Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  He hit the cobblestones near a building entryway. Alejandra fell on top of him. The air whooshed from his lungs. She tried to right herself, but his fingers found her wrists. He held her in his ungiving grip. They were sprawled on the sidewalk. A retaining wall sheltered them from the line of fire.

  Reece grinned. And why not? Her breasts were very near his mouth, her pelvis thrust against his stomach. He drew up his legs to bring her closer. He had no desire to join the other fight. Until the French and Mexicans had had enough of each other, he could keep Alejandra safe, or as safe as possible, right here.

  “Let go of me, Reece Montgomery! I must cross the plaza.”

  “No. You’re safer right here. A bullet could get you—”

  “You’re poking me,” she bit out.

  “I hope so.”

  “Not like that, you monster! You’ve got something in your breeches that’s—”

  “Damned right I do.” Actually, his hunting knife was giving him a few problems, too, but why mention it? “It’s weaponry to pierce the fair lady with.”

  “You’ll never again pierce me with anything, El Cazador,” she came back, biting out his name as if she had swallowed una cucaracha. “Never!”

  “Better not bet the family farm on that, sweetheart.”

  He ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip as he looked up into the fury of her hazel eyes. Her hair, so long and lovely and thick, was in wild disarray around her shoulders. She wasn’t fighting him now. Her gaze was welded to his.

  He moved his thumb to the center of her palm, making circles on that soft center. “Miss me?” he asked, his voice husky.

  “Like the infirm misses the leeches!”

  “Good.” He moved a leg, insinuating it between her thighs. “Want to kiss and make up?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alejandra Sierra had no desire whatsoever to kiss and make up with the treacherous El Cazador. Sprawled as she was on this sidewalk in Vera Cruz, mindful of both his aborted abduction and the hellfires surrounding them, she would rather bare her breasts to the invaders than to kiss this devil.

  Of course she remembered their last meeting, where she had been a simpering, moaning, squirming wanton in his arms, but she was keenly aware of his Francophile leanings. Francophile? Ha! He was true to no one, and probably not even to himself.

  Muskets fired from somewhere behind her. Cringing at the sound, she heard other dins of combat, smelled the stench of gunpowder and death, saw the carnage of foiled diplomacy. And she felt the grip of a traitor.

  “Let go of my wrists,” she ordered through clenched teeth, and glared down into his mocking blue gaze. “Tend to your business and let me tend to mine. ”

  “Which is?” he asked as a cannonball exploded behind them, drawing flinches from both him and Alejandra.

  “Saving an old man from the horrors of this war. And you are detaining me. Let me go. Don Valentin Sandoval is in that inn”—she pointed across the plaza—“right there. I must see to his well-being.”

  Admiration shining in Reece’s eyes, he replied, “Your intentions are good, honey, but I won’t let you cross the plaza.”

  “You don’t tell me what I can and cannot do!” She tried to squirm out of Reece’s arms, but he held her tightly. Don’t think about how it feels to be this near to him, she cautioned herself, and don’t let on about how many times you’ve thought of him. “El Cazador, do your mind’s bidding. Whatever that may be. As long as it doesn’t involve me.”

  “You sure about that?”

  She wouldn’t have answered, even if a squad of blue-and-red-clad soldiers, hugging the doorways, hadn’t rushed past them. One of the men nearly tripped over Reece’s oversized boots.

  Santa Anna, his brows knitted, stomped over to Reece. “Colonel Montgomery, are you, or are you not, with me?”

  “He is not! Believe me, he is not.” Alejandra looked up at the man who had led her husband to his death. And who would lead others to the same end—right here in this city! Yet no matter her distaste for the deranged general, her nationalist spirit—decoro nacional—would not allow anyone Mexican to suffer for the misdeeds of the treacherous El Cazador. “He cavorts with the French. I, myself, caught one of Baudin’s men at Casa Montgomery.”

  Why wasn’t Reece doing something to stop her accusations? she wondered.

  Santa Anna smirked. “Would that Frenchman be the yeoman Jacques LaTouche?”

  “I have no idea of his name.”

  “It is Jacques LaTouche,” Reece confirmed. “Tall fellow, blond. Young. Kind of skinny.”

  Alejandra scowled. Turning her face to Reece, she watched his relaxed expression. What did all of this mean? Then she knew. Her blood went cold, her face ashen.

  “Do you mean to say . . .” Once more she glanced at Santa Anna,. “The both of you are in collusion with the French?”

  Reece laughed. So did Santa Anna. The general spoke. “Doña Alejandra, indeed you are wrong. Colonel Montgomery lured the sailor into a trap. LaTouche was captured last night.”

  She should have been relieved, hearing that Reece sided with her countrymen. Trouble was . . . “Why would a simple yeoman catch the great Santa Anna’s attention?”

  “Nothing escapes my regard, Doña Alejandra.”

  That, she doubted. “I think you should investigate this colonel who claims to be your champion.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself with that which isn’t your concern, Doña Alejandra. I heard you say you have an old man to tend. Go to him.”

  For a second she ground her teeth, but then found merit in Santa Anna’s rank dismissal. “You heard your superior,” she said to Reece. “I have a mission to accomplish. Unhand me, and go to your gran señor.”

  Solemn now, Reece let go her aching wrists and allowed her to rise to her feet. No more than ten feet in the distance, his mount waited. As did Reece’s short, grinning mozo.

  “Hurry, Señor,” called the servant. “The eclair eaters are advancing!”

  “Do you follow me?” Santa Anna pulled a pistol from his borrowed belt, training it on El Cazador. “Or do I kill you for insubordination?”

  “No need for that, Antonio, I’m at your service,” Reece said as he levered to stand, to thrust Alejandra toward the doorway’s safety. That done, he brushed the seat of his uniform breeches. “Give me a couple of minutes, though.” He winked in that totally reprehensible manner that men employ in relating to each other. “You know how it goes . . .”

  “As long as it doesn’t go on too long,” Santa Anna replied, appeased and somewhat jovial. He mounted the purloined steed. Leading the horse around bodies and debris, he headed toward the harbor.

  At the last visible swish of the horse’s tail, Reece said to Alejandra, “I’m taking you home.”

  “You’ve added deserter to your list of accomplishments?”

  “You need to be protected.”

  “I’ll take care of myself, thank you very much.” She turned toward the inn. “And I am going in that building. Don’t try to stop me, El Cazador, or you’ll regret it.”

  “I won’t stop you. If you’ll make me one promise.” He paused. “Take care of yourself.”

  Stunned by the tenderness in his voice, Alejandra twirled around. For the first time since this altercation started, she looked at him, really examined both his comportment and appearance.

  He wore the vestments of a Mexican colonel, and she supposed they were his now to wear, since Santa Anna had been reinstated in the military.

  Refusing to contemplate all that Reece’s uniform implied—this was neither the time nor the place for anything but a Mexican victory, and certainly not for fighting against one’s own army—she concentrated on Reece’s expression. Care and concern shone in his eyes. His mustachioed mouth wasn’t one of cruelty or mirth; it was pulled into bracketed worry.

  Then it spread into a half smile as he took a step toward her. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Alejandra.”

  At f
irst those softly yet adamantly spoken words drifted over her like salve on an old wound. Love, it was such a beautiful state of being. But Reece was confusing lust with a deeper emotion.

  True love meant faith and mutual respect, among a thousand other admirable qualities. He had promised to help her cause; he reneged. He had said he wouldn’t bring Santa Anna to her home, but he had. While there he had imperiled the Federalist cause by casting doubt on her character. Yes, he had apologized, but still . . . She doubted he was loyal to anyone or anything. Never could she love a man without honor.

  Yet she was no paragon. His touch had reminded Alejandra that she was just as weak, just as lust-filled.

  He offered his hand. “If you want to cross the plaza, sweetheart, I’ll help you.”

  She nodded. He swept her into his arms. Hunching his shoulders, putting his back to the line of fire, he rushed across to the inn. Safely there, he asked, “Do you think you could ever fall in love with me?”

  Her heart tugged her chest. She didn’t know what to think or feel, or how to react.

  “Fight for my country, Reece.” Her voice lost its brittle edge, yet finality and goodbye honed each word. “Take care of yourself. Vaya con Dios.”

  Reece watched Alejandra enter the inn. He had failed at making peace with the woman he adored. To him, love meant sex, of course. Forever, he would hanker to hear her voice, to breathe her flowery and womanly scent, to touch her as he wanted no other man to do, to see her face in the throes of passion.

  But love was more than all that.

  Always, he had admired her spirit and fire. Spiritually, she was tough as a piece of pemmican. And who couldn’t love a woman with so much depth to her convictions? They shared one opinion: both of them despised General Santa Anna.

  But she did more than despise Reece Montgomery, he felt certain, and she’d hold that opinion as long as she thought him a miscreant. If only they were in a different place, a different circumstance, he would be free to prove that he was a man worthy to love and be loved by Alejandra. While it wasn’t his nature to lie and betray in matters of the heart, their situation was bigger than just one man and one woman.

  The broader scope of life and the events that brought him and Alejandra to this place at this point in their lives demanded certain actions from Reece. If they met under different circumstances, he might have had a chance.

  Reece climbed into the saddle, heading his stallion Rayo in Antonio’s direction. Pepe rode beside him as they caught up with their “leader,” who was far to the rear of his forces, a full block from the city walls. But the time they reached the central portal to Vera Cruz’s walls, Reece could see nothing but the blackened and pitted presidio, San Juan de Ulúa. And the backs of retreating Frenchmen.

  The humbly clad Antonio rode forth to head his heretofore leaderless but brave men of war. His charger prancing, the general gave a horselaugh. “Eclair eaters, run back to your longboats Tell your prince and the one-armed admiral that the Mexican Napoleon has sunk his teeth into your soft centers! I have beaten you!”

  What?

  Reece shook his head, as if the motion would clear his suddenly fuzzed reasoning. Beyond a few shouts for the rear guard to move up, the man who called himself Napoleon had done nothing personally to quell the attackers. How could he claim to be part of the rout?

  Yet the vanquished fled to their vessels of escape.

  With the raiders in retreat, Reece had one chance at finding Garth: he had to stay in Antonio’s good graces.

  The general threw back his head to laugh again. “¡Viva Mexico!”

  “¡Viva Sahnnn-tahhh-nah!” was the victorious roar from the warriors.

  It was then that a cannon exploded.

  The general’s horse screamed as its chest burst like an overripe melon. Equine knees buckled, balance lost. At the same moment, the rider’s hoarse shriek filled the air as both rider and charger fell. Antonio López de Santa Anna, struck by enemy fire and crushed by the horse purloined for battle, lay mortally wounded. His left foot had been blown away.

  Reece saw his plans ripped apart. With the French retreat, the man who had ordered the atrocities at the Alamo and at Goliad had been the last hope for Reece finding his brother. Now there was no hope.

  All he could do was give Antonio López de Santa Anna the honor that had been denied the Texan freedom fighters: a decent burial. He yelled for three soldiers to assist him in getting the body away from the harbor. Only two of them complied.

  “What is the matter with you, man?” he called to the white-faced boy. “Haven’t you the stomach to help?”

  “Let him rot in the breezes.” The boy turned away.

  A couple of blocks inland, the bells of Catedral Parroquia began to toll. A stone’s throw away, the bells of St. Fernando Church met the plaintive chimes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Santa Anna wasn’t dead. Not yet.

  They had carried him to the village of Pozitos, an army stronghold far removed from the carnage of Vera Cruz, and physicians were working on him. The general’s screams filled the barracks, echoed in Reece’s ears as he sat outside the makeshift surgical theater. “Let him live,” he prayed.

  “Why? He is a blight on the soul of Mexico,” General Diego Morales said, and Reece realized his prayer had been spoken.

  “What’s the matter? I thought you were Antonio’s man.”

  “I fight for my country, not for that bastardo.” The young general, a creole from Taxco, stood pencil-straight. “Never accuse me of being a bootlicker such as yourself.”

  “I’m loyal to my convictions, and make no apologies.”

  Morales’s lip quivered with disgust. “Your convictions will mean nothing, not when that tyrant dies. And he will. His doctors aren’t fit to butcher chickens. The only surgeon within hundreds of miles who’s worthy of the profession lies in his grave. Only Joaquin Navarro could save your precious Santa Anna.”

  Joaquin Navarro. Alejandra’s cuñado. Alejandra. Closing his eyes, Reece folded his arms across his chest and leaned his head back against the wall. He ached to see her, but he realized that if Antonio died, and that was a high probability, he would never see her again, for his plans must change. With Antonio dead, Reece would desert from the Mexican Army . . . to storm the heavily fortified dungeons of Mexico.

  And probably get himself killed in the process.

  But what were his other choices?

  A door creaked open. Footsteps came near him. “Colonel Montgomery,” a man said, “the general calls for you.”

  Reece opened his eyes to observe the blood-splattered doctor. “Will he live?”

  “Probably not through the night,” was the answer accompanied by a shake of the head. “And even if he survives till tomorrow, infection will kill him.”

  Reece rose to stand. “Well, I shall tell him goodbye.”

  The strangest feeling came over him. A feeling of loss. During all the long months and years of their acquaintance, while he had gritted his teeth and played ardent comrade to the villain of Texas, Reece had hated him. He had swallowed gallons of bile as they drank and caroused and gambled, or talked or joked or shared philosophies—Reece’s, of course, of the mostly fabricated variety. In his mind, each and every one of Antonio’s faults and misdeeds had telescoped to grand proportions. But as Reece walked toward the dying man, he realized a few things. Antonio had given him friendship without condition. How many times in a lifetime did that happen to a person?

  Already he grieved for the rogue.

  Two weeks had passed since the second battle of La Guerra de los Pasteles—the Pastry War. And to Alejandra, each of those lonely weeks had been pure agony. So many things preyed on her heart and mind.

  Presently she stood hugging her arms in the sala grande of her Campos de Palmas home. Afternoon waned. Wind whistled through the room; her home, despite its grandeur, was typical of the tropics and hadn’t been built to accommodate the infrequent northers. Weather, however, was the least o
f her problems.

  Erasmo still languished in jail. Unfairly accused, Alejandra felt by now, after hearing his story. The trial was set for January. In the meantime, nothing more could be done for her friend and ally.

  From upstairs she heard a cough. The consumptive Don Valentin Sandoval reposed in a second-floor bedroom. Of course her concerns were for him, just as they were for the people of her coffee plantation. Lately she had devoted herself to making Christmas as special for the workers as possible, to giving normalcy to those upset by recent warfare and chaos. Her immediate concern, however, had nothing to do with Campos de Palmas. This particular problem was habited in black, had blue eyes, blond hair and was perched, petulant, on the horsehair sofa.

  Never one to mourn too long, Mercedes picked a cuticle. “Did you know the Vera Cruz posada has been moved to Pozitos this year?” She rushed on with, “Here is is Christmastide, and we’re missing tonight’s dance.”

  Alejandra stared in disbelief and despair. “You pine for a dance? You’re in mourning, Mercedes Navarro.”

  “I’m still in the bloom of youth.”

  “Your husband is barely cold in his grave. And your paramour awaits trial for his murder. Plus . . . your own father has just deserted to the French.” Papa, how could you? “How can you think of dancing?”

  “Really, Dulce, you take life much too seriously.”

  There was no use arguing. Alejandra accepted certain things about herself. She did take life seriously. But who in their right mind wouldn’t? Two weeks ago and to his wife’s and younger daughter’s horror, Papa had joined a wealth of his nationality who left the shores of Mexico. The others had been expelled by the Centralist government. Not so Pierre Toussaint.

  He had rowed out to the Néréide to offer his services, shouting “Vive la France!” as parting words to counter Mamacita’s heated objections. Alejandra was heartbroken at his abandonment. She figured he did not love her. Well, she knew he did feel strongly toward his wife and daughters, but unfortunately his love of country was stronger than his love of family.