Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  At that moment Mercedes, swathed in black, appeared at the bottom of the stairs; this was her fifth appearance in as many days. Alejandra would have to be as blind as Don Valentin was deaf not to notice that all around her sister were Christmas piñatas and boxes waiting to be distributed to this plantation’s workers. A duty that should have been performed days ago.

  What else could go wrong? Well, Mamacita could show up. Or—worse!—Santa Anna.

  “You’ll be happy to know,” Mercedes shouted up the stairs, above Chico’s loud demands as she stepped past the gifts, “that whore who killed my Joaquin has been set free!”

  “Gracias a Dios,” Alejandra murmured, relieved that Josie wouldn’t be executed for defending herself against Joaquin’s brutality.

  “What did you say?” Mercedes ascended the steps as another cough racked Don Valentin’s chest.

  Reece turned to look down at her. “She said she’ll talk with you later. Go home, please, Señora Navarro.”

  “Since when have you become hacendado?” In Mercedes’s voice there was no trace of warmth toward her partner-in-conspiracy of less than a week ago. “Since when can’t she speak for herself?”

  Alejandra started to defend Reece, but Don Valentin feinted to the right; she blocked his path. “Oh no you don’t.”

  “Young woman, I am eighty-three years old, and I’ve been keeping my own counsel for the majority of those years. I’ve fought the Indians in Yucatan, Spanish rule over Mexico, and the emperor Augustin. I’ve made it through civil insurrections where I’ve seen one in ten of my countrymen die, and I’ve made it through not only personal trial but also a few good times without your assistance. And I intend to do as I please right now. Now, step aside. I have work to do.”

  Work to do? Who didn’t! And hers seemed too much to bear at the moment. She was at the point of giving in to Don Valentin when Reece took his arm. Gently.

  “She’s trying to help you, just like she’s trying to help a half dozen other people,” he said as Mercedes topped the stairs. “It’s back to bed for you, Don Valentin. And no arguments, hear me?”

  “Unhand me, Señor.”

  “Go to bed,” Mercedes put in, peevish. “My sister has other things to do besides take care of you, you old complainer.”

  “Mercie! That’s unkind.”

  “Unkind? You want to talk about unkind? What about that whore who—”

  “Enough!”

  All eyes turned to Reece.

  “I’ve heard enough,” he continued, his voice rife with authority, his blue eyes steely. “Now, listen closely, because I’m only going to say this one time. You, Don Valentin, are going back to bed. Erasmo de Guzman can handle your Federalist friends to the north. Señora Navarro, if you want to pick an argument with your sister over her taking in a foundling, fine, but you’ll do it later. Alejandra is dead on her feet, and she’s going back to bed. And so is Don Val—”

  “Reece, I am not.” Alejandra shook her head. “There’s the baby and the gifts to distribute and Don Valentin and I really should speak with Mercie. And—”

  “Enough!” His brows knitted; his nostrils flared. A finger pointed at Mercedes. “Señora Navarro, when you get downstairs, rouse the wet nurse, wherever the lazybones may be, and send her up here. While you’re at it, tell Jaime to get his ass in gear and deliver those presents. Pronto.” He tapped the don’s arm. “Are you going back to bed?”

  A look of respect in his rheumy eyes, Don Valentin grinned. “You know, young man, there’s more to you than I imagined.”

  Mercedes moistened her lips. “I like a man who takes charge.”

  Alejandra was fuming. How dare he order everyone about, as if he were lord and master? “No one distributes Christmas gifts at Campos de Palmas but me. No one.”

  “You’re making an exception this year.”

  Fuming or not, she had to hand him one thing. The others were respecting his self-acquired authority. Don Valentin, under his own steam, tottered down the hall to his room, and Mercedes was on her way to fetch the servants.

  Alejandra flounced to her room, slamming and locking the door behind her. On hurried feet, she rushed to bed. It would feel so good to lean back. She was just going to gather her wits.

  Night had fallen when she opened her eyes.

  Reece, despite her locking the door, was seated beside the bed. Mango juice and a tortilla wafting the aromas of egg, onion, and chiles were centered on a tray in his lap. How was it that a man could look so attractive just sitting on a chair?

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “No,” she lied, and poked an elbow into the coverlet to gain leverage. Mussed hair pushed away from her face, she said, “I’m not very pleased with you.”

  “How so?”

  “I give the orders around here.”

  He set the tray aside and got to his feet. “Fine. I’ve been tarrying too long at Campos de Palmas, anyway.” Turning his back and flexing his broad shoulders, he started toward the door. “And in the words of Don Valentin Sandoval, I’ve got work to do. Things I’ve put off while playing house with you.”

  She felt terrible for offending him. “Reece, wait.”

  “For what? To be reminded again I’m encroaching on ole Don Miguel’s territory?” Reece gestured in dismissal. “No thanks, honey. You want to see me, I’ll be at my own house. Or maybe at Manga de Clavo. Or maybe I’ll go . . .”

  He stomped out the door.

  Alejandra shivered. She hadn’t meant to insult him. He, the person who had been so strong lately. She knew enough about men to know they had lots of pride: she had stepped on Reece’s.

  Abruptly, Mercedes swept into the room. “You’ve had your rest, Dulce. You and I need to talk.”

  Alejandra. half listened to her sister, for she wondered: how much time should she give Reece before trying to apologize?

  Chapter Nineteen

  There was murder in those cornflower blue eyes.

  Alejandra rose from her bed and faced her fuming sister. “Mercie, I’m glad you’re here. We do need to talk. It’s time you and I both put our houses to rights.”

  “Starting with how you betrayed me by aligning yourself with that whore Josie Montana. Never would I have done you that way.”

  “Sit down, Mercie. Have some of this juice.”

  Alejandra reached for the glass Reece had left for her. Reece. How she wanted to race after him, to put their situation to rights, but family situations needed to be dealt with first.

  “There’s something you need to know,” she said. “Your husband . . .” This was difficult, being truthful about Joaquin’s actions, more difficult than she had imagined. “Well, you see, Josie acted in self-defense. Joaquin—”

  “If you’re going to say my husband struck that peasant, save your breath. The gossip has spread far and wide, thanks to that puta wanting to save herself from the firing squad.”

  “You don’t believe her?”

  Mercedes bit her lip. “He did have a bad temper. A very bad temper. But my Joaquin would never do anything so heinous as hit a woman.”

  “I believe Josie’s story.”

  “You would.” Suffering under pride, Mercedes stamped her slippered foot. “How dare she accuse my poor husband who isn’t here to defend himself! And how dare you side with her!”

  Accepting her part in her sister’s misery was nothing for Alejandra to be proud of. She had made a mess of things, all around. Not to mention reminding Don Valentin of his age and bad health, she had hurt those she cherished. Oh, Reece, I do cherish you.

  Her sister took a step toward Alejandra. “Don’t you have anything to say?” Mercedes asked.

  “Actually, I do. Forget about the scandal, for now anyway. Tell me, Mercie, what you are feeling? Inside yourself.”

  “Betrayed. Angered. Maligned.” Tears welled. “Oh, Dulce, I don’t know what to feel. I just wish Erasmo would leave me alone!”

  “You’ve seen him since he was exonerated?”


  “Of course.” A shaking hand touched the side of the blond coiffure, then moved to rub her neck. “He arrived on my doorstep on the eve of his leaving for Tampico. Wanting to sweet talk me into bed. Rest assured, I did not succumb.”

  Proud of her sister and aggravated at Erasmo’s boldness, Alejandra scowled.

  “This is a tangled mess I’m in,” Mercedes went on. “I want nothing to do with Erasmo de Guzman.”

  “He’s left for Tampico, which puts distance between you. Gracias a Dios.”

  “I’m sure that is only temporary.” The elder Toussaint sister walked to the bedroom window, opened the shutters, and took a draft of the bracing night air. “Erasmo isn’t my major problem, Dulce. My problem is myself. At first I felt that if I’d stayed home the night my husband was mur—lost his life—I would have saved Erasmo from being there. And Joaquin would still be alive. Then everything got more confused when Josie Montana admitted . . . well, you know.” She whirled around and squared her shoulders. “That woman must have done something to provoke him!”

  Alejandra took her hand. “You’ll spend a bitter life, dear sister, if you don’t forgive Josie.”

  “I cannot forgive her.”

  “Try.”

  “Isn’t that the olla calling the caldera black?” Mercedes taunted defensively. “You preach to me about forgiveness, yet you’ve spent a bitter widowhood, trying to get vengeance on Señor Santa Anna.”

  Alejandra flushed. “The situation is altogether different. I want to . . . I wanted to stop that despot before he could do further harm to our country.” She didn’t add, And I have failed.

  “Well, I don’t care about any old Santa Anna. All I care about is my family. Such as you. I came here for you to apologize for taking in that whore’s son, but since you aren’t contrite in the least”—Mercedes hitched up her chin—“I am leaving.” She swept out of the room.

  If Mercedes had been anyone else besides her sister . . . Kin was kin, though, and family peace must be had. Alejandra followed behind her. “What if I do want to make amends?”

  Mercedes halted so quickly her skirts swayed like a bell. “Do you really?”

  “I never wanted to hurt you. All I did was promise to see Chico has a home. And that won’t be a problem, since his mother will come for him.” From the nearby nursery Joaquin Navarro’s son and namesake emitted a screeching cry. Apparently the wet nurse wasn’t in his room, for he carried on with his bawling. Alejandra sighed. “Mercie . . . I must see to him.”

  “That’s right. Put that bastard child ahead of your own flesh and blood.”

  Suddenly aggravated at her sister’s selfishness, Alejandra parked her hands on her hips. “That child happens to have the blood of the husband you so richly defend. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  Mercedes’s face turned white. “That was cruel.”

  “So is turning one’s back on an infant.”

  A wing of silence descended, cut only by Chico’s extended wails. A full half minute passed before Mercedes shrugged. “If you must see to the brat, go to it. ”

  Alejandra smiled. Her sister, despite calling the babe a disparaging name, had bent. She stepped forward to place her arms around Mercedes’s stiff shoulders. It was a sigh Alejandra felt, expelled by her sister. Then Mercedes returned the hug.

  “Dulce, go on,” she said, patting her sister’s back. “See if you can’t do something about the crybaby.”

  “Yes.”

  Alejandra turned and followed the loud sounds. Within a quarter of a minute, she was peeling away layers of blankets. Chico’s lower lip quivered. Chuckling, Alejandra shook her head.

  “Pobrecito, no wonder you’re unhappy.” She gathered him out of the crib, wetting her blouse as she drew him into the crook of her arm. “You are soaked.”

  Wet or not, Chico stopped his vocalizations. Alejandra walked across the room to the table holding his layette while Chico moved his head to seek sustenance.

  “I wish I could feed you,” she crooned.

  A lump formed in her throat. How old would her child have been? Two and a half. A toddler. Alejandra didn’t even know if it had been a boy or a girl, she had lost it so early. How she longed for a baby of her own! She, a woman without a husband. Well, she couldn’t think about that right now. Nor could she give too much thought to Chico’s mother returning. Though she was comforted knowing Josie had been freed, Alejandra knew this house would be a lonesome place—without the boy.

  She reached to the table. “Niño, you’ll have to settle for a sugar teat.” His face screwed up when she placed the sack at his mouth, his tongue darting out as if tasting something nasty. A grin lifted the corners of Alejandra’s mouth. “Don’t like that, do you?”

  Placing him on a piece of oilcloth, she began to strip away his clothing. Oh, he was beautiful—so pink and smooth and finely formed. And he could have passed for a pure Castilian child.

  “He looks like Joaquin.”

  Alejandra jumped at the strained voice, and turned to see her sister a couple of paces away.

  “Joaquin never could have denied him.”

  “You’re right.” Alejandra reached for a clean pañales. She hesitated before asking, “Would you care to hold him?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  What a surprise it was, not hearing a heated response. What a blessed surprise. And Alejandra was even more astounded when her sister stepped to the table.

  “But I’d like a closer look at this son of my husband.”

  Alejandra stepped back. Mercedes glanced down at Chico, then up at her sister. Her eyes were no longer hard, her stance no longer antagonistic. Thank God.

  “He is a finely formed child,” Mercedes said. “Such eyes, such lashes, such a sweet mouth.” Moving her face toward him, she clicked her tongue several times. “Hello, little boy.”

  Chico blinked up at her. He smiled; it was probably gas, but his expression drew a chuckle from his father’s widow.

  “He’ll be a bounder,” she said. “A charming bound—oh!”

  Chico was urinating into Mercedes’s face. She jumped back; her fingers slapped her wet nose. Alejandra, her humor smothered, prepared for a deluge of verbal displeasure.

  Yet Mercedes Navarro laughed. It was one of the nicest sounds Alejandra Sierra had ever heard. Her sister was a better woman that she’d ever imagined.

  Alejandra’s thoughts turned to Reece. Now it was time to start putting her own life to rights. But when she called on Casa Montgomery, she found the house empty.

  Christmas morning dawned bright and warm, the sea breezes fanning the coffee and banana trees at Campos de Palmas. Last night was the first in days Alejandra had slept alone, and the hours had crept by.

  By noon she had attended to her mistress-of-the-keep duties. By mid-afternoon she stood garbed in riding clothes, beating on the door to Casa Montgomery. Again. Fruitlessly.

  Where was Reece?

  He had threatened to be at Santa Anna’s home. No matter how much she wanted to make amends with Reece, she would not go there. And she couldn’t continue to stand here either.

  Looking over her shoulder, she glanced at Moscada. The mare, tied to a post, munched grass. Again Alejandra eyed Casa Montgomery’s heavy front door. Where was he?

  “Hola.”

  She turned to a female’s voice. The woman was elderly, toothless and wore a scarlet rebozo wrapped around her head. She carried a bamboo cage filled with two cackling chickens.

  “Señorita, you are looking for Señor Montgomery, sí?”

  “I am.”

  At the door now, the old lady pulled a key from the folds of her skirt and inserted it into the lock. “He is at—”

  “Wait a minute. Who are you? What are you doing entering the home of Señor Montgomery?”

  “Today, I am the cook.” Toothless gums smacked. “I make Christmas dinner for the good Señor and his friend. ”

  “Friend?” Alejandra echoed, envisioning a female, young and
lovely. She didn’t like the way that image made her feel. And she had a word with herself. Reece had given her no reason for jealousy, yet they had parted on harsh terms and he was quite the Don Juan around Vera Cruz.

  The old woman nodded. “Friend. Señor Zecatl.”

  “Pepe,” Alejandra murmured, relieved.

  “You like chicken, señora? Maybe you come back for dinner?” The elderly woman stepped into the darkened entrance. “I am a very good cook. Since it is Christmas, I make tamales. And I make”—again a smacking of lips—“very good molé. You like good food?”

  “Of course.” Alejandra laced her fingers. “You were saying I could find Señor Montgomery, where?”

  “He is at Cantina del Hombre Gordo.”

  “Oh.”

  Ladies did not enter saloons, that was all there was to it, so now what could she do? After a few seconds’ pause, Alejandra came to a decision. She would enter a saloon. That’s all there was to it. By the time she and Moscada reached the despicable reed-thatched hut, though, her determination wavered. Maybe she could lure him outside . . .

  She wound Moscada’s reins around a coconut palm. No more than fifteen feet away, across the shell pathway fronting the establishment, stood a burro and Reece’s fine Palomino stallion, whose ears were peeled back as he gazed at the mare. She gave him nary a snort of acknowledgement.

  Alejandra walked toward the hide door, which was flipped up and fastened open. She halted short of the entrance. The sound of jacaba, just a strum or two of the armadillo-shell guitar, floated outside. But she could see two shadowy figures seated at a small table.

  And that was Reece’s voice lifted in laughter.

  She put one hand at her hip and leaned forward. “Psst.”

  No response.

  “Pssst.”

  Still no response.

  “Psssst!”

  “How about another rum and orange juice, Pepe?” Reece asked, and Alejandra was relieved his companion was indeed the servant.