Midnight Fire

by Linda Ladd

  "Captain Luiz," he said to the officer standing with him, "secure the buildings and line up the prisoners in the plaza. There will be no killing, comprende? Make sure the men know it. Under no circumstances will there be another massacre, or any atrocities committed. The guerrilleros are to be taken to Mexico City for trial."

  The soldier saluted smartly, then swung himself into the saddle. Chase mounted more slowly, his gut tight with emotion as he followed the first wave of his men through the battered gate. He had dreamed of this moment, hungered for his revenge. Now he savored the elation he felt. Esteban's death would be avenged. He had sworn it, and he meant to see it to the end.

  Inside the mission, the effect of the cannon fire was evident in the crumbling walls and fallen roofs. The church had nearly been destroyed, one whole wall knocked out. Chase had ordered the guns directed on the bell towers. No one would ever be tortured inside its walls again. No rebels would ever use San Miguel as a sanctuary. He meant to bombard it to rubble before he marched his troops from the valley.

  The guerrilleros had been herded into the square. Near the spot where Carlisle had danced with Javier, he thought, bitterness biting into his heart. Many of them were wounded and being helped along by their women, the soldaderas who'd fought at their sides. He searched for Javier Perez's face among the prisoners, then went rigid when he found him—standing straight and defiant while his sister, Arantxa, cowered on the ground beside him.

  Chase's teeth came together hard, and he dismounted near Captain Luiz. "There, the man with the girl at his feet. He's their leader. Chain him and bring him here. The girl, too."

  Coldly, unfeelingly, Chase watched his orders being carried out. When the Perez twins were thrust to their knees before him, Captain Luiz took Javier's hair and jerked his head back, forcing him to look up at Chase.

  Javier's face contorted with hatred, and Chase wanted to grab him by the throat. He wanted to squeeze his fingers around his neck until the last breath left his body. He wanted to kill him more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life. He'd killed many times in the war, but never with the brutal, violent onrush of hatred he now felt. Appalled by his own savagery, he stood unmoving, finding it hard not to succumb to the desire to strangle Perez with his bare hands.

  "And where is my little gringa whore, Lancaster?" Javier asked, his teeth clenched. "Will she join us in prison? Or have you already taken her for your lover? How does it feel to be betrayed by the woman you love? She and I laughed about it when we were in bed together."

  His words were cut short as Chase grabbed him by the front of his shirt and jerked him up, his face red with rage. He drew his gun and put the barrel against

  Javier's head, ready to pull the trigger. Javier laughed. "Go ahead, make me a martyr. You Juaristas are known for your brutality. The people expect it of you."

  Javier's taunt struck home. Chase was suddenly dead calm again. He released his hold on Javier, and the man fell back to his knees.

  "No, Perez. You'll be tried according to the laws of Mexico, as will all your men. And when you're found guilty, you'll be shot for treason. Just like your father was."

  Beside Javier, Arantxa gave a grief-stricken cry. Chase looked coldly at her as one of his men shackled her wrists together.

  "Prepare them for traveling," he ordered, then turned and walked away.

  Nearly a week after Chase had watched San Miguel razed to the ground, he reached the Hacienda de los Toros. He didn't stop at the big house but rode on to La Mesilla and the task he had dreaded for so long. Just the thought of telling Conchita about Esteban's death made him sick to his stomach. He should have told her before now, but he had been at San Miguel the whole time. And he had not wanted her to find out from a letter. He had to be the one to tell her. He owed Esteban that much. Dios, why did it have to happen? Why did Esteban have to be the one to die? Even capturing Perez had not given Chase peace of mind.

  When the public square of the village came into view, he slowed his horse to a walk, his eyes on the rose-draped wall of Esteban's house. How many times had he made the trip, eager to see Esteban after a long separation? How often had they dined and laughed together at the old wooden table on the porch? Oh, God, he'd never see Esteban again. He'd never be able to ask for his advice or help.

  By the time he had tethered his horse and entered the front gate, Conchita had seen him and come running in her usual ebullient way.

  "Don Chaso!" she cried. "At last you have come home! But where is my Esteban?" She glanced up and down the street.

  Chase swallowed hard. He tried to smile, but couldn't. "Let's go into the house, Conchita," he said.

  "Sí, you are tired, no? I have tortillas and aguardiente," she told him as they crossed the porch and entered the front room. "But first, por favor, tell me about Esteban. Where is he? I have missed him so much."

  Chase had trouble finding the words. Then he found it difficult to say them.

  "I'm sorry, Conchita," he began, and Conchita's lovely dark eyes grew still, a terrible look of stark fear taking over her face. Chase forced himself to go on. "There was an explosion in the mine at San Miguel." Chase's voice cracked as he remembered the last time he'd ever seen his friend. "Esteban was killed in the—"

  "No! No, I do not believe you!"

  Conchita began to scream and pull at her hair. Chase grabbed her, holding her until she quit struggling and went limp in his arms.

  "No, no, not my Esteban," she kept saying, sobbing hysterically against his chest.

  Chase held her tightly, his throat clogged with so much emotion that he couldn't speak, not even to comfort her. He shut his eyes, wishing there were something he could do. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze riveted on the portrait hanging on the wall opposite him.

  Carlisle stared back at him, dressed in white and looking as much like an angel as any mortal possibly could. Esteban had even painted a pale aura around her head as if she wore a halo. Damn her, he thought, rage shooting through him like a caustic acid. Carlisle had killed Esteban as surely as if she had put a gun to his head. Chase would never forgive her for it. Never.

  In the days following Carlisle's heart-to-heart talk with Dona Maria, she was treated as an honored guest in the Casa Amarilla. Once up and around, she realized Dona Maria's house was a favorite gathering place for the socially elite of Mexico City. A steady flow of well-dressed matrons, with marriageable daughters and nieces in tow, entered the arched gate to converse or take comida with the elegant Dona Maria, hoping her two handsome sons would be present. If not, they were equally desirous of inspecting her beautiful and mysterious gringa houseguest.

  On these occasions, Dona Maria introduced Carlisle as her son Chaso's good friend from the Estados Unidos. No whisper of scandal concerning her friendship with the Perezes or her misadventures in San Miguel was ever heard.

  Just as often, Tomas would accompany Carlisle on long afternoon drives when she felt tired of company and weary of spirit. During these jaunts, they'd drive down the wide Paseo into Mexico City, where cobbled streets wound past wide-eaved adobe houses, private and quiet inside their tall walls.

  Carlisle found the old city a fascinating place with its graciously ornate colonial buildings, their hand-carved stone facades like ancient filigree. She was awed by the great Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe and the huge amphitheater called the Plaza de Toros, where crowds of Mexicans watched the fierce bullfighters.

  All around her, society danced and flirted, rode in the Paseo or walked in the Alameda, and Carlisle took it all in with interest. But her heart was never truly engaged unless Chase was mentioned. Often, there was news that he still fought to quell the northern uprising, and she would shake with fear. What if he were captured again, and tortured? They'd never let him live, and that thought left her terror-stricken.

  She was contemplating such horrors one afternoon as Tomas sat beside her in his mother's finest carriage. They had ridden far out of the capital to the outlying villages of the val
ley, where the air was thin and clear, the sunlight blinding, and the shadows deep and chilling. Lakes dotted the plain, and when they reached the village of Amecameca, huge, snow-covered volcanoes loomed up, protecting the rim of the valley like gigantic sentries.

  "That one is Popocatepetl, the Smoking Mountain," Tomas told her. "And the other is Ixtacihuatl, the White Woman. Aztec legends say he is a jealous lover watching over his frozen mate."

  "They are beautiful," Carlisle agreed dutifully, but she was really thinking that the shadows against the icy peaks were the same dark blue as Chase's eyes. Almost at once, her mind conjured up the awful red they'd been just after the explosion, and she bit her lip, wondering if they still gave him pain.

  "You looked very sad just now, Dona Carlita," Tomas commented.

  "I'm sorry, Tomas," she said, facing him. "I was thinking of Chase."

  "You think of him often, sí?"

  "Sí."

  They rode in silence for a while; then he spoke, obviously extremely embarrassed by the subject matter.

  "Mama intends to make Chaso marry you. Is that what you want?"

  Momentarily, a ripple of shock coursed through Carlisle, because Tomas had never before made mention of her baby. Neither had Dona Maria discussed Chase with Carlisle since the day Carlisle had poured out to her their whole sordid story.

  "Chase will never marry me," she answered quietly. "No one could make him, not even your mother."

  "Mama has her ways. She has already quietly begun plans to nullify his betrothal with Dona Marta. She would never have done that unless she was sure he would marry you."

  Carlisle froze. "Who is Dona Marta?"

  "She is a friend of the family, and she was to marry Chaso someday."

  "Is he in love with her?" Carlisle felt sick as she asked the question.

  "Oh, no, he hardly knows her. She is younger than I, so do not worry about her."

  Carlisle felt better and she smiled, grateful for his continued support. At the moment, he seemed older than he had the day they'd met at Papa Gilberto's. Today he looked very tanned and handsome in his fancy gray charro suit and big black sombrero.

  During her weeks in the capital city, she'd grown used to seeing the men in tight trousers and short, heavily embroidered jackets. Her own clothes had arrived, but she'd lost so much weight during her illness that there had been no immediate need to let out the waistlines. She put her hand on her stomach, awed to think a life was forming inside her.

  "I hope Chaso refuses to marry you," Tomas said tightly.

  Shocked, Carlisle's eyes filled with dismay. "Oh, Tomas, do you blame me, too?"

  "Oh, no, never! If he refuses, then I am duty-bound to wed you in his stead." He removed his sombrero, his brown eyes shy. "I would be very honored to have you for my novia, Dona Carlita."

  His face was so earnest that Carlisle's heart was touched. "Tomas, you are so sweet and good to me."

  The boy grinned, apparently pleased by her answer, and Carlisle reached over to touch his youthful cheek. "But I'll be all right, I promise. You and your mother have made me feel strong again. Whether Chase marries me or not, I'll still be happy to have his baby."

  "But if you are not married, your reputation will be ruined. No one will associate with you. It is the way here in Mexico."

  "That is the way it is everywhere, Tomas."

  Carlisle looked north, toward the dark, jagged peaks in the distance. Somewhere behind those high rugged barriers, Chase fought the guerrilleros. Did he ever think about her?

  Chase was thinking of Carlisle. As he walked his horse down the narrow, cobbled hill toward his mother's mansion, his bewhiskered face grew tight with long-contained anger. Exhausted, physically and spiritually, he thrust the vision of Carlisle from his mind.

  She was gone, thank God, and now that she was, perhaps the hell she'd thrust them all into would end. But the ache of betrayal stirred deep in his heart. Why couldn't he just forget her? Damn her green eyes which haunted him day and night!

  Furious, but too tired to give in to his rage, he rode on, stone-faced and haggard, to the arched carriage door of the Casa Amarilla. He jerked the bellpull outside the porte cochere, impatient that he had to wait.

  "Don Chaso!" cried the boy who finally threw open the gate.

  "Hola, Paco," Chase answered the mestizo groom, walking his horse into the inner courtyard. He dismounted slowly, his muscles aching from several days in the saddle. He'd traveled the mountain roads from Querétaro alone and fast, in order to make better time.

  His men would follow at a slower pace, now that their job was done. They'd taken

  San Miguel bravely, destroyed it and what it stood for. But there had been no massacre or atrocities this time. Their prisoners were being marched to Mexico City for trial.

  Paco swung the gate closed, barred it, then ran to take Chase's reins. He grinned, revealing a large space where his two front teeth were missing.

  "Buenos días, Don Chaso! We did not know you were coming today!"

  "Gracias. Dónde está mi madre?

  "Dona Maria is in her room, senor. She will be so happy to see you."

  Chase nodded, then walked across the paving flags to the low stone wall that separated the stables from the lush, shade-dappled patio. After the heat of the midday sun, the shade from a eucalyptus tree immediately cooled him, and he walked past the central fountain, which was encircled by big, blade-leafed maguey plants. The tinkling jets of water brought him to a stop. The spot was so peaceful.

  For one swift instant, he felt overcome by emotion, by sheer thankfulness to be home again in a haven protected against all the evil he'd seen. Inside his mother's inner sanctum, with its quiet elegant walks and sweet-smelling gardenias and azalea hedges, no one suffered awful pain and ghastly mutilations. He felt the need to lie down in the deep, cool shade and weep out his grief for Esteban—and for Carlisle's treachery. He'd loved them both, and both were gone from him, forever.

  Appalled at his own weakness, he set his jaw at a determined angle and walked on. Dios, what was the matter with him? He'd seen atrocities during the war, and bitter betrayal.

  "I'm just too goddamned tired to think straight," he muttered hoarsely. He needed sleep. In a real bed, free of the never-ending nightmares of Esteban being blown apart, of nails being hammered slowly through his palms. An icy chill rippled up his back, and he flexed his newly healed hands as he climbed the patio steps to the open door of his mother's bedchamber.

  She sat at her white desk with its curved cabriole legs, and again he was overcome by sentimental yearning for the long-past childhood days when he'd run to her with his scrapes and bruises, and she'd taken him onto her lap, soothing him with her soft hands and gentle voice. He wanted to be comforted, he realized suddenly, despite the fact that he was a grown man.

  "Mama?"

  His mother looked up, then quickly dropped the pen she'd held in her hand. She rose to her feet, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk.

  "Chaso! Gracias a Dios!" she cried, then hurried to him.

  Chase put his arms around her shoulders, so frail but so strong, and breathed in the faint lemony scent that had been her essence as long as he could remember. They said nothing as she sobbed against his chest. He held her, surprised, because he'd never seen her cry before, except when Tomas's father had died.

  "Shh, Mama," he said. But she found his hands and held them palm-up so she could examine the jagged, raw weals where his flesh had torn.

  "Oh, I cannot bear this, mi hijo," she whispered brokenly.

  Chase led her to the bed, and they sat side by side. Dona Maria swiftly regained her composure, as Chase knew she would.

  "I have been so worried about you," she said, her voice taking on a scolding tone. "Why did you not send word that you were safe?"

  But even as she spoke, her hands touched his cheek gently, pushing back his hair, which had grown shaggy in the past few months.

  "The fighting has been hard, and high in
the sierra. I had no time to send out letters."

  "And you are here to stay? The rebellion is over?" she asked fearfully.

  "The revolución is crushed. We've broken their strength and captured their leaders."

  "My prayers to the Holy Virgin have been answered. And you are safe!"

  "Sí, Mama."

  She searched his face. "Are you really all right, Chaso? You look so weary. You must lie back and rest. I will get food and wine for you."

  Chase did as she said, then went rigid at his moth-er's next words.

  "Chaso, you have not asked about Dona Carlita. She was very ill when she came—"

  "I don't want to hear about her!" he interrupted harshly, shocking his mother into silence. He shut his eyes again as she moved away with a soft rustle of silk. And then the sleep he'd cheated for so long pulled him into its embrace.

  It was nearly dark by the time Carlisle and Tomas returned to the Casa Amarilla. Dona Maria was waiting for them at the grilled gate.

  "Buenas noches," Carlisle called to her, totally unprepared for the first words out of Dona Maria's mouth.

  "Chaso has come home."

  Carlisle's smile faded, her heart stopped, and a peculiar mixture of fear and joy seized her.

  "Where is he?" she whispered breathlessly.

  "He's exhausted. We barely had time to talk before he fell asleep."

  "Does he know I'm still here?" Carlisle asked, her breath held captive in her throat.

  "He was too tired to discuss it."

  Carlisle saw the way Dona Maria averted her gaze, and her hopes fell.

  Tomas's relief was evident in his voice. "Is he all right, Mama?"

  "Sí." Dona Maria hesitated. "His body has healed, but there is a look in his eyes that frightens me."

  Carlisle knew that expression. In the cave, she'd seen it often—cold, empty, disillusioned.

  "I want to see him," she said. "Por favor, Dona Maria," she added, suddenly desperate to look at him, to touch him, before he found out she was there and sent her away.

  Dona Maria took Carlisle's hand, her eyes very serious. "He is still fighting inside himself, niña. It might be better if you give him time to find peace."