Bride of the Baja

by Jane Toombs

  "Downstairs? Where all the servants can overhear?" He crossed the room and pulled the bell cord. "What's wrong with you today, Alitha?" He smiled. "Is there, perhaps, a man hiding in your room?" She held her breath as he looked around him, playing the cuckold, finally dropping to one knee to look under the bed. "No," he said, "I was wrong. There is no one there."

  Esteban rose to his feet and was brushing himself off when there was a tapping on the door.

  "Chocolate for the senorita, por favor," Esteban told Concepcion The maid curtsied and went out.

  "All right, Esteban," Alitha said. "If you're through playacting, tell me what your business was all about."

  "You may have heard that we were planning to sail to Spain."

  "As a matter of fact, I have. Why am I the last to know? I've heard that it's common gossip in the cafes."

  "It is common gossip because I want it to be common gossip." As he lowered his voice, she glanced toward the balcony. Did she see Jordan's shadow on the curtain?

  "In three days' time we leave Mexico for Vera Cruz," Esteban told her, "with our original party of five vaqueros. A ship sails from Vera Cruz in two weeks, bound for Havana and Spain."

  "And we'll be on board?"

  "No, the trip is a ruse to catch the rebels off guard. You see, the viceroy had bad news last week from the south, something the cafe gossips don't know as yet. General Iturbide, who was sent to fight the revolutionaries, is meeting with the rebel Guerrero instead. Viceroy Apodaca fears he's attempting to reach an understanding with him to combine their forces against the government. If this is true, it means Spanish rule in Mexico is almost at an end."

  "What has that to do with us?"

  "The Spaniards here in the capital have a great horde of gold hidden at the mint. They want to send that gold out of the country before it's too late."

  "Montezuma's gold."

  "You've been letting that fop Don Benito fill your head with fanciful tales. Where the gold comes from I don't know and don't care. But I do know the government is afraid to send it in a convoy to Vera Cruz for shipment to Spain, for fear the rebels will attack, overwhelm the Spanish troops and take the gold for themselves. As well they might. So they've devised a plan, a ruse. I, Esteban Mendoza, volunteered my services to help. Our services. We will conceal the gold in our equipage for the journey to Vera Cruz. Besides our five vaqueros, the government will supply a handful of outriders to accompany us, as they would in any case, to protect us from bandits. And in four days the gold will be in Vera Cruz, loaded aboard a ship bound for Spain, with the rebels none the wiser."

  "And you and I? When the gold arrives, we'll leave Vera Cruz and not go on to Spain after all?"

  "In truth, we won't even travel as far as Vera Cruz."

  "I don't understand. If we're to deceive the revolutionaries, won't we have to go all the way to the ship with the gold? Otherwise they'll suspect we're not what we seem to be."

  "Ah, but don't you see? I, Don Esteban Mendoza, will not be a party to this plot to smuggle gold out of Mexico to Spain. I will only pretend to be. How will the money help California once it is stored in the royal vaults in Madrid? The answer is simple--it will not."

  "I've listened long enough to your riddles, Esteban. What do you plan to do?"

  "I will play the Spanish game only in order to play another of my own. It will be like a box with a second smaller box inside, only this will be a ruse within a ruse. I'll take the gold—not I alone, but you and I, Alitha—and journey not to Vera Cruz on the east coast but to Acapulco on the west coast. And from Acapulco we'll sail for Santa Barbara with five hundred thousand dollars of gold. Enough gold to save California."

  "And if you're caught?" She looked again at the door to the balcony. Was Jordan still there? Could he hear them? Surely Jordan, an American, had no interest in this plot.

  "In Mexico," Esteban said, "the penalty for such an offense is death in front of a firing squad. If I'm caught, I'll die. So be it."

  "Oh, Esteban." She ran to put her arms around him. "Is it worth it? Is the gold worth your life?"

  "To me it is."

  "It sounds so dangerous. Won't the troops be suspicious when you and I leave them on the road to Vera Cruz? Won't they stop us?"

  "Ah, you'll have to wait and see how I manage it, my Alitha. My plan is dangerous but it can work. It will work." He smoothed her hair with his hand. "Alitha," he said, "your eyes keep going to the balcony. If I didn't know better—" he disengaged himself from her and strode across the room— "I'd suspect there was someone hiding there."

  She ran after him, clutching at his arm, but he shook her off. He threw open the double doors and stepped outside, with Alitha a pace behind him. The balcony was deserted. He looked down into the courtyard. There was no one in sight. Alitha sighed with relief. Jordan was safe.

  "I'm sorry, my Alitha," Esteban said, coming back into the room and closing the doors behind him. "This business of the gold has made me see spies everywhere. After all, if I can't trust you, whom can I trust?"

  "So last night," she said, "after the ball, you were planning this gold-smuggling venture?"

  "Of a certainty."

  "And this dancer, this La Coralilla—what possible role can she play in your plan?"

  "You will see, my dove. Wait and you will see. She plays a most important part."

  Alitha wanted to believe him, in fact she willed herself to believe him. But once again she pictured the scene in the ballroom as Esteban wrapped the dancer's veil around his waist.

  "Perhaps," Alitha said, "La Coralilla can signal the approach of bandits or revolutionaries by discarding some of her veils. One if by land and two if by sea. She would certainly attract the eyes of all the men if she did."

  She whirled away from Esteban, imitating La Coralilla's coquetry "Six?" she asked, simpering. She fingered the top button of her gown. "Six," she said, undoing the button. "Five?" She unfastened the next button, exposing the swell of her breasts. She fluttered her eyelashes at Esteban. "Four?" she asked.

  "Enough," Esteban said, "I'm tired of your suspicions. As I'm weary of your games." He came toward her, and she saw that he intended to take her in his arms, to smother her protests with his kisses.

  She ran from him into the corridor, slamming the bedroom door behind her. As she crossed the hall, she saw Conception approaching with a tray. Shaking her head at the maid, she ran into another bedroom, where she threw herself on a chaise longue. She heard the minutes tick by on the mantel clock. The door opened and she looked up to see Esteban just inside the room.

  "Come here to me," he told her.

  She rose but stood beside the chaise.

  Esteban hesitated, then crossed the room and enfolded her in his arms. "For me," he said, "there is no one in this world but you, Alitha."

  If only I could believe him, she thought. As always when he held her, her heart beat faster and warm excitement rose inside her. What if he were caught trying to carry out his wild scheme? She closed her eyes and clung to him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  On the morning of their departure to Vera Cruz, Alitha was up at four. She drank hot chocolate, put on her manga and went to the courtyard to watch the preparations for the journey. The horses were saddled, the mules loaded and, when one was found to be lame, another was brought from the stable. Don Esteban arrived leading two more mules, laden, Alitha knew, with gold from the government mint.

  They left the city by moonlight, passing along the broad and silent streets, the old buildings of Mexico City on either side of them, the spires of the ancient churches rising against the sky. In front of one church Alitha saw what appeared to her to be a statue of a kneeling figure bowed in prayer, but as they drew closer, she realized it was an old man kneeling motionless and silent on the pavement. He must be performing a penance, she told herself, for his sins and, perhaps, the sins of all the world.

  "Pray for me," she whispered, "pray for all of us." With the coming of dawn she saw the city g
radually change before her eyes. The streets, so grand in the darkness, were in actuality littered with refuse, the seemingly splendid buildings were more often than not abandoned and in a state of decay, victims of time and of the revolutionary turmoil of the last ten years. The people who thronged the streets with the coming of the new day were mostly beggars—leparos, ragged and dirty, their bodies covered with sores.

  Alitha closed her eyes, wanting to remember Mexico City as it had been in the silvered, moonlit darkness. Sitting sidesaddle, both hands on the pommel, she drowsed as she listened to the steady beat of the horses' hooves, the plodding rhythm of the mules, the creak of saddles, the jingle of spurs and the occasional words exchanged by the vaqueros. She was glad to be leaving the city, she told herself. Perhaps once they were underway she and Esteban could find what they seemed to have lost. Perhaps they could recapture the soaring rapture of their journey south from Santa Barbara.

  What had gone wrong? They passed through the gates of the city and, after climbing to the top of a hill, paused to look back at the valley just as the sun rose in the east. She saw the towers of the city, the lakes veiled by low clouds of vapor rising slowly from their surfaces, and the white summits of the two volcanoes still enveloped in mist. Mexico was so beautiful, she thought. What a magnificent, yet troubled land.

  As they rode on toward Puebla, she watched Esteban as six mounted lancers joined them, three of the uniformed cavalrymen riding ahead and three forming a rear guard some distance behind. How masterful Esteban seemed as he led their small troop forward. How graceful he was, how brave. Yet how cruel he could be, she thought, able to wound her with an unwitting word or glance. She sighed, realizing he could never be anything other than what he was.

  How clearly she saw his faults now. How blind she had been to them when she had been at the Mendoza rancho. She had loved him, and, they said, love was blind. Did that mean she no longer loved Esteban? Alitha shook her head, refusing to answer the question.

  A picture of Thomas's face came unbidden to her mind, and she remembered the night he'd asked her to marry him. Winter, a church sleigh-ride party, the gay jingle of bells on the trotting horses and the crisp swish of the runners on the snow. She recalled the innocent thrill of their first kiss—Thomas's face had been as cold as hers, but his lips were warm. At that moment she'd been certain of their love for one another.

  How little she had known then! Alitha shook her head. Was she so much wiser now? They passed an Indian with a blanket thrown over one shoulder, a farmer riding a mule, an old beggar in rags basking in the sun on a stone seat in a village doorway, an Indian woman with matted hair and a baby strapped to her back drinking pulque from an earthen jar, a portly friar smiling benevolently as he was greeted by a group of urchins, who removed their large, well-worn hats and shouted, "Buenos dias, padrecito." So like Mexico, so charming. Then why did she long to be somewhere else? She imagined herself on board ship, a fair wind at her back, the ocean's salt spray on her face as she sailed to ... To where?

  How could she think of leaving Esteban? Life without him would have no meaning for her. How her body tingled even now as she thought of being enfolded in the circle of his arms, with his bare flesh to hers, his lips meeting her lips while her passion rose to meet and join his. No other man could ever give her such pleasure.

  As they entered a village, she saw fields of maguey, the fleshy-leafed plant from which the Indians made the liquor pulque. Esteban was like a heady draught of pulque, she thought, harsh and bitter yet intoxicating. Esteban—enough of Esteban!

  She forced her attention to the scattering of village houses, the marketplace, the parish church, the narrow lanes, the Indian huts. She saw a profusion of pink and red roses, a bridge crossing a stream, scattered clusters of trees and a few larger houses where wealthy Mexicans came from the city in the summer to live behind grated windows amidst their gardens and orchards. Beside the road she noticed garlands of flowers lying against crosses. The crosses, Esteban had told her, might commemorate a murder or might have been erected as an act of piety.

  Above her the sun shone brightly from the bluest sky she had ever seen. Now, in November, the days were as warm and invigorating as a May morning back home in New England.

  "This part of Mexico," Esteban had said, "is a land of eternal spring." Esteban again. She found it impossible to put him from her mind.

  During the afternoon they sighted horsemen following them at a distance. The other riders halted on a ridge and watched as they passed but made no attempt to approach.

  "Bandits?" she asked Esteban.

  "In all probability," he told her. "But no bandits are bold enough to attack a well-armed group such as ours. They may be ruthless, but they're not fools."

  They entered Puebla in the evening, riding through the spacious plaza and past the magnificent cathedral to an inn on the far outskirts of the city. Alitha was tired from the long ride—she felt the first faint throbs of a headache—so after a supper of soup, fish, steak and frijoles, all well-seasoned with garlic and oil, she went to bed and immediately fell asleep.

  Voices awakened her. Rising on one elbow, she saw that the single window of her room was still black. The voices came from the next room, Don Esteban's room. Alitha threw a shawl around her shoulders and crept to the door on bare feet. The voices were so low she couldn't make out the words, nor could she tell who was speaking.

  Then she heard a woman's deep, husky laugh. Alitha drew in her breath. She'd know that laugh anywhere. La Coralilla was in the next room. Esteban's room.

  Alitha raised the latch and threw open the door. La Coralilla stood facing her, wearing a blond wig. Esteban's back was to her.

  "Esteban!" she cried.

  The man turned and Alitha stepped back, startled. It wasn't Esteban after all. Though the man had a small mustache as Esteban had, and though he was Esteban's height and build and coloring, the man most definitely was not Don Esteban Mendoza.

  "Muy bien. Very good."

  Alitha whirled to see Esteban in the room's other doorway, nodding with satisfaction.

  "If we were able to deceive you from a distance of only a few feet," he said to Alitha, "we'll have no trouble deceiving the Spaniards."

  Only then did she realize that the stranger not only resembled Esteban but was dressed as Esteban had been the day before. She looked at La Coralilla again. The dancer wore a riding hat and manga of the same style and color as Alitha's own. They certainly didn't become her, Alitha thought. In fact, La Coralilla looked much older than she had at the ball.

  So that was Esteban's plan, Alitha told herself. While she and Esteban rode west to Acapulco with the gold, these two would replace them for the remainder of the journey to Vera Cruz. That was Esteban's ruse within a ruse.

  She smiled at Esteban. So La Coralilla was an essential part of his plot to outwit the Spaniards, just as he had claimed. La Coralilla was to take her, Alitha's, place. She wanted to run to Esteban, throw her arms about him and tell him she should never have doubted him. She would tell him, she promised herself, once they were alone.

  After a hurried breakfast of eggs, well-fried chicken, bread and coffee, Esteban led her to the shadowed rear of the inn, where he lifted her into the saddle. "We'll travel light but with much speed," he told her. "You and I and the two horses carrying the gold. There will be risks, of a certainty, grave risks—bandits, revolutionaries. Are you certain you wish to come with me?"

  "Oh yes," she said. "I'd rather face danger with you than be safe anywhere else."

  "Good. Un momenta." Esteban walked quickly back to the inn.

  A moment. The words Dona Anise had used when talking of La Coralilla and Esteban.

  Alitha dismounted and ran to the partly open kitchen door. A single candle glowed on the table, and by its light she saw a man and woman clasped in one another's arms. Esteban and La Coralilla. It was all she could do to stop from flinging herself at them. Trembling, she closed her eyes and drew in a shuddering breath. Fina
lly controlling herself, she turned and stumbled back to her horse and mounted, and when Esteban returned a minute later, she was sitting just as he had left her.

  Esteban swung into his saddle and looked across at her. "Are you ready, my Alitha?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said, her voice cold.

  She found she had no tears left--he would never make her cry again. Instead she was furious, hurt and angry. La Coralilla wasn't only taking her place today on the journey to Vera Cruz, Alitha thought bitterly, she had taken her place at least once before. In Esteban's arms.

  Had La Coralilla taken Alitha's place in his heart as well? No, she didn't think so. Dona Anise had probably been right when she said that, for Esteban, La Coralilla was a thing of the moment. But passing fancy or not, Alitha knew that her love for Esteban could never be the same again.

  The road from the city of Puebla to the small village of Rio Frio passes through flat and fertile farmland. Rio Frio—Cold River—is in a valley surrounded by woods. Beyond the village the way becomes hilly and even more densely wooded as the trail enters a tract of somber oaks, pines and cedars known locally as the Black Forest. Only an occasional cluster of wildflowers growing in a forest glade brightens the dark and gloomy green of the woods.

  It was in the Black Forest that Jordan Quinn intended to ambush Don Esteban.

  Jordan lay concealed amid thick brush at the top of a hill thirty feet above a particularly narrow stretch of trail where horses were forced to proceed in single file between the trees. From where he lay he could also see, across a valley and through a gap in the woods, a length of trail two miles farther back. He would have more than adequate forewarning of anyone riding from Puebla and Rio Frio.

  The chance that Don Esteban would pass this way Jordan calculated, was better than four out of five. The best and quickest route to Acapulco lay three leagues nearer Mexico City so, with Esteban having every wish to stay as far away from the capital as possible, he would have to ride through Rio Frio and into the Black Forest.