returned. Another week passed. She grew worried, then frantic. Had something happened to Reece? She shouldn’t have fretted. El Presidente received a communiqué that all was fine in Oaxaca. Forthwith, Colonel Montgomery would return to the palace.

  The next day Mercedes Navarro, Chico in her arms, arrived in the capital. It was both a joyous and somber reunion for the sisters, for Josie’s death had saddened Mercedes.

  When Alejandra told her sister, “ ’Rasmo is in Mexico City,” Mercedes’s mood turned to frustration. She was well and truly finished with the man. It took one more confrontation with Erasmo for him to accept it, a clash Mercedes described in detail to Alejandra the morning after it occurred.

  Her mind free of worry over Reece’s safety, Alejandra was swept with concern for the man who had long been her friend. Erasmo had offered support and friendship during those early, terrible days of her widowhood. And she owed her meeting Reece to him, too. If
Erasmo hadn’t gotten her involved in that harebrained scheme to turn Reece into a Federalist spy, she might never have become so close to her beloved Tejano.

  An ally for Erasmo surfaced in the form of Humberto del Lago: Mamacita’s brother. In the aftermath of Bustamante’s fall from grace, Tio Humberto had become disenchanted with the government. Alejandra, meeting with Tio Humberto at his Mexico City home, had prevailed upon him to hide Erasmo. Together, the men published Federalist broadsides condemning El Presidente and urging revolution.

  Mercedes Navarro turned her attention to Dr. Edward Moran. He grew fascinated with the widow Navarro, and asked Alejandra if she minded if he pursued her sister. Of course she didn’t mind.

  The next Saturday afternoon, a warm and glorious day with birds singing and musicians playing, the sisters sat on benches in the zócalo, watching the baby as he lay on a pallet and taunted Alejandra’s puppy. The dog, his tail wagging, rushed forward to growl playfully at Chico. The boy rolled to his back, laughed and grabbed a hank of curly white fur. Frisco didn’t object. Nor did he seem to mind when the black-haired lad tugged on his ear.

  Babies were such a joy. Alejandra wanted children of her own–wanted Reece’s children. Suddenly, she imagined herself in that wilderness known as Texas, in a modest home that Reece had built. The table was set. At least three blond boys, all spit and polish, sat for the dinner Alejandra had prepared. She chuckled to herself. Little boys were rarely spit and polish. And it would take several cooking lessons . . . Alejandra had always liked a challenge. But she must do something to reconcile with Reece for those dreams to come true. These four weeks had been pure torture.

  “Your thoughts must be far, far away,” Mercedes said, pulling Alejandra back to the zócalo.

  “True. I was dreaming about children.” Alejandra glanced at Chico. He slept, a watchful Frisco curled against his fat tummy. “He’s such a happy child.”

  “Sí. I hope he’ll stay that way.” Mercedes brushed her mantilla over her shoulder. “I will do my best to make him happy . . . as Josie would have done.” A half minute passed before she changed the subject. “Edward knows I may be barren.”

  “And how does he feel about it?”

  “He says I am lucky to have Chico . . . and that he would feel lucky to have such a boy as mine.”

  “You are fortunate, Mercie.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I believe so. And he is a wealthy man.”

  “Is that important to you?” Alejandra asked, fearing it might be so.

  “Only in that we are equals. I married one doctor who was out for riches and heirs, not for love. I won’t do it again. And I have no heart for political zealots such as Erasmo. I want to live a quiet life. In New York.”

  “Quiet life in New York? Perhaps you’ve forgotten the life in that city.” Alejandra laughed gently, then turned serious. “Mercie, has Edward asked for your hand?”

  “Not yet.” Mercedes pointed at the boy and dog. “Look at them. Aren’t they precious together?”

  Before Alejandra could agree, a man called to them. They turned their heads to Edward Moran, who was walking toward them. A radiant smile blossomed on Mercedes’s face.

  He bent to take Chico in his arms, which pleased Mercedes. “I would turn up my nose at him,” she whispered to her sister, “if he couldn’t accept the little one. Love me, love my child.”

  “Did you say something, Mercedes dearest?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” The widow Navarro got to her feet, and swept over to man and yawning babe. She put her hand on Edward’s arm. “I said to Dulce, ‘I’m going to marry that man.’ ”

  His mouth dropped open; his face flamed. After a moment, his face burst into a grin. “Wh-when?”

  “As soon as arrangements can be made.”

  “Uh, ah, well then, we must see to them.”

  Mercedes wrapped her arms around him as well as Chico. “Bueno.”

  Alejandra studied the happy couple. Perhaps their courtship had progressed much too fast, but she got the feeling their marriage would be a good one.

  Right then Frisco caught sight of something and gave chase. Alejandra called to him, but he didn’t obey. He ran across the zócalo, past the palms and musicians, making for a squad of uniformed riders approaching the presidential palace. At the head of the soldiers rode Colonel Reece Montgomery. Her heart skipped, a smile lighting her face. She rose from the park bench, then ran across the plaza.

  Laughing, he bent to take Frisco onto the saddle.

  “Reece!”

  He turned his head. . . and his smile faded.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “I see you haven’t stared down any firing-squad barrels. Yet. Alejandra.”

  The verdant plaza as backdrop, Reece, with Frisco in his arm and Rayo prancing in place beneath him, looked down at Alejandra. Damn she was beautiful, all dressed in mantilla and lace . . . and with her exotic hazel eyes gazing up at him. He wanted to sweep her into his arms, kiss her till she couldn’t see straight, and make love to her until the last half of the next century.

  All right here in Mexico City’s zócalo.

  But he was too exasperated for any of that, his time in Oaxaca not softening his annoyance one whit. He wanted her to care enough about herself not to put that comely self in the line of fire. Which she hadn’t.

  He might as well have wished for the gold at rainbow’s end.

  “Was your mission a success?” she asked.

  He knew what she meant: had he found Garth. “We put down the uprising,” was Reece’s terse reply. He gave her a nod, then nudged Rayo’s side with his heel. “Be with you later.” Over the clatter of horse hooves as he set the procession of soldiers once again in motion toward the palace’s stables, Alejandra’s “hut, Reece . . .” came to him. He didn’t glance back.

  But Frisco protested leaving his mistress. He barked and fidgeted, fidgeted and barked. Limpid eyes turning to Reece, Frisco growled. A half second later, he nipped the chin needing a shave.

  “Ouch, dammit!”

  “The dog, he wants his mamacita,” teased one of the troops.

  The soldiers had a good laugh, and Reece was glad Capitan Zecatl was behind the company, making a detour by Perote Prison for inquiry purposes. Pepe would have landed on that mamacita business to tease hell out of him. Nonetheless, the remark turned over in Reece’s head at least twice before he halted Rayo in front of the palace stables. Muzzle pointed down the path they had taken, Frisco yapped mournfully. By damn, the dog wasn’t alone in loneliness–Reece wanted Alejandra, too. To hell with aggravation.

  Pup tucked under his arm, he threw his leg over the stallion and jumped to the ground. He turned and dashed in the opposite direction. A slight breeze ruffling her mantilla, her haste swishing her skirts, Alejandra met him half way.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “for causing your ire.”

  Frisco, like a greased pig, slithered out of his arms to jump up against Alejandra’s skirts.

  “Move over, boy, el jefe is moving in.”

  Reece yanked her into a kiss that had him shivering from the top of his head to the tip of his boots. Somehow they made it upstairs without causing too much more of a spectacle.

  The only subject discussed beyond their relationship and healing it? Garth Colby. He was not in the Oaxacan prison. Reece expressed disappointment, but Alejandra had an absorbing method of easing it.

  It was the next afternoon before either appeared in public.

  They held hands upon leaving her room that Sunday to attend the weekly bullfights. His newly acquired carriage provided enough privacy for long, deep kisses. At the bullring, however, they were models of decorum . . . if other people weren’t looking too closely, that was, since Reece’s leg insinuated itself scandalously close to hers. And his hand just happened to drop to her thigh a couple of times.

  Reece was barely aware of the matador and toro. Nor did he pay heed to the trumpet fanfare, to the enthusiastic crowd and their “¡Olés!,�
�� or to the tossing of roses. He gave as little regard as could be judged courteous to El Presidente, who sat in front of them in the presidential box. And Reece answered as few questions as possible from the attendees to the left of Alejandra, Mercedes, and her new fiance.

  Reece’s eyes were on his darling.

  He laced his fingers with hers, then brought her hand to his lips. Weakened by love and those long days of absence, he was on the verge of whispering, “Marry me,” when Antonio turned around. Reece was glad for the interruption. He was in no position to ask for her hand, not yet.

  Antonio spoke. “Since both of you have been–shall we say?–indisposed for the last twenty-four hours, you haven’t heard the news. Admiral Baudin has conceded in peace negotiations. The treaty has been signed and sealed by all parties. I granted General Guadalupe Victoria the authority to act thus, you know.”

  Mercedes picked up her fan to cool her face. “I was told the Federalist press coerced you–Ouch!”

  “We’re all pleased at the peace treaty, Your Excellency,” Alejandra scooted her foot back from thumping her sister’s ankle. She smiled and brushed her mantilla over her shoulder. “You are to be commended for your valor and grace in accepting the agreement.”

  “Gracias.” Antonio nodded benevolently. “And you’ll be pleased to know, my dear Alejandra, that Admiral Baudin has accepted a portion of his monetary demands. The French fleet sails from Vera Cruz forthwith.”

  Everyone in range of his voice gave shouts of glee, except for Reece Montgomery. Skeptically, he asked, “Accepted a portion of his monetary demands? What does that mean?”

  “Are you deaf or something, Cazador?” El Presidente’s affected benevolence turned to a display of overdone disbelief. “It means the Froggies and their prince have admitted I defeated them and, taking the scraps thrown to them, they are withdrawing like the whipped dogs they are.”

  “I see.”

  But Reece didn’t see at all. Knowing Charles Baudin and the little prince, he figured Antonio’s wasn’t the whole story. Later that evening, after siesta, Mirabel Velasquez returned to the palace from her trip to Vera Cruz, where she had given over Reece’s packet to a French courier for transport to Texas. She met Reece and Alejandra beneath a tree in the almost deserted zócalo, and relayed a true update on the Pastry War.