Bride of Fortune

by Henke, Shirl

  “Let whoever finds him think he surprised a thief. That's what Encarnación planned to claim when he shot me.” Scooping up his gun from the floor, he dragged her through the doors, leaving them ajar. Already he heard the sounds of voices questioning the report of the shot. There were only moments to get safely back to their room and the only way to accomplish it was by climbing the trellis on the balcony. He raced down the long porch past the hammocks and covered birdcages until he found a sturdy wooden lattice covered with thick bougainvillea vine.

  “Hike up your skirts,” he said in a harsh whisper, then climbed up several steps and reached down for her.

  She and Agnes had done this to return to their rooms after the duel, but then she had been wearing a heavy riding habit and boots. The splintery wood cut into her tender arches through her soft slippers and the branches snagged the sheer muslin of her dress. She struggled to climb as he pulled her up behind him. Then he swung onto the tiled portico roof and reached down to help her up.

  In moments the courtyard was dotted with servants carrying torches. A cry of alarm had gone up. Someone must have found Encarnación's body, but no one thought to look for the thief reentering the great house. They made it back to their room by climbing on the balcony and slipping inside just as a knock sounded on their door.

  “A thousand pardons, Don Lucero, but are you and your lady unharmed?” a servant's voice asked from the hallway.

  Nicholas mumbled as if awakened from a sound sleep, motioning for Mercedes to climb beneath the covers while he ripped off his boots and pants and yanked his robe on over his shirt. Rumpling his hair, he opened the door, bleary-eyed. “What the hell is going on?” he asked indignantly.

  “I was told there was a thief in Don Encarnación's study and I was to make certain none of the guests were harmed.”

  “As you can see, we are perfectly fine,” Nicholas said crossly, slamming the door just after the sharp-eyed servant looked across his shoulder to see Mercedes huddled in the center of the bed, clutching the covers up to her chin.

  After the footfalls echoed down the hall, he turned back to her, dreading the accusation in her eyes.

  “Why?” was all she could choke out. She remained perfectly still, holding the heavy bedspread over her body like a shield, her small hands fisted whitely against the dark velvet.

  He combed his fingers through his hair and slumped down into a chair across from her, waiting to see if she would say more—accuse him of being an impostor as well as a spy. But she did not. Big, dark, golden eyes searched his face. Her expression was haunted and bewildered more than angry now. He decided the truth—at least a part of the truth— would serve him best.

  “During the war I fought against the Juaristas. I killed them—hell, I butchered them. Not only the soldiers, but old men and beardless boys armed at best with primitive muskets that misfired more often than not. They used them as clubs. They used machetes against modern breechloaders and repeating rifles. They even fought with their bare hands. No matter how great their losses, they never surrendered.”

  “They're led by a band of godless men, liberals who want to abolish religion! Look what they've done with Church lands.” Angrily she threw back the covers and climbed from the bed to face him.

  “I don't think Juarez or any of the other republican liberals are godless or that they planned to destroy the Church.”

  “They confiscated Church lands,” she continued stubbornly.

  “Yes. In a misguided attempt to give it to the peons. It was hardly as if the Church didn't have it to spare,” he replied dryly. “It owns nearly half the farmable land in the country. Do you know who ended up benefiting most of all? Not the peons, who couldn't afford to purchase it even at the very cheap price for which it was offered. The great hacendados were the ones who grabbed up the land. So much for the imperial sympathizers championing the cause of religion,” he scoffed. “Do you think they'll give it back to the Church any sooner than Juarez would?

  “I listened to Don Encarnación and his fellow conspirators plot, Mercedes. They care nothing for the Church, nothing for Mexico, or that poor fool Maximilian. They only want to preserve their own wealth and privilege. They plan to assassinate Juarez and throw the republican camp into chaos, then break the northern states away from Mexico to form their own little kingdom.”

  She digested that information with growing horror. “It simply cannot be. Men of such stature, to betray their emperor, their nation.” She shook her head. “I can't believe they are more treacherous than those vile rabble who plunder and kill across Mexico in the name of their republic. Juaristas are murderous bandits, cutthroats, the worst dregs of society. I've heard stories about how they rob travelers, loot haciendas and rape innocent women.”

  He gave a harsh laugh and stood up, pacing across the room like a caged jungle cat. “You think the imperials were any better? I fought with the regular army as well as the contre-guerrillas. Believe me, they're no different—except the imperials are better armed...and wear fancier uniforms.” He turned slowly and stared into her eyes. His face was contorted with an anguish that hardened his chiseled features to stone. He spoke with tight-lipped fury.

  “I've seen officers—fine criollo officers—take a republican town and then turn the men loose on the innocent civilians. That fat French pig Bazaine is as ruthless as Attila the Hun and he's loosed Leonardo Marquez. Do you know what Marquez does, Mercedes? He uses babies for bayonet practice!”

  She was taken aback at his anger, but even more so with his despair. The horrors he had lived through were beyond her ability to imagine. “Isolated at Gran Sangre we heard rumors about the French, but I never credited them as true. They came as our saviors.”

  “They're foreign plunderers just as much as the Americans were in 1846. The French placed a pair of foreign wastrels on the throne of Mexico—Maximilian spends millions on castles and parks while the countryside is ravaged by war. He rides in gilded coaches lined with silk and ermine. Juarez, at least, would not squander what little remains of Mexico's wealth on personal aggrandizement.”

  “But he's an Indian, a man without a birthright. Nobody. How can he aspire to such a lofty station?”

  Nicholas recoiled as if she had spit on him. A man without a birthright. Nobody. An overreacher just as he was. “Juarez was elected under the constitution of the land. He has the legal right to rule Mexico,” he replied coldly. His own dark eyes met the proud golden glitter of hers.

  But you know I have no legal right to you, don't you, querida?

  Mercedes studied him, realizing there was much more he had not said. “And so you switched sides, became a traitor to the emperor for Juarez. Have you done it only to stop Vargas’ conspiracy or have you always sided with the republicans? How long have you been spying for Juarez?” She wanted to remain angry so she would not have to think about his real identity.

  He did not reply to her questions, but rather posed one in return.

  “Will you turn me in?” His voice was soft as he reached out to take a lock of her gold hair in his hand.

  Against her will, she stepped toward him as he held the glistening curl, rubbing it between his fingers. Mercedes could feel the heat of his body, so lean and hard, scarred by this war in which he had now become the enemy. But he was still the man she loved, whose child she carried. When she had seen old Encarnación about to shoot him her heart had stopped beating. “You are my husband,” she said carefully, still not daring to touch him. “I have killed a man to save you, so I suppose I'm a traitor now, too.”

  “So noble, my loyal little wife.” There was a faint mocking irony in his tone, but the smile that played on his lips was bittersweet. “I love you, Mercedes. Believe that, even if you believe nothing else,” he said as he pulled her into his arms.

  She went willingly, desperate to feel the warm solid wall of his flesh, alive and whole after their terrifying brush with death. His mouth came down on hers and what began as a gentle kiss swiftly turne
d savage. He plied her lips with his own and she opened for him, meeting the glide of his tongue, digging her fingers into his hair and pulling him down to her, closer, closer…

  * * * *

  Mariano Vargas closed the door to his father's study and felt the silence descend. He was at last alone. Staring down at the bloodstained spot on the floor where his father's body had lain, he considered what to do. Had the old man stumbled on a thief who escaped, as everyone surmised? Or was there a far more sinister reason for his death?

  Crossing the room, he stepped around to the back of the big wooden desk and pulled open the secret compartment. The papers were neatly stacked inside the small drawer, just as he had left them...or were they? He carefully removed them and began to check the order in which they were placed. Someone had reshuffled two of the pages, he was certain.

  Cursing softly, he replaced the papers and closed the drawer. Who could the spy be? A servant? Highly unlikely for all their retainers had been with the House of Vargas since birth. Mariano was certain of their loyalty. No, the intruder who killed his father must be a guest. Quickly he ticked off their visitors in his mind, dismissing all Don Encarnación's old friends as well as his own. Then he paused, remembering the hard-looking young Alvarado heir who had killed von Scheeling with such professional dispatch.

  Mariano stroked his chin consideringly. Difficult to believe old Don Anselmo's heir could be a filthy Juarista, but who among the others was as much of a cipher—and who else had done such a foolish thing as let go two poachers caught red-handed stealing hacienda beef? He poured himself a glass of fine French brandy and sat down in his father's chair.

  “No, it's my chair now,” he murmured to himself, taking a slow sip from the glass and letting the mellow liquor roll around on his tongue. It was time to plan what he would do to deal with Lucero Alvarado.

  * * * *

  By late morning word of the tragic death of Don Encarnación had spread through the hacienda. The fiesta ended abruptly and all the guests departed for home, leaving Don Mariano and Doña Ursula to their grief.

  As they rode toward Gran Sangre Nicholas remarked to Mercedes, “Old Don Encarnación's only heir did not appear all that distraught to me. Everything in life seems to leave Mariano untouched.”

  Mercedes shivered, remembering the awful scene in the old man's study. She had killed a man for her lover. What else would she do for him? I've sacrificed my very soul for him and I don't even know his name!

  Forcing back the unthinkable, she turned her attention to Don Mariano and his wife. “You're right about Mariano. I've never seen a man so...” she groped for the right word, “emotionless.”

  “Quite unlike his father,” Nicholas said dryly, recalling Don Encarnación's legendary criollo temper.

  “Well, his wife certainly displayed enough emotion and none of it appropriate. She was obviously petulantly angry that the great celebration she was to reign over had to be cut short.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “Just think, she'll have to wear drab black gowns for a whole year. She's not at all good at concealing her feelings. Mariano is...that is, if he has any.”

  At last she worked up her courage to ask, “What are you going to do with the information you've gathered?”

  He did not look at her but stared at the horizon. Canyons lined with cedar corkscrewed off to the north while patchy stretches of tough desert grasses, now gray-green in the dry season, stood clumped over the widening valley that led toward the Yaqui River. A harsh, unforgiving land. Home. Finally he answered her question. “There's an agent for the president waiting at a prearranged place on Gran Sangre. I'll tell him what I've learned.” He looked at her then, trying to read her reaction as he added, “I've seen the man who's betraying Juarez to the conspirators.”

  “Do what you must, I cannot prevent you.”

  “No, you cannot...unless you want to see me dead,” he replied, his voice flat. What more was there to say? She held his life in her small hands, but even more precious than that was the future they could have together with the child they had created. Was it all to prove chimerical? A dream far beyond his reach? Nicholas feared and hoped at the same time.

  They rode in silence while she studied their armed escorts, wondering who among the men raised on ancient Alvarado land might also be traitor to it. How blind she had been. She was probably surrounded by men who agreed with her lover's politics, for after all, they had far more to gain in the revolution than he did. But regardless of that, she knew in her heart that she could never betray the man riding beside her. She loved him above honor or life itself.

  * * * *

  The following day when they arrived at Gran Sangre, Nicholas saw that Mercedes was taken under Angelina's care after the long ride. Although her bouts of morning indisposition had abated and she seemed in the bloom of health, he feared for the delicate woman carrying his child. Although they had slept together on the trail, curled securely like two spoons beneath the blankets, she had remained troubled and reticent since the violent death of Don Encarnación.

  Once Mercedes was upstairs soaking in her bath while the old cook brewed her herbal tea, he headed to the corral for a fresh horse to make the short ride into San Ramos. With luck he would be there and back by nightfall if Porfirio Escondidas was a man of his word. Hilario greeted his patrón warmly but made no inquiry about the success of his mission at Hacienda Vargas.

  “I will saddle you that fine black we captured last fall. I have been working him and I think you will be pleased with the results,” the old man said with pride.

  “Bring the black up. I'll get my saddle,” Nicholas replied, turning to the long row of stalls where Peltre was peacefully eating now that he had been rubbed down. “Pity I can't ride you, boy, but you've earned a rest,” he said to the gray, rubbing his nose as the horse observed him through liquid intelligent eyes.

  He gathered his gear, checked his Henry rifle and repacked his saddlebags. San Ramos was a republican village but the roads were always dangerous for a man alone. Just as he swung his saddle off the stall bar and turned around with it hoisted over his shoulder, Mercedes appeared in the doorway.

  She was dressed in a peach silk robe, her hair still damp and curling from her bath. Her arms were wrapped around her waist and she stood very still. Hesitant and nervous, she looked at him, so tall and forbidding, with the heavy saddle slung so carelessly across his shoulder. Alkaline dust from their long ride still coated his clothing and clung to his skin. Those steady wolf’s eyes gazed at her hungrily, but he said nothing.

  Nicholas could smell the lavender scent from her hair and ached to touch the damp softness of her skin at the open throat of her robe. A pulse beat rapidly and he could see her swallow for courage before speaking.

  “You're going to meet the Juarista, aren't you?”

  “I said I would. Time is crucial. Mariano may suspect he's been found out. He's no fool.”

  “But he is dangerous. Don't go. Please, let the war be over for us.”

  “I've already explained why I can't do that,” he said patiently.

  She took a deep breath. He was not her husband yet she gave herself willingly to him, had forgiven his treason, had even killed for him. And now he repaid her love by going off to risk his life for a cause and a man she could not begin to understand. “You told me you were sick of war, of the killing.”

  He could hear the plea beneath the accusation in her voice and it broke his heart. “I am, but the killing will never end if Vargas isn't stopped.”

  “Let someone else stop him. You said you would always protect me—never leave me to go off to war again!”

  “This is different. I have to deliver the information,” he replied doggedly.

  “Send one of the vaqueros to meet your spy. I know there are men at Gran Sangre who are Juaristas.”

  “This is my assignment, I'm afraid.” Could he dare to tell her about McQueen, about his bargain with the American? He longed to, but her next words squelched
the impulse.

  Stepping closer and placing her hands against his chest she said, “Please, Lucero, do this for me...your wife.”

  Lucero. Your wife. So, the unspoken charade must continue. The truth of his identity brought out in the open would destroy their fragile relationship. He could not bear that. “I love you more than anything, Mercedes, but there are reasons why I have to go. Reasons I can't tell you.” You know why I dare not speak of it.

  “No, you can't. And I can't forgive you for leaving me this way either. Go risk your life for Juarez. Join the enemy. I was willing to give up my principles for you, but I see you aren't willing to do the same for me.”

  She pushed him away from her and tried to run from the stable but he caught her wrist and pulled her back into his arms, more roughly than he had intended. “I can't abandon the republicans—don't you think I would if in conscience I could?” His voice was tight with anger now and his whole body felt stretched taut as a noose drawn around a hanged man's neck. He could feel her stiffening in his arms, frightened of his violence yet trying to hide her fear beneath a veneer of cool haughty control.

  “Let me go,” she whispered, biting off each word.

  His arms dropped away from her. She spun free and ran from the stable. Nicholas did not go after her. What was there to say? As if his impersonation of Lucero were not enough to contend with, now they were divided by loyalties to opposing causes. He would deliver his information to Escondidas and pray once the traitor in Juarez's camp was dealt with that McQueen would not ask more from him. Once the Man of Law had been returned to his rightful place as president, perhaps he and Mercedes could rebuild their lives together here in the isolation of the north, a thousand miles away from Mexico City.

  The ride to San Ramos went swiftly. It was a small, shabby village like thousands of others the length and breadth of Mexico. Dusty yellow adobe buildings squatted in clusters, blistered by the late afternoon sunlight. A mangy cur chased several squawking chickens across the bleak little plaza where a well promised relief for the traveler's parching thirst.