by Martha Hix
“They don’t seem to have a problem, your being seen with me,” Reece commented and winked at Alejandra.
“They are peasants.”
“Yes, but I guess they figure you were alone long enough.”
“Mexican men live and breathe romance.”
“I’ve noticed.” They walked the path leading to the hilly coffee fields, Reece’s fingers tightening on hers. “Was Miguel like that? Romantic.”
To this point she’d figured Campos de Palmas had been the problem with Reece. But that wasn’t it at all. He was jealous of Miguel. She swallowed. How could she handle this problem?
“Doña Alejandra,” called the plantation’s manager, and she was relieved for the excuse to ignore Reece’s question. “You were wanting to see me?”
She must have talked with that Ramirez fellow for half an hour. Reece was a fish out of water, not knowing the first thing about coffee-growing. He was pleased when Alejandra broke the conversation by suggesting she and Reece take a walk through the fields. “So you can see the most beautiful land in the world,” she said. Seeing Campos de Palmas wasn’t high on his list of interests, the coastal grasses of Texas being more to his liking, but he agreed to the walk.
His thoughts were on . . . “Not a bad custom, romance.”
“You should know. You’re pretty good at it.”
“I love it when you talk dirty to me, sweetheart,” he teased, giving her a meaningful wink.
“Oh . . . you” She laughed. “What do you mean, dirty-talking? I referred to the serenade and the roses and your admirable intentions toward being a gentleman.”
“Failed intentions.”
She stepped to the side, closer to him. “Oh, Reece, you were never more my hero than when you succumbed to my, um, charms.”
He wiggled a finger at her nose. “Much more talk like that, and you’ll find out what it’s like to make love in a coffee field.”
“Should we dare?” she came back, laughing and turning in front of him.
Reece looked to the right, to the field and eyed the pickers toiling. “Your people aren’t within easy hearing distance, but with all that hollering you do, why, wolves would be howling all the way from here to the Mississippi.”
For his comment he received a swat to the thigh. “My hollering? What about your groaning and growling?”
With a sheepish grin, Reece replied, “It’s a good thing that old man—what’s his name? Oh, yeah. Sandoval. It’s a good thing old Sandoval is deaf, or he wouldn’t have slept a wink last night.”
“It seemed to be his first good night in weeks.”
“Now, Jandra, how would you know? You weren’t paying a damned bit of attention to his snores.”
“True. I shouldn’t neglect my duties toward him.”
Sensing that this was a return to the old Alejandra, Alejandra the Zealous Federalist, Reece decided a change of subject was in order.
He reached for a wide green frond shading a coffee plant. “I’ve been curious about something. What’s the purpose of growing bananas amongst the coffee?”
“Coffee needs shade to grow. And water to bud. And dry weather to pick.” She waxed enthusiastic about raising coffee. “And—”
“Last night you said you’re sick of coffee.”
“That was last night.”
Before he could digest the meaning of Alejandra’s reply, he heard an “¡Hola!” from over his shoulder. He turned. A young woman approached them. She wore a rebozo around her head, and carried a wrapped bundle. A squalling bundle.
“Josie, you’ve had your baby!” Alejandra, question in her tone and expression, then asked, “What brings you here? Has my sister sent you? And why are you walking?”
Around the baby’s bawling, the peasant replied, “I caught a ride to your gate. You see, Doña Alejandra, I’ve brought my newborn son to meet the great lady of Campos de Palmas. I know you love babies.”
“I do.” Alejandra’s hand settled on the baby blanket. “May I hold him?”
“I would be honored, Doña Alejandra.”
Alejandra took the baby into her arms. Immediately the crying ceased, coos taking its place. She peeled the blanket from a remarkably fair-skinned, fine-featured face.
“He is beautiful,” Alejandra murmured. She put her nose to his smooth cheek. “I love the smell of a newborn. There is no other scent like it. It’s life unspoiled by circumstance.”
Reece listened to her words and tone. They spoke the language of regret. And that was longing in her eyes. She had lost one child; never for a moment did Reece think she didn’t long for another one. He could give her a child. Perhaps he already had. It warmed him, thinking about Alejandra holding their child in her arms. He loved her. And wanted to spend the rest of his days proving it.
Sure, Montgomery. Right. He had to be practical. His was a temporary mission in Mexico. By the time he finished, the whole of Mexico would know Reece Montgomery was as Texan as Davy Crockett.
A question dug at Reece, one he’d ignored in the past. How would Alejandra feel if she knew her lover had not been a passive observer at San Jacinto . . . and that he had killed more than his share of Mexicans in the war that had taken her husband? He doubted she’d up and leave her adored Campos de Palmas for the wilds of Texas.
He settled his gaze on Alejandra.
“How old is the boy?” she asked the peasant.
“He was born two weeks ago.”
“You should be abed,” Alejandra chided, stroking the soft down on his head.
Josie laughed, a funny sound. “Such privileges are reserved for the gachupinas. Women of my race are on their feet right after their birthings. You know that. ”
Alejandra flushed, for what the woman said was true. Reece, however, wouldn’t have Alejandra upbraided for something that wasn’t her making. “That is a custom of yours dating back long before the Spaniards came to Mexico,” he said, “Europeans can’t be blamed for it.”
Before Josie could open her mouth, Alejandra asked, “What is the babe called?”
“Joaquin Navarro Montana. But I, uh, call him Chico.”
A funny look crossed Alejandra’s face. “How nice of you to name him after your patron.”
“Your sister did not think it so nice.” Josie tossed her head. “This morning, when I told her about Chico’s true name, she ordered me away from del Noche. And now I have nowhere to go. Unless you will offer me employment.”
“What . . . what about the child’s father? Can’t he help?”
“Only by watching over his son.” Josie squared her shoulders. “My son belongs to the husband of your sister.”
“¡Madre de Dios!”
Tears filled Josie’s eyes; her lips trembled. “My son and I have no place to go. Please don’t turn us away.”
“You put me in a ticklish situation.” Alejandra’s arms tightened around the child. “You would pit me against my sister.”
Josie didn’t reply, but she did touch her hand to her bosom. Swooning, she said, “I am weak . . . from the baby.”
She folded to the earth.
Chapter Eighteen
Dizziness, a roiling stomach, weakness. These feelings, just as they had since Joaquin had struck her, churned through Josie Montana. She opened her eyes. Where was she? What had happened? She gathered her thoughts. This was a bed she lay upon; this was a shaded sleeping chamber of Campos de Palmas. She had another feeling, this one emotional rather than physical.
Fear.
She looked at the green-eyed woman standing over her. Doña Alejandra touched a wet rag to Josie’s forehead. The man from the fields, the Anglo, held the quiet baby. Josie wasn’t afraid of Señora Navarro’s sister, nor was she scared of the strange hombre. She feared the web of her lies.
“Are you feeling better?” Doña Alejandra asked.
“Not really.”
“Reece, fetch some broth from the cocina. That will make her feel better.”
If only that were true. The man tu
rned, and Josie requested, “Would you please leave the baby with me?”
He nodded, held the child up for a moment, and smiled. Such a handsome man was he; la doña was a lucky woman to be adored by this one called Reece. Obviously he loved her.
Self-pity tugged at Josie. No one would ever love her in such a way—Joaquin certainly hadn’t!
The Anglo said something in English. Whatever it was, it must have been a compliment to Chico, for his blue eyes were soft and his tone even softer. He seemed to regret giving up the bundle, but he did.
“I shall return,” he said in Spanish, then exited.
Josie cuddled little Chico in the crook of her arm. His heavily lashed eyes opened as did his mouth. Drawing his hands into fists, he sought his meal. She pulled her blouse aside, and he closed his lips around her seeping nipple. It felt peculiar, having a child. Peculiar but wonderful. She didn’t want to give up the wonder of being a mother. Yet the truth about Joaquin’s murder would place her in front of a firing squad.
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Shhh, it will be all right, Josie dear,” Doña Alejandra tried to comfort.
“No, nothing will ever be right again.”
Her sobs disturbed the baby, and he let go her breast to bawl.
“You must pull yourself together, Josie, for the baby’s sake.”
She tried. Taking a restorative breath, she stroked his small back. A smile forced, Josie murmured words of love to her young. His unfocused eyes tried to settle on her face. He burped.
“Good boy,” murmured Doña Alejandra.
“Sí, my darling good boy.” Josie had many things to say, and felt the doña trustworthy, since she had always been kind and understanding. But Josie couldn’t hold her son while saying her piece. “Would you put him somewhere else?”
Puzzled at the request, Doña Alejandra asked, “You don’t want to hold him?”
“He is sleeping now.”
“Well, as you wish.” The patróna of Campos de Palmas rested her finger against her upper lip and glanced around the room. “I guess we can use that,” she said, indicating a large bureau. She walked to it, then pulled a drawer open. “Yes, this will do. It’s filled with linen already.”
Doña Alejandra crossed the room again, and took the baby into her arms. But she made no move to place little Chico in the improvised crib. She nestled him in her arms and kissed his abundance of wispy black hair. Rain began to fall outside as she began a lullaby.
Josie had an idea. No, it would never work. “Maybe you should put him in his bed,” she said instead. “You see, I have something very important to tell you.”
A half minute later Doña Alejandra had scooted a chair beside the bed and was sitting on it. “What is wrong, Josie?”
Rain blew through the window slats, the shutters slapping mournfully, before Josie could bring herself to reply. “When I set out to see you, I had every intention of laughing in the face of fate. I wanted a job here, whatever it took to get it.” She trembled, recalling how she, a strong young woman, hadn’t felt well, not since Joaquin’s attack. But this was the first time she’d lost consciousness. “I fear the hand of God.”
The other woman took her hand. “Does this have to do with my brother-in-law? Or with my sister?”
“Will you promise me something?” Josie requested, unwilling to go further until . . . “If something were to happen to me, will you promise you’d look out for my son?”
Even in the room’s half light, Josie could see the emotions mixing on la doña’s face.
“If the baby belongs to Joaquin, and apparently he does,” said the beautiful aristocrat, “I’m afraid my sister would object to my guardianship.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to raise him as your own, but I would appreciate your seeing that he finds a home. A good home.” It hurt deeply to speak of her son as if he were a pup needing shelter! Josie’s motherly pride was offended. After all, Joaquin Navarro Montana was half as aristocratic as Alejandra Sierra herself. “Señora Navarro is angry with me, sí, but she is not so uncaring she would resent you for taking charge of my son.”
“I can’t agree with you there.”
“Maybe it would be asking too much of both of you, especially since . . .” Josie turned her head to the side, squeezing her eyelids. “I can’t go on lying. My deceit is preying on my mind and soul.” Could she admit her crime? No matter her fears, Josie felt the urge to say no more. To take flight. But where would she go? She had not so much as a cuartilla to her name. And her village was a hard walk from here. How could she get her weakened self, and the child, to Coatlpoala? For her own sake and for Chico’s, she must face the truth. The boy must be provided for, and kindly Doña Alejandra was her only hope. “It was I who m-murdered my son’s f-father.”
“You murdered Joaquin?” the doña asked, her voice strangled.
“Sí.”
Josie stole a glance at the other woman. Holding her elbows, Doña Alejandra paced the rug, her head hanging down.
“Will you help me and my child, Doña Alejandra?”
“I’m sorry.” Slowly, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. You ask too much.”
Palpitating fear rushed through Josie Montana. She had gambled everything on this woman keeping Chico from harm. How could she have been so naive? Now she would go to the firing squad, uncertain of her baby’s fate. Madre de Dios, why have I been forsaken?
“I was wrong about you,” she uttered, words strangled in her fears. “I thought you good-hearted and compassionate. If not toward me, at least toward the son of your cuñado.”
“You’re being unfair. Joaquin Navarro died at your hand. I cannot sweep that under the rug like so much dust.”
Disheartened that she had put her trust in the wrong person, Josie knew she had to escape this place. Had to! “I understand,” she said, not understanding for a moment. “But before you send for the policía, would you grant me one favor? I think that broth would make me feel better. Would you be kind enough to see what happened to it?”
Skeptical, Doña Alejandra studied Josie, much to her discomfort. “It will be along.”
“You know I’m wanting to leave with the baby, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Will you grant me that privilege?” Josie, her head swimming, rose to a seated position and threw her legs over the bedside. “Or shall I try to get past you as best I can?”
“No. Wait. Don’t be hasty. Please, get back in bed. ”
Feeling somewhat assured, Josie made no move to escape.
The doña rubbed her temples. “Why did you kill Joaquin?”
She ducked her head. “He ordered me away from del Noche. He reviled our child. But his words weren’t the hurtful part, Doña. He . . . he hit me with his fist, then with the candlestick.”
Doña Alejandra inhaled sharply, her eyes rounding in shock. Josie forced herself not to cry, but the memory hurt so. “It was afterward that he attacked our child.” Josie swallowed the hard knot closing her throat. “I’ve done many shameful things in my life, most of them involving Dr. Navarro, but I didn’t mean to k-kill him. I wanted only to hurt him as he hurt me,” she shuttered. “Never would I have struck him if he hadn’t endangered our baby.”
Anguish mingled with compassion in the doña’s expression as she swept her hands to her face. “Is what you say true?”
“Yes.”
“But you implicated Erasmo de Guzman.”
“I did so out of fright,” Josie replied honestly. “I was scared for the child. I . . . I still am.”
“Don’t be.”
Josie said a prayer of thanks when Alejandra continued. “I’ll do what I can for you. And I’ll see that your son is provided for.”
“You’ll do no such thing!”
Alejandra, her hands at her hips and Reece at her side, stared down at the shrunken form of Don Valentin Sandoval. It was Christmas Eve. They stood at the top of the stairs, barring the consumptive octogena
rian’s path. In the five days since Josie’s confession had released Erasmo from prison, hell had been popping at Campos de Palmas. Don Valentin had added his part.
“You are too ill to travel,” she persisted.
Reece nodded. “I second that.”
“Say what?” Don Valentin coughed into a linen cloth and teetered on his cane. Once Alejandra had repeated her statement, he straightened imperiously. “I’ve work to do. I’m going to catch up with de Guzman and go with him to Tampico. And that is that.”
Considering Erasmo left Jalapa yesterday, the Yucatecan stood as much chance of making a rendezvous as Santa Anna did of becoming a man of the cloth. No chance at all.
He grimaced at Reece. “As for you, young man, I’ll not be taking orders from the likes of you.”
“Old man, somebody needs to help Alejandra with all the burdens she’s taken on, and, by God, it’s going to be me.”
Alejandra smiled tiredly at Reece. Despite his continued urgings that they leave her home, he had been the only island of calm in a sea of chaos here lately. In the blue bedchamber, when the house was tranquil, its residents at slumber, he had shown her paradise. . . again and again and again.
Yet she was oddly offended at his present high-handedness.
The silence was suddenly broken by a piercing wail from the nearby bedroom which had been furnished with the belongings Alejandra, long ago, collected for her own child. Obviously, Chico had awakened from his morning siesta. Alejandra smiled. Over these past few days, the babe had stolen her heart.
She had seen to all his needs, except wet nursing, in the aftermath of his mother surrendering to the authorities. What should she do about his wailing? Go to him or keep Don Valentin from embarking on a journey certain to sap his last strength?
As if reading her mind, Reece said to her, “Chico is in no danger of demise.”
“And neither am I.” Don Valentin tried to hit Reece’s leg with his cane. His only gain was to wobble on his feet. Righting himself, he wheezed, “You, Señor Montgomery, are the last person Doña Alejandra should be counting on.” He moved his cane to the side to make his break. “It’s a sad day when a lady has to rely on one of General Santa Anna’s scoundrels.”