Bride of Fortune

by Henke, Shirl

  Gran Sangre is our child's birthright. And you won't live to see our child born!

  She leaned forward, shoving the hamper to the side and took his face between her hands, pulling him to her for a kiss, leaning into his body, embracing him. One last time, love me one last time, my beloved.

  Nicholas knew what she wanted, what he wanted so desperately himself, but he could not do it. Gently he held her shoulders and withdrew from the impassioned kiss with soft nips and brushes to her cheeks, nose and brow. “No, querida. Not here in this filthy place. There are rats and the guard could walk in on us. I have no way to protect you here. It's best if you go now before he or one of the other soldiers gets any ideas.”

  She felt the firm pressure of his hands holding her and intuited what it was costing him to break away from her as he had. “After you were gone, all I thought about was that you might die for your President Juarez, and I had let us part in anger. I realized then that I didn't give a damn for politics—or religion—for anything but having you come back to me. How can I lose you now?”

  “You have this,” he said softly, placing his hand on the swell of her belly. “Tell our child about me when the time is right, and tell Rosario that her ‘real papa’ loved her very much.”

  She nodded through her tears. “Of course.”

  “There is one more thing you must promise me, my love.”

  There was a warning in his voice. Her eyes flashed warily to his. “What is it?”

  “I don't want you at the execution tomorrow. Ride for Gran Sangre at first light.”

  “No! How can you ask it? How can I leave you to die alone in this awful place? Perhaps they've found McQueen. He might—”

  “No, Mercedes, he isn't coming. I suspect he's already left the country. It's too late for me, but I can bear it—if I know you and our children are safe. The soldiers and the others in court will be in that crowd. There's no telling what they might do to you—how they might turn on you—after I'm dead.”

  “No!” She placed her hands over her face, trying to blot out the horrible images.

  “I've seen it before. If anything were to happen to you...then my life has truly become meaningless. Live for me and remember me as I am now, not as a lifeless corpse lying in the dirt. Please, promise me, so that I can die like a man.” His voice shook slightly with desperation.

  She lowered her head, shuddering, gasping for breath. “I...I will send Hilario to bring you home to Gran Sangre.”

  “Thank you. I would like to rest there where my life truly began.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Nicholas was awakened by the sound of shots and yelling outside in the compound yard. “What the hell is going on?” He looked out the window, which revealed only a small slit of sky with bright moonlight streaming in. Too early for his execution. What was the shooting about? Thinking it was probably a drunken celebration among the garrison soldiers, he lay back down, awake now, staring at the thick sooty cobwebs clustered around the dim outline of the rafters.

  Just what a man needed, time to contemplate his imminent death, he thought wryly. Saying good-bye to Mercedes had been so taxing emotionally that he had fallen quickly into a fitful slumber at first dark, but now he knew he would not be able to return to sleep. Regrets for his life? There were many, but this past year with Mercedes and Rosario had made them pale. And he hoped in part that his work as patrón of Gran Sangre had made up somewhat for the sins of Nicholas Fortune.

  He laughed at the irony of it. Nicholas Fortune, mercenary killer, had taken on respectability to redeem himself and claim a fine old family name. Now he was dying because he had become Don Lucero. And the real Luce had done things far beyond Nick's blackest sins.

  “At least I'll be buried at Gran Sangre, near my family.” He had never given any thought to leaving children behind to carry on his name when he was gone, but then he had possessed no name to bequeath them. Now he did, and in Sonora, far from where El Diablo rode, the children of Lucero Alvarado would grow up to be respected hacendados. Rosario would make a fine marriage...and the babe? If it was a boy, he would be the next patrón. The Alvarado line would continue. He took solace in that thought.

  The sound of the outer cell door clanking open interrupted his reverie. Something was going on. He rolled off the pallet and flattened himself against the wall as his instincts sent warning bells clamoring in his head.

  His cell door swung open with a loud crash and a harsh voice yelled, “Nick, where the hell are you? I've been to every cell in this row and nearly broke my neck in the damnable dark!”

  “Luce!” Nicholas glided out of the corner and looked at his brother, who did indeed look like Satan incarnate, silhouetted in the narrow shaft of moonlight, clad all in black with his Alvarado wolf’s eyes glowing like coals from the floor of Hell itself. “What in the name of God are you doing here?”

  “What does it look like? Come quickly. I've wasted too much time already searching for you. Here—” He shoved a loaded Army Colt in Fortune's hand as he turned back to the cell door.

  In moments they had threaded their way through the stygian darkness of the deserted cell block where Nicholas had been confined and raced up a flight of stairs. Dim torchlight now illuminated their path as they ran toward freedom.

  Along the way they encountered several guards, disposed of in an inventive variety of ways. “Messy but effective,” Luce said as they stepped over one corpse whose skull had been fractured by an enormous water crock sitting near his chair. They crunched across the broken shards of pottery and out into the compound yard where a rotund Mexican vaquero waited.

  “Jorge, over here,” Luce whispered as the two brothers hid in the shadows of a copse of yucca. From downstairs the sounds of an alarm being raised added to the confusion already rampant outside the gate where Alvarado's men had created the original diversion that had allowed Jorge and Luce to slip inside.

  “How the hell are we going to get past the outer gate—or have you forgotten that little detail?” Nick asked tersely as the blood began to pound in his veins. He might yet live to see his child's birth!

  A mocking smile twisted Luce's lips. “I have a small diversion planned. Jorge has gone to give the signal now that I have you free of that infernal rat's maze below.”

  “Rat's maze is the right term,” Nick said, remembering the rodents he had fought off nightly since his incarceration.

  “Schmidt and Lanfranc have planted enough dynamite to blow off the side of Chapultepec Hill. That should buy us time enough to slip past the front gate.”

  They waited, crouched in the shadows as officers barked orders and soldiers responded. The crunch of gravel echoed as men ran double-time across the courtyard and into the bowels of the stone monolith. Two armed guards passed so close to their hiding place that they could smell the cigarette smoke clinging to their uniforms.

  “Where the hell is that blast?” Luce snarled with an oath.

  Several more moments passed with more pandemonium all around them. “It's only a matter of time until they find us here. We have to make a move. When they brought me in, I didn't get to see much of this sty. You know the layout any better?” Nick asked.

  “There's a narrow gate near the back we thought of trying—used to let in vendors. But I thought it was too much of a bottleneck.”

  “Schmidt and Lanfranc never did have much use for me,” Fortune said grimly. “I don't think that blast is going to go off, brother.”

  Luce knew in his gut that his Nick was right. Just as he was about to agree, Jorge burst into the courtyard yelling, “Jefe! They have gone and taken the horses!”

  A volley of shots rang out and the portly warrior pitched forward and lay still, a dark shapeless mass in the dim moonlight. A dozen soldiers entered the courtyard in pursuit, overrunning Jorge's body as they dispersed around the perimeter.

  “Let's find that gate!” Luce stood up and started to sprint around the open area, using the shrubs and shadows cast by the arc
hed portico columns for cover. Nick was right behind him.

  They made it the length of the compound before an alert guard saw the movement and gave the alarm. Luce shot him without breaking stride. They rounded the corner, coming in sight of the gate.

  Nick sprinted ahead and flattened himself against the wall, covering Luce. They dashed for the narrow grill work. “We'll have to shoot the damn chain off of it,” Luce whispered as they rounded the corner.

  "I do not believe that will be possible," Commandant Morales said sharply as a dozen soldiers with their rifles fixed on the escapees stepped out from behind the portico wall and surrounded them." I would suggest you drop your weapons and raise your hands at once or they'll open fire," he purred, moving behind the wall of men who had formed a semicircle that cut off all hope of escape.

  Luce swore with vile creativity as he threw down his pistol. Nick tossed his atop his brother's in silence. So much for the foolish dream of resuming his new life.

  It was over. They were escorted back to the hellish cell from which Fortune had so briefly escaped. This time the way was lighted by two armed soldiers carrying torches.

  Once they were inside the cell, Morales preened in satisfaction, walking around the prisoners, inspecting the much taller men like a small bantam rooster strutting in front of two fighting cocks. He stroked his jaw as his sharp dark eyes studied them intently. His gaze moved back and forth between the two men, observing each virtually identical feature. “The two faces of Janus. Incredible. So, your woman told the truth—at least about the fact that there were two of you. I wonder, does she belong to both of you? Tell me, do you share her?”

  Nicholas lunged for the commandant and was met with a rifle butt smashing into his solar plexus. He doubled over as Morales continued speaking. “I think she would’ve offered herself to me to save you if she hadn't been great with your child,” he said speculatively, looking at Fortune. “From that outburst of temper, I assume she is your woman—but is she your wife?” he added, turning to Lucero. “Did she tell the truth about one of you being a Juarista? And if so”—he paced back and forth in front of them, looking at the ground, then raised his head and stared at Lucero—“which one is it? You? Or...” His gaze shifted to Nicholas. “You? How shall I ever be certain that I've executed the right man?”

  “You could always shoot both of us,” Fortune rasped sarcastically. The bastard was just playing with them. After their aborted escape attempt and the guards Luce had killed, there was no way he would let either of them live.

  Morales' thin face split in a beatific grin. “A capital idea.” He chuckled at his own pun, then strode out of the cell, signaling the guards to follow him. “Best get what rest you can. Dawn will arrive all too soon.”

  As the soldiers' footsteps echoed down the corridor, Luce turned to Nick. “Execute both of us?” A sardonic grin split his face. “Hermano, you really are an Alvarado!”

  “A dead Alvarado and now, unfortunately, you'll be joining me. I'm sorry your gambit didn't work, Luce.”

  Alvarado chuckled fatalistically. “Not half as sorry as I. Ironic that they're killing one of their own.” As they sat on the hard-packed dirt floor, leaning against the clammy stone wall, he studied Nick. “Why did you switch sides? I was amazed when Cenci told me about it.”

  Laughing at the irony of it, Nick replied lightly, “Fortunes of war.” Then he squinted in the darkness, pondering for a moment. “I guess I always did have a sneaky admiration for the way they fought. Hell, they had a cause they really believed in. For damn sure, I’d never had before.”

  Luce shrugged. “I still don't.”

  “Why did you come in after me?” Nick asked, wishing he could make out more of his brother's face in the darkness. “You could’ve gone home to Gran Sangre in my place again. El Diablo would’ve been dead. You'd be free and clear as long as you stayed in Sonora.”

  “Free? Free to do what—rusticate on the land, work until my hands were callused and my back bent? No, my brother, that life isn't for me.”

  “You still didn't have to risk your neck to free me,” Fortune prodded.

  Now Luce's white smile gleamed in the dim moonlight. “Don't ascribe your newly acquired nobility to me. You have contacts up north. You could get me over the border, help me find another convenient little war somewhere—killing Apaches for the mine owners in New Mexico, whatever.” He shrugged, dismissing the topic, which obviously made him uncomfortable.

  But Nick couldn't seem to let it alone. After a moment or two of silence, he said, “Maybe you did it for Rosario and Mercedes and the baby.”

  “Maybe not,” was the succinct reply. “I'm a selfish son of a bitch who doesn't much like women. Hmm... You know Nick, that's the God's truth and I just realized it.”

  “Having met Doña Sofia, I understand the reasons. My mother wasn't much of a mother either. She regarded me as a nuisance, but I don't think she actually hated me. Your mother knew I was an impostor. Guessed my paternity and thought it'd be a grand joke to let a bastard's bastard inherit Gran Sangre.”

  “I watched her die, you know,” Luce said in a disembodied voice.

  “Mercedes told me you were with her. I guessed you wouldn't have run to summon help...she was beyond saving no matter who had been there.”

  “Beyond saving...just like me.”

  The sound of the damned echoed in his brother's voice. Nicholas felt a shiver and also an empathy. “Maybe we didn't grow up as differently as I thought when I first met you.”

  The silence stretched, more companionable now.

  “What was he like?” Fortune finally asked.

  Alvarado knew he meant Don Anselmo. “Bigger than life to a small boy. He lived for loose women, cockfights, the bullring. Could drink any man alive under the table. He knew how to live, our father. I bet he died in The Golden Dove with a whore in each arm. He took me there when I was fourteen and introduced me to a girl named Conchita.”

  Nick snorted. “You were a late bloomer. I was twelve my first time, but then I had the advantage of growing up in bordellos.”

  “I envied you that life,” Luce said suddenly.

  Nick felt poleaxed. “You had a name, a magnificent home, a father!”

  “I said he introduced me to my first whore. That was the only time he really ever paid any attention to me...now I realize even that was more to infuriate his lady wife than to please me. I was the requisite heir. Every good hacendado has to have one, as you doubtlessly have learned by now. The Alvarado name was the only thing he ever loved. You're more Alvarado than either of us when it comes to the land. You actually sweat and bleed for it like our grandfather, something our father certainly never did.”

  “I did it for her.”

  “Maybe. I think you did it for yourself, too,” Luce replied, the old lazy mockery returning to his voice.

  They spent the night alternately dozing and waking, talking about their childhoods, the war and the various women they had encountered. Neither mentioned Mercedes or the baby again.

  * * * *

  The dawn was sullen and hot as if expecting worse from the day. Mercedes had not slept through the night, nor arranged to leave the city at first light. She had not precisely lied to Nicholas. She had only told him she would see that he was buried on Gran Sangre. He had assumed that meant she had acquiesced to his wish that she not witness his execution.

  In truth Mercedes was not certain that she could endure watching the gruesome spectacle, but neither could she ride away leaving him to die alone. She would be in the prison compound with her men, ready to claim his body as soon as it was over.

  Shuddering to think of it, she felt a sudden surge of nausea. This time it had nothing to do with her pregnancy. Bending over the slop pail she was violently ill. When the wracking spasms passed, she climbed back onto the edge of the bed and sat, shivering in the still morning heat.

  “I have to get dressed,” she told herself, dragging her weary body up from the mattress and laying
out a lightweight gown. It was lavender, the nearest thing to mourning she had. Once back at Gran Sangre she could dye all her clothes black, but Nicholas would hate that. He would want her to celebrate the new life growing inside her, not grieve for what they had lost.

  “I will raise our children to remember you with pride and love, my husband,” she vowed as she prepared to face the most horrible day of her life.

  * * * *

  Nick and Luce watched the sun rise through the narrow cell window. Both were grimy with several days' beard stubble, their bodies unwashed in the heat, their eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night. Luce had bribed the jailer to bring them a bottle of cheap mescal, which they had taken turns emptying as the moon set.

  When the sky began to lighten, the guards brought a priest to their cell. Fortune noted wryly that he was not the same one who had been a witness against him in court.

  “I am to hear your confessions and dispense the sacrament of Holy Unction,” he said, looking at the two eerily identical men's hardened piratical faces. He was old, his eyes shadowed and weary, his face creased with a fine cross work of lines. The priest knelt and began to open the small leather box containing his stole and the oil of the sacrament.

  “I won't be availing myself of your services, Father,” Nicholas said, not unkindly. “I'm not of your faith.” He did not add that after pretending to be Catholic for the past year he did not want to continue the subterfuge. “God will just have to take me as I am, I'm afraid.”

  The priest's eyes moved from Fortune to Alvarado. “And what of you, my son?”

  Luce laughed cynically. “I'm afraid I'm further beyond the pale than my heretic brother here. All the prayers from Durango to Vera Cruz couldn't save my soul.”

  “Through the mercy of our Lord and the intercession of his gracious Mother, all things are possible,” the priest replied patiently.