Bride of Fortune

by Henke, Shirl

  “Then he is your weakness. Beware, for he will prove your undoing.”

  A chill danced up and down his spine as he stared at her. “Best you have your lap-dog priest start lighting candles for your way to whatever reward you think you'll find in the next world. In this world, once that damnable Indian assumes power, Mexico will no longer be under the sway of Holy Mother Church.”

  She crossed herself. “God will never permit it,” she said arrogantly, denying the unthinkable.

  He laughed again, harshly, bitterly. “Oh, he has permitted it, believe me. Why else do you think I've come back to this hellishly boring hideaway? The emperor is surrounded at Querétaro, fighting his last battle. The imperial cause is doomed and the church with it.”

  “At least you've lost your war, too,” she gritted out.

  “Not quite.” Now it was his turn to gloat. He placed his hands on the edge of the mattress, leaning down to meet her harsh glare head-on. “I've merely been biding my time here until the capital is left unguarded—and the imperial treasury along with it. General Marquez and I will loot it and sail for South America. Think of me when you gasp your last. I'll be living in sin with millions in Mexican silver to support my debauched lifestyle. How papa would have adored the Argentine ladies,” he added spitefully. “Too bad he didn't live to see that!”

  Sofia felt the impact of his words like an avalanche, careening down on her, crushing the life from her. He was telling the truth. Her homeland was lost. Her church would be destroyed. The proper social order was being overturned. Savages and riffraff were lording it over their betters. And Lucero, who cared for nothing but himself, would betray his class and his church. He would flourish when all else was destroyed just as he said Anselmo's other son would. “Damn you to the same hell in which Anselmo roasts—damn...you...d-damn...”

  Lucero stood up now, his arms crossed over his chest, impassively watching her eyelids flutter and her chest heave as she lost her battle to breathe. Soft choking gasps of ragged pain wheezed from her as she went into her death throes. He had waited a long time for this moment. Since his earliest childhood. Odd that when her head rolled lifelessly against the pillows he did not feel the satisfaction he had expected.

  He reached out for the bell pull and gave it a yank, then walked silently from her chambers.

  * * * *

  March 1867

  Just to prove he could do it, Nicholas walked across the room in the army hospital in Chihuahua City. At least he could stand up straight when he took a step now, a feat he had been unable to perform for the past two weeks. He had been limping, hunched over as a Zocolo beggar.

  “I see your recuperation is coming along nicely,” Dr. Ramirez said as he entered the austere hospital room. He was a quiet young physician with a thin serious face and expressive blue eyes, another criollo who had given his allegiance to the republican cause. He had also saved Nicholas’ life, digging Hernan Ruiz's slug out of his side. “After weeks of watching you hover between life and death, it's good to see some color back in your face.”

  “I should have color to spare. All you've let me do since I regained consciousness is eat and laze about the hospital courtyard. I only wish I could’ve sent my wife word that I'm still alive. She'll fear I've been killed.”

  “You almost were. If that bullet had hit an inch higher or to the left, you would be dead,” the doctor reminded him.

  “Well, it didn't and I'm ready to get out of here at last. My hacienda and Mercedes need me.”

  “I don't think that would be wise after all you've been through. It's a long treacherous ride from Chihuahua City into the Yaqui River country of Sonora.”

  “I've been shot before. I know my own limits and I can make it.”

  “I realize you've been through a great deal in this war—but as a soldier you must know how unstable conditions are. The republican armies control the state capitals here in the north but they have yet to regain Mexico City or to deal with Maximilian and the remnants of his army. Bands of contre-guerrillas are still on the loose and brigands are pillaging everywhere.”

  “All the more reason for me to get home as fast as I can ride.”

  “That's precisely my point,” the young physician said in exasperation. “You can't ride fast. Why, I'd expect you to last no more than three or four hours in the saddle before you passed out, fell off your horse and broke your neck.”

  Fortune shrugged. “I hate to appear an ingrate to the man who saved my life, but it is my neck, Doctor.”

  “You'll find he's a most stubborn man as well as a very poor patient,” Bart McQueen said from the doorway. He stepped into the room, eyeing the bare whitewashed walls and hard-packed earthen floor. Besides the simple rope bed, a pine chair and a washstand with a chipped water pitcher and glass on it, the room was utterly bare. “I can see how a fellow used to the niceties of Gran Sangre would want to return, but don't you think it's a bit premature?”

  Fortune's eyes narrowed on the bland-looking gringo who spoke such perfectly idiomatic Spanish anyone would have taken him for a Mexican. “My work for you is finished, McQueen. Hell, from what I've heard, the whole bloody mess should be over in a few weeks. How long can the emperor's forces hold out?”

  McQueen shrugged, nodding to the young doctor who excused himself to continue his hospital rounds. Once they were alone, the American pulled up a chair and motioned for Fortune to sit down as well, then began to speak in English. “Maximilian's defeat is only a matter of time now that the French are gone.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Do you know they blew up their ammunition dumps rather than trust giving them over to the imperials?”

  “Small wonder there. The reactionary Mexicans Maximilian has surrounded himself with aren't exactly reliable,” Nicholas replied dryly.

  “The imperial army is deserting him piecemeal since the siege began. Last week Marquez broke out and made a run for Mexico City.”

  Fortune's eyebrows lifted in cynical disgust. “To loot whatever's left before Juarez's General Díaz gets there?” he asked rhetorically. “Who's remained with the emperor?” He had a fleeting thought for Prince Salm-Salm and his plucky American wife.

  “Most of his court favorites have stayed with Maximilian. For all he's a bumbling fool as a politician—not to mention military leader—he does seem to inspire surprising devotion and loyalty in his subordinates...with a few notable exceptions.”

  “Leonardo Marquez being one. He's no surprise. The Tiger of Tacubaya would sell his own mother for the fun of watching the Juaristas tear her to pieces. Who else has come, willingly or unwillingly, into your net, McQueen?”

  Bart McQueen came as near as he ever did to spontaneous laughter. “How well you know me, Mr. Fortune. Actually, it isn't my net but the president's. His newest ‘recruit’ is an ambitious young colonel from a fine old criollo family, Miguel Lopez. Right now he's on the inside with Maximilian.”

  “And Escobedo's soldiers will soon follow?”

  McQueen nodded.

  “Then it's over,” Fortune said fervently. As a professional soldier, he had never before been so glad of impending peace.

  “All but the disposition of the royal personage. Everyone expects Juarez will put him on the first boat for Europe.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “No chance. You know how methodical el presidente's mind is—rather like the mills of the gods—it may grind slow but it grinds exceeding fine. He'll execute the Austrian.”

  McQueen's expression betrayed not a whit of surprise at Fortune's bald statement, although he knew shocked protests would pour out of Washington when news of the trial of an Austrian archduke was released. “No one should dare to execute a Hapsburg,” he said without a trace of regret.

  “Juarez will and you know it. Question is, if Washington tries to do anything about it, will you expect me to become embroiled in the mess? I've done my ‘duty’ for both governments. Now all I want is to go home.”

  McQueen measured Fortune for a moment, then said, “
The Johnson Administration will lodge official protests but do nothing else except a bit of public hand wringing for the benefit of the European monarchs.”

  Fortune smiled sardonically. “How better to teach them to stay on their side of the pond?”

  “You should’ve been in my business, Nicholas,” McQueen said with what almost sounded like genuine regret.

  “Speaking about those marked for criminal prosecution by the republic, have you heard any more about my brother? He seems to have vanished into thin air.”

  “As well he should. General Díaz has put quite a hefty price on the head of El Diablo. They'll run him to ground sooner or later—or more probably, he'll turn up from under some rock. Be careful on your return to Sonora. Being Lucero Alvarado isn't exactly a healthy identity right now.”

  “No one this far north knows about Luce. He did his raiding with Marquez in Díaz's bailiwick in the south. Much as I know he deserves it, I hate to see him shot. Perhaps he'll escape. He always did have the devil's own luck.”

  “Perhaps,” McQueen replied noncommittally.

  * * * *

  Mercedes watched through the kitchen window as Innocencia grabbed hold of Lucero's leg. He backed his great black stallion away, preparing to ride out of the big courtyard.

  “Hah! Foolish woman, to think that one would take her with him. He has always been fickle as the wind,” Angelina said scornfully. “He cares for no one, not even his own mother, God rest her soul.” She made the sign of the cross.

  “It seems like only yesterday we buried Doña Sofia,” Mercedes replied, realizing that another fortnight had slipped away since her mother-in-law's death. And still no word from Nicholas. At least now Lucero was leaving. She thanked God for that. If the two brothers were to meet on Gran Sangre, blood would be spilled, she felt it in her bones. And in wishing that her husband would die and his brother survive, she was guilty of yet another in a long list of mortal sins.

  All of the house servants knew by now that the man preparing to ride away outside was not the man who had returned home a year ago, the man who fathered her child, the man she loved. Even Rosario, in her innocence, intuited the truth. Yet no one condemned her as a fallen woman. She should be grateful, but since Nicholas had left her, nothing else really seemed to matter, only that he return to her safe and whole. I, too, would beg and abase myself as Innocencia is doing—but only for Nicholas.

  She recalled Lucero's farewell to her earlier in the day. Dressed for travel, an arsenal of weapons strapped to his body, he had come into the study where she was working on accounts. Startled, she had inspected him warily, reaching for the pistol concealed in her pocket.

  “No need for the gun,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender as he sauntered closer. “I just came to say goodbye.”

  There was a strange look in those predatory wolf’s eyes. Mercedes thought she saw a glimpse of regret, perhaps even wistfulness. For an instant he reminded her of Nicholas. Giving herself a mental shake for the absurdity of her fanciful imagination, she stood up and faced him, placing her hands unconsciously on her belly. “Where are you going?” Will you ever return to usurp Nicholas' position again?

  “You needn't look so fearful for your lover and his child,” he replied, reading her thoughts with chilling accuracy. “I'm leaving the country. After I relieve the emperor of some of his silver. Where he's going he won't have any use for it,” he added cynically.

  “I can scarcely wish you good luck then, considering your mission,” she said wryly, feeling an unexpected pang of regret. If only he could have been more like Nicholas—if only he could have been Nicholas, their lives would have gone so smoothly.

  “Always so dutiful and loyal, Mercedes,” he mocked, smiling.

  Her expression became grave. “Not really, else I wouldn't have fallen in love with your brother when I knew he wasn't my husband.”

  “What will you do when he returns?” he asked, curious in spite of his casual tone.

  “I...I don't know,” she said honestly. “You were right. We can't ever marry...even if...”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Even if I were so obliging as to die? Well, I hate to disappoint you, little bird, but I plan on living a very long time. If I know Nick, he'll keep you and the land in spite of the convent school guilt the nuns drummed into you.”

  “Perhaps. But that's for Nicholas and me to decide when he returns.” If he returns.

  “You know, it's a pity we didn't meet now instead of four years ago. I'd take you with me to Argentina, Mercedes.”

  “I wouldn't go. You'll never change. You'd soon tire of me just as you did then,” she said without rancor. It was simply over, as if there had never been a marriage at all. A surprising surge of relief washed over her. “It's best you do leave now. Good-bye, Lucero.”

  He had bowed mockingly and then turned to walk out of her life.

  Mercedes brought her attention back to Innocencia, who stood in the dust of the courtyard as Lucero's cruel words of parting rang in her ears. “Surely you didn't think I'd actually burden myself with you, did you, pet? I can buy your kind at every wayside pueblo between here and Durango. Once I reach Argentina, I'll have wealth enough to win all the women I want.”

  “I will not let you leave me, Lucero!” she threatened as he pried her grasping fingers free of his leg.

  “You cannot stop me, Cenci. Since my brother is immune to your charms, find another—perhaps even one foolish enough to wed you.” With that he kneed his big black stallion into a canter, leaving without a backward glance.

  She crumpled onto the ground sobbing, then looked after him as his figure vanished down the road. Her eyes were dry of tears now, narrowed into glittering black slits. She balled her hands into fists and pounded the hard unforgiving earth. “You will be sorry you did not take Cenci with you, Lucero. Very, very sorry.”

  * * * *

  Gregorio Sanchez was surprised to see Don Lucero's mistress enter the stable, swishing her hips seductively. “Not gone half an hour and already you look for a replacement,” he said scornfully.

  “Do not flatter yourself, Juarista peon,” she replied with disdain. “I've come to you on business. This far north have you heard of a contre-guerrilla raider called El Diablo?”

  “So?” Sanchez prodded, “Perhaps I have.”

  “Lucero Alvarado is the famous El Diablo who dressed in black. Still he rides his great black horse. The Juaristas in the south have placed a reward on his head. I will have it once you turn him in. He rides east on the road to Durango. From San Ramos you could contact the republican soldiers in Ocampo. I know you are one of them.”

  “Don Lucero is El Diablo? I do not believe it,” he scoffed. “You only tell the lie because he has spurned you.”

  “Have your Juarista friends wire Durango and tell them El Diablo rides the road to their city. They will recognize him when they see him.”

  BookmarkChapter 24

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Nicholas sat up gingerly, feeling the night chill from the earth that had seeped into his bones as he slept. Lord, but he ached. Dr. Ramirez had been right about the difficulty of the ride, but in a few more days he would be home with Mercedes. Wincing at the stiffness in his side, he rolled up and began to gather his gear together.

  He disliked making camp along the trail while riding alone. The north was officially pacified, but it was still dangerous territory filled with roaming bands of cutthroats as well as remnants of contre-guerrillas making their way toward the American border. This stretch of the road was barren with not so much as a peon's jacal left standing after the ravages of war. Sleeping in the open, concealed behind some junipers was his only option.

  He saddled the big black and carefully swung up on his back, then let the horse pick his way to the road. Just as he was going to turn onto the narrow twisting trail which cut across the mountains, he heard the unmistakable click of a rifle being cocked. A tall rider appeared from behind a copse of pines,
followed by half a dozen others, who quickly fanned out in a semicircle around him. The men were dressed in shabby uniforms of the Army of the Republic of Mexico, but their weapons were shiny U.S. Army Springfield rifles.

  “You are Don Lucero Alvarado?” the lieutenant asked.

  A prickle of unease danced along Nicholas’ nerve endings. He almost revealed his real identity, but hell, this was Chihuahua—word of the truth might reach Gran Sangre. Besides, the odds were better for a Mexican than an American, who would only be treated as an imperial mercenary.

  “Yes, I'm Alvarado,” he replied guardedly, “returning home to Sonora after fighting for President Juarez.”

  “We have witnesses in Durango who will identify which side you fight for, Don Lucero,” the lieutenant said coldly.

  “You think I'm the contre-guerrilla raider called El Diablo?” Fortune asked as warning bells sounded now that it was too late—if it had not already been too late from the moment they surrounded him.

  “You've admitted you're Alvarado. I have little doubt the witnesses in Durango will confirm that you are El Diablo.” Turning to his corporal, he signaled for the younger man to disarm the prisoner.

  “If you take me back to Chihuahua City, I have witnesses who will swear I'm a Juarista,” he countered as his guns and knives were efficiently stripped from his body and his hands bound to his saddle.

  The lieutenant allowed himself a broad grin now, revealing a mouth filled with rotted teeth. “Ah, but Don Lucero, we are going to Durango and it is in the opposite direction. Let's ride.”

  * * * *

  Mexico City was in turmoil. When Bazaine and the French garrison had departed back in February, people were restive but the upper class felt, as long as the emperor remained with his Austrian and Belgian troops to impose discipline on the Mexican army, that the situation was still viable. Then scant weeks later, Maximilian and his armies had also deserted the capital.