by Martha Hix
“Well, the child is comely, there’s no doubt about that, and she is honored to bring satisfaction to me, but she lacks the depth and spirit of your Alejandra.”
Reece parked an elbow on the wagon’s sideboard, and eyed the swirling dust of the road. Fighting internal warfare to keep from threatening Antonio with his life, Reece rubbed a hand down his mouth. He recalled last night and the promises made. “Antonio, my woman is fond of you, too.”
“Interesting you should say that. But it doesn’t surprise me. Power is a potent aphrodisiac to the ladies, and I have that. But do you think she’ll cast you off as easily as she cast off Moran?”
Of course Reece had been jealous when he’d thought she and the doctor were . . . close. It had pleased him mightily to find out his fears were ungrounded. But why mention any of it to Antonio? It was none of his concern. “I said she’s fond of you. I didn’t say she wants to take to your bed.”
“What does she want?”
“Your friendship. Those months she distanced herself from you are a source of guilt.” It got in Reece’s craw, saying these things. But Alejandra’s quest was important to her, so he must do what he could to help her. “She seeks to honor you, as well as the memory of Don Colonel Miguel Sierra, with her devotion to our cause.”
“Ah, yes . . . Don Miguel.” Antonio chuckled, an evil sound. “Alejandra deserved a better man than he. One loyal to the principles of right and justice, such as yourself.”
Puzzled, Reece observed the speaker.
“I was glad to be free of that one, I can tell you,” Antonio continued. “Why, he had begun to question my authority. When those cowards at the Alamo sent their toady to prostrate himself before my man Almonte and beg for surrender, Colonel Sierra suggested I grant mercy to those rebellious foreigners!”
Turning his head to the countryside rolling by, Reece clenched his teeth. It hadn’t been cowardly of Jim Bowie to send a messenger to the Mexicans. Bowie, well acquainted with the enemy through marriage, had been in hopes of molding a treaty. Argue with Antonio about it, though, Reece would not.
Antonio continued to talk. “And that was on the very first day of the Alamo siege! Can you imagine such weakness from one of my own colonels?”
Reece was taken aback. Always, he had figured Alejandra’s late husband as a loyal Santanista to the end. He knew this bit of information would make her happy.
El Presidente snickered, then said, “He paid for disloyalty. I made certain he led the first attack on the Alamo. I knew it would be a suicide mission. But I was pleased he didn’t succumb right away. It did me good to know he struggled for life for more than fourteen days . . . and lost his battle.” His brown eyes turned black and even meaner. “I made certain comforts were kept from him.”
Reece’s brain, his heart, every cell in his body railed against trusting Alejandra to such a demon. But there was no stopping her. All he could do was keep her from harm. And, by God, he would do it. Nothing anyone could do would stop him.
“Of course,” said El Presidente, “I do not resent the widow for his heresy. She is a flawless Mexicana. . . at least I believe her to be so.” He leaned toward Reece. “Tell me, amigo, am I wrong to trust her?”
“She is as faithful as Doña Ines herself.” Reece said this, knowing Antonio guilty of infidelity but ardent in admiration for his long-suffering spouse. “My Alejandra is without compare, unless it is to your esteemed wife.”
God, he hated currying favor from this monster! The litter rolled to a stop, and Reece was glad for it. He couldn’t take another minute of sycophancy. With a “hasta luego,” he leaped over the wagon and took Rayo’s reins.
Antonio López de Santa Anna, President of Mexico and savior of the nation, watched the dusty wake of his colonel, the Anglo Montgomery. El Presidente knew why Cazador wanted favors granted to Alejandra. Fearing the loss of such a choice morsel in his arms–now that she was well and truly back in his arms–Montgomery didn’t want her banished from his President’s inner circle.
Unless she proved herself unworthy, Cazador had nothing to fear. At least not for now. El Presidente had designs on the widow. Of course his tastes usually ran to the pubescent, but there was something about that hazel-eyed temptress . . . She heated his blood, and he decided it was her beauty and spirit. There was none more beautiful in this land, save for her bruja of a sister, and that one was so much the witch that no thinking man would dip his wick in her. Alejandra could be a witch, too, but Antonio had espied the way she devoured The Hunter with her eyes. And El Presidente wanted to be her next prey.
He grew hard just thinking about what it must be like to pound his member into the delectable body, and spill all that white froth into her. He wouldn’t simply continue to think about such pleasures. Someday he would act on his fantasies. He, the Napoleon of the West, spoiled for the tussle. But he didn’t have the strength for a physical fight. Not yet.
He glanced at the formation of guards surrounding his litter. Straight and tall in the saddle, Cazador rode with them, General Velasquez to his left. Velasquez was scowling, no doubt for having his daughter insulted last night. Maribel Velasquez was one of Santa Anna’s few shames.
Deeply buried conscience reared in the world’s greatest living warrior. Could he take Cazador’s woman? Recalling how the norteamericano had saved his life, then had been the only person to offer friendship during those dreadful, lonely years of his exile, Santa Anna closed his eyes. I cannot hurt Cazador, he decided. Even though I find that story about the one called Colby suspicious, I will not hurt Cazador.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Physically depleted from a recent bout with cholera, mentally exhausted from over three years in this hell known as Purgatory, Garth Colby had reached the end of his rope.
He leaned against the stone wall of his cell. He knew from listening to his cellmate, Felix Fuentes, that his brother was indeed an officer in the Mexican Army. At first, Garth concluded Reece had concocted some sort of ruse to find him, but as time had gone on, hope vanished.
His brother was not set on freeing him. Reece had sided with the Mexicans. This betrayal had sapped the hope Garth felt upon figuring he was on his way out of Perote.
He tried to disregard a scraping noise, the sounds of Felix eating. Felix had done a lot of that over the past few days, what with his sister finding a way to bribe the carcelero. She visited daily. Over and again, Felix had offered to share his good fortune, but Garth hadn’t wanted it. Strength was the last thing he garnered. All he wanted was to die and be done with it. From the way he felt, his body as weak as a newborn kitten’s, he estimated the wait wouldn’t be long.
He closed his eyes, but Felix walked across the faintly lit cell to say, “If you don’t eat this piece of cabrito, I will force it on you.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Fine, I will do as you ask, but . . .” The Veracruzano settled on the floor, and leaned toward Garth. “You will die, and I will escape. Alone.”
“Escape. You’re always talking escape.”
“This time I have my sister to help.”
“That’s right. Get her in trouble, too.”
“What is a family if not to help one another?”
Well, Garth Colby had an answer for that, but he hadn’t told Felix anything about his brother being the same Anglo colonel who had sent a Veracruzano waiter to the dungeons of Perote. Reece may have abandoned him, but betrayal didn’t have to work both ways.
While the young man might never see the light of day, Garth saw no reason to put Reece in jeopardy, should Felix make good on his deliverance. This good-hearted former waiter had an ax to grind with Colonel Montgomery.
Felix waved the fragrant piece of goat meat under Garth’s nose. “It could take weeks to make you well, but I have waited for freedom this long, I can wait for an amigo to gain strength.”
“You’re a good man, Felix Fuentes. A damned good man. But leave me alone.”
Naturally he didn’t. “
My sister Bianca and our Federalist friends make plans, as we speak, to storm this place. Already they have positioned allies inside these walls, conspirators who will aid us at the proper moment.”
Garth ought not to let such words get to him. Yet he envisioned a getaway, and the concept was as sweet as Becky McNeely’s lips. But . . . “Every soldier within a thousand miles of here would be after us. Use your head, Felix. This scheme of yours would never work.”
“We will have horses and muskets, and my friends will shelter us during the daylight hours. There will be nothing to keep us from making Vera Cruz.”
Vera Cruz. The port city that opened to the world . . . to a free world. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, sailing away from this dastardly country of Felix’s?
Felix’s country. Concerned for his young friend, Garth pointed out, “You wouldn’t be able to stay in Vera Cruz.”
“I know. I will leave for Cuba. Already passage is being secured on a French supply ship. For both of us, amigo. From the West Indies, I’m sure you can get back to your beloved Tejas.” Felix paused. Once more the morsel passed under Garth’s nose. “Back to your beloved Becky.”
Garth devoured the offering. And he was damned glad it wasn’t beans. When he got out of here, he’d never touch another bean. And no one would ever put chains on him again. Never.
The city of Mexico, high in the Sierras, had been built not only on a dry lake bed but also on the ruins of the ancient Aztec capital. It was a beautiful city, as beautiful as any in Europe. In fact, it reminded Alejandra of Paris with its wide boulevards, limestone buildings, and fashionable citizenry. It was a place of flowers and fiestas and fandangos. Yet here resided one of the most treacherous men ever to be born. Santa Anna, eschewing the last viceroy’s castle at Chapultepec as too royal, lived in the presidential palace.
So did Alejandra. So did Reece. They had been here for two weeks. For appearance’s sake, and one had to think about appearances in such a residence, her bedchamber was separated from his. But they adjoined. . . and shared a balcony. The balcony floor had gotten much use, thanks to Reece making the journey each night from his room to the next.
Those nights were spent passionately. Very passionately.
They were not alone.
In a corner of her quarters stood a crate lined with a satin-covered pillow: home to a fast-growing ball of fluff known as Francisco II. With pleasure Alejandra had accepted what would have been her Christmas present. Jokingly, she and Reece had named him for a certain royal coxcomb residing at present with the French fleet, François of Joinville. Francisco II, enemy to shoes and hosiery and furniture legs, had become known as Frisco. Alejandra and Reece shared many hours of joy, laughing at the pup’s antics.
Their time together had been joy extraordinaire. Yet Reece wasn’t content. His brother was not in the Mexico City prison.
And Reece had murmured no words about making his relationship with Alejandra right in the eyes of God. She feared, despite his avowals of love, he would someday return to Tejas. Alone.
On the first night here, she had thought he might ask for her hand. He had been serious that evening. They had been in her room. Since she hadn’t brought along a lady’s maid when she left Campos de Palmas, Alejandra had grown accustomed to taking care of herself, so she had been unpacking her portmanteaux.
“Sit down, darling,” Reece had said. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
She was certain this had to mean a proposal. She cleared a seat on the bed, and complied with his request. But marriage wasn’t on Reece’s mind.
“Your husband . . . at the Alamo, well, honey, he turned against Antonio.”
Alejandra inhaled sharply. “Miguelito did what?”
“He questioned Antonio’s decisions.”
A smile eased across her face. “That pleases me so.”
“Figured it would.”
“But . . . what happened? Did he suffer for his decision?”
Reece shook his head. “No. Not in the least.”
A part of her anguish over Miguel vanished. It had hurt her, thinking him a Santanista till death. She glanced at Reece. He wasn’t looking her way. Why? Then she knew he hadn’t been totally honest. “He did suffer for it, didn’t he?”
“Now, Jandra—”
“He did, didn’t he?”
Slowly, Reece nodded. “From what I hear, the only sustenance he got was what ’Rasmo could steal.”
Alejandra buried her head in her hands. Oh, how she despised Santa Anna! Her campaign to ingratiate herself with him was working, of course; recently he had asked her opinion on several matters, and a couple of times he had even heeded her advice. Yet hearing about Miguel redoubled her determination for vengeance.
“I will continue to influence Santa Anna,” she said to Reece, “but before it’s over, all of Mexico will know him as he is: insane.”
“If I’d known you’d react this way, I wouldn’t have mentioned anything. But think on this, Jandra. There’s nothing you can do to hurt Antonio. And I’d bet any amount of money Miguel Sierra wouldn’t want you to try.”
Alejandra decided not to argue philosophies. Her fight was with El Presidente, not with the man she loved.
Reece’s telling her about Miguel and her renewed determination had come two weeks ago.
She studied Reece now. It was afternoon, prior to the customary siesta time, and four generals, plus Reece and herself, were in El Presidente’s large office in the palace. Obviously Reece was aggravated. She was, too. Santa Anna was being stubborn, his mood foul.
The president wheeled his chair past a handful of generals, and headed for the doors leading to the balcony of his large office. “I have grown tired of all of you!”
“Your Excellency,” said General Morales, “you must grant the British envoy an audience. He will be insulted if you don’t. He wishes to discuss the Pastry War.”
Santa Anna, his back to the assemblage, waved a hand. “That business in the Gulf of Mexico pertains to Mexico and France. The British should stay out of it.”
“But, Excellency–”
“Get out! Get out, all of you!” He revolved around, one wheel of his chair catching on a table leg. The table teetered for a moment. “Get out,” El Presidente repeated. “All of you except for Doña Alejandra.”
The officers filed into an anteroom, Reece closing up the ranks. He imparted a tell-me-all-about-it look at Alejandra. Of course she would keep him apprised. Theirs was a good partnership, even though she felt somewhat guilty over passing information that went directly to the government in Tejas.
If she and Reece were to have any hope for a future, she had to reconcile to his leanings. She understood them, so that was a start.
“Pour me a cup of coffee,” Santa Anna demanded sourly. “Then come sit by me.”
She went to a table holding a silver coffee service, then poured his bebida into a porcelain cup. While he took the first slurp, she sat down on an upholstered settee.
With shaking fingers, he handed her the half empty cup. His face held the hue of a sheet. “I can drink no more.”
“What is wrong, Your Excellency?”
“It’s my leg. It hurts down to the toes that aren’t even there!” His hand began to rub his maimed left leg. “Dr. Moran presented a new instrument of torture this morning. A peg leg.”
Despite her dislike for this tyrant, she sympathized with his agony. Putting weight on it must be torment of the worst kind, what with the nature of his scar. She reached into a nearby covered dish. “Why don’t you chew on a piece of chicle?” At times this seemed to help, or at least kept his mind off his infirmity.
He popped the gum into his mouth. A few chews, and he expectorated it into a spittoon. “Hand me my medicine.”
She hesitated. He took too much laudanum . . . and had for a long time. Even before his injury, it was whispered. Getting along without opium seemed an impossibility for him.
The elixir took the edge off his mood, though.
“Ahhh . . .” He leaned his head back against his chair. “Now I can handle the affairs of state.”
This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. “Your Excellency . . . I’ve heard Sir Richard Pakenham admires you greatly,” she said, appealing to Santa Anna’s vanity. “It’s been said that he might side with us against the French.”
“Who told you that?”
“Any number of persons. Those who’ve attended dinners and balls in his honor. He is well known and liked from a previous visit here, you see.”
Her words were truthful. But Reece had been the one to parlay–covertly!–with the British envoy. Sir Richard intended to suggest peace negotiations leading to a pay-off for the French, which Alejandra agreed with.
Enough blood had been shed for the want of less than a million pesos. Yet each day the country grew poorer and poorer, thanks to the price of war, past and present, and from revenue losses caused by the Vera Cruz blockade. The national debt had quadrupled in the past three years . . . so where would Mexico get all that money?
“So . . . you think he might side with me?” El Presidente asked.
“It’s worth talking to him.”
“If he suggests . . . I won’t give those French a single cuartilla, I assure you. I–” he pounded a finger against his chest “–ran them off the streets of Vera Cruz. What nerve they have, not sailing for France in the manner of valiant losers.”
She wouldn’t remind him that Mexico had lost three forts to the invaders, and still held them. “Wouldn’t it be nice, being free of them?”
“Well, of course,” El Presidente conceded. “But there’s no money to pay their claims.”
“If the blockade were lifted, customs levies would generate funds straight into the Treasury.”
Squinting and nodding, he considered her advice. “Yes, and I’m sure some of our citizens would think it an honor to advance funds for the good of peace.”