Mexican Fire (21 page)

“Santa Anna? Is he back in power?”

“Yes.”

After all this time in prison, Garth didn't care much who was running Mexico, but he regretted hearing that succinct reply. He yearned to talk, to drown out the sounds of Heaven. For lack of anything better to do, Garth asked, “So tell me, Felix Fuentes of Vera Cruz, how come you were accused of cowardice? You got something personal against him?”

“I am a Federalist, Señor. And I am accused because I would not carry his litter to Pozitos when he had been injured fighting the French.”

Refusing to honor a countryman just because he wasn't of one's political party . . . “Sounds pretty craven to me. And I'm surprised they didn't take you immediately to Hell. Or straight to a firing squad.”

Felix snorted. “Why waste bullets on a lowly waiter?”

“You're not a soldier?”

“No, but I was willing to fight for my country. But not for General Santa Anna.”

Garth was amazed at Felix's attitude. No wonder the Mexican people couldn't get a workable government together; all they did was fight among themselves. Oh well. What did it matter? No matter what happened with the Mexicans, things stayed the same in Perote.

Felix Fuentes gave a mirthless chuckle. “We all thought General Santa Anna was dead. I cried with joy. I was ready to run to the
malecón
and shout my hurrahs to the Frenchmen. They were rowing back to their ships, you see. Anyway, the Anglo colonel yelled for me to help with the general. But I did not want to help. The blond-haired colonel was furious, said we must keep General Santa Anna alive.”

Half interested, Garth said, “Seems the dutiful thing to do, I suppose.”

“Oh, that colonel is more than dutiful. He is the right-hand man of the general.” Bitterness filled each of Felix's words. “It was he who ordered me arrested.”

“Do I detect vengeance in your tone?”

“Let's just say I hope I never meet Colonel Montgomery again.”

The name Montgomery sent off a bell in Garth's head. All of a sudden he thought of his brother. Could it be possible . . . ? Of course not. Reece would never become a member of the Mexican military. Montgomery was a common enough name, and foreign mercenaries could be found in the army. What a crazed thought, even to consider a parallel.

Perote had addled him.

One thing was crystal clear, though. Something didn't ring true in Felix's story. “If all that happened in Vera Cruz,” Garth said, “why didn't they throw you in the dungeon at San Juan de Ulúa?”

“It is in French hands now.”

Would that Perote Prison could fall into those hands . . . For the first time in years, Garth Colby felt a glimmer of hope.

“I'm hungry,” Felix announced.

“You'll get fed tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Felix's voice was hoarse. “But I've had nothing to eat for days.”

That wasn't Garth's problem. He lay back on the floor and closed his eyes. Tiny feet skittered across his leg. Rat feet. So used to rodents was he that Garth paid no mind. Matter of fact, he almost considered them pets. Lord knows, they had sometimes stolen, sometimes shared the meager bits of food he had squirreled away as opportunity had arisen.

He heard sharp teeth tearing into the large crust of bread he was saving for later. “Go away!”

“What was that?” asked Felix.

“I don't know. Old Hickory's army?” Facetiousness and innuendo lost on the Mexican, Garth said, “Rats.”

Felix shuddered.

Now was the moment for trial by fire. Garth went for the soggy bread. Holding it between his fingers, he crawled across the floor. “If you want to eat, take this.”

“Never. That rat was chewing on it.”

“Listen, Felix, you want to survive here, you'll do what you have to do. You'll eat whatever you're offered and be glad for it.”

“But it's your food.”

“Better you should share my food than to let our rodent friends at it.”

“Thank you,
amigo.”
Felix groped for the offering. Inhaling it in two gulps, he leaned back and sighed. “Nothing ever tasted so wonderful.” He laughed in irony. “And to think that this time last month I was eating fine food at the Café Plantain.”

“Where's that?”

“On the square in Vera Cruz. We serve the finest in food and coffee.”

“Coffee . . . What I wouldn't give for a cup.” And for a woman. Provided he could find the strength for feminine charms.

“When we get out of here,” Felix said, “In gratitude for sharing your meal, I will treat you to a cup of Vera Cruz's most superb coffee, Señor. We have a special blend from the Hacienda Campos de Palmas that is known all over the Americas.”

For a moment Garth considered allowing Felix to live in his world of hope. Just for a moment. “We will never leave here. Never.”

“Please don't say that.” Despair painted each of Felix's syllables. His tenor rose as he continued. “We mustn't give up hope.”

Garth didn't reply. But the sounds of Heaven assailed him. And reminded him of a long time ago, of a place far from the mountains of Veracruz. Texas. As surely as if she were standing before him, he could visualize little Becky McNeely. Pretty Becky. Sweet, loving Becky. Becky, who had almost given him her virtue in her father's barn. Blood pounded at Garth's temple, centered in his groin.

Dammit.

He had to quit thinking about his red-haired darling.

“Who are you?” Felix asked, breaking into Garth's thoughts. “I've been trying to figure out your accent, but I can't.”

“Don't know many Tejanos, do you then?”

“You're from Tejas . . . ?”

“San Patricio by way of St. Louis.”

“Then you're
norteamericano.”

“Right. Garth Colby is the name.”

Silence cloaked the dark cell. Several minutes passed before Felix said, “I have no use for your kind.”

“Frankly, I don't give a damn.”

“My father died at the battle of Goliad,” Felix explained.

“So did a lot of people.”

“My father was a good man.”

“So were a lot of Colonel Fannin's men. And Santa Anna had them executed.” Garth stretched his too-thin legs. “At least that's what I've heard.”

Apparently sensing that he would get no sympathy from his cell mate, Felix changed the subject. “Señor Colby, why are you here?”

If this had been years earlier, Garth might not have answered a personal question, being that he had been a man who kept his own counsel. But after all these months of solitude, he welcomed conversation. “I had a difference of opinion with the Alcalde of San Antonio over a customs dispute. We couldn't come to terms, so he gave me the
opportunity
to see the real Mexico. What a delight it is,” he added sourly.

A minute passed before Felix asked, “How long ago was it? That you left Tejas.”

“'Twas back in December of '35.”

“You must miss your family,” Felix understated.

“All I've got is a brother. And you're damned right I miss him.” Reece. His younger brother by three years. Wild Reece who was as at home on their trapping lands as he had been in the grand salons of New Orleans. Would he have a wife and family by now? Did he have his land grant in Texas? Hell, was he even alive?

They sat on Casa Montgomery's patio and drank rich, black coffee laced with brandy while Pepe Zecatl relayed many stories. Since the moment the trio arrived here to partake of Christmas dinner, Alejandra—now stuffed with
molé
and its accompaniments—had barely kept her eyes off Reece. He was unusually quiet tonight.

The evening had turned warm, climbing into the low seventies; thus, he wore a white silk shirt open at the collar and a pair of buff-colored linen breeches. Both were finely tailored to his whipcord physique. As usual, high-cut boots encased his long feet and calves. As always, his handsomeness took her breath away.

For the first time, she glanced at the scattered clouds against the night sky. Wouldn't it be nice, a stroll to digest all that savory food? Digestion, ha! She wanted a moment alone with Reece.

Which seemed an impossibility.

In his element entertaining the captive audience, Pepe was in no danger of shutting up. With the table cleared and the dishes washed more than an hour ago, Reece had invited the elderly cook, Lupita, to join the circle. And she made no move to call the evening short.

Reece seemed content with the situation. Or did he?

All afternoon, all evening Alejandra had sensed something on his mind. Again she glanced at his rugged profile. His expression appeared rather strained, the set of his shoulders almost too relaxed, as if he were trying to seem at ease.

Oh, for that walk. Oh, for a chat.

She eyed Pepe. “. . . and when I met the Señor here,” he said, midway through yet another yarn, “on the day he arrived in Vera Cruz with our beloved General Santa Anna, I made the mistake of asking for a job.” He exaggerated a face. “Little did I know Señor Colonel Montgomery would be such a hard taskmaster.”

Lupita brought her parchment-like fingers to her lips. “Señor Zecatl, that is not true. Colonel Montgomery is very nice. My grandchildren were able to fill the collection box at Mass last night thanks to his generosity, and how many employers would allow people like us to share dinner as well as this delicious coffee?”

Pepe winked at the cook. “He does have a few saving graces.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, young man, for speaking such insolence.” Lupita shook a finger at him. “He is
muy simpatico.”

Reece fidgeted in his chair. “Don't make me out to be something I'm not. I'm a simple man, a common man. And to my way of thinking, you are my equal.”

Alejandra agreed with Lupita. Reece was very nice. And she was pleased when Pepe nodded at the old woman and said, “I have come to respect our Señor more than I ever thought possible.”

Curious about Pepe's former jeering, Alejandra turned to him. “For whom did you work before joining Señor Montgomery?”

Without as much as a pause, he replied, “I served many masters, Doña.”

What a glib answer. But what should one expect from a Santanista? “Perhaps Lupita is right,” Alejandra chided gently in defense of Reece and as advice to Pepe. “If you were more respectful of your masters, at all times, you wouldn't have had a succession of them.”

“Maybe I shouldn't consider our señor as a friend, but he has spoiled me.”

“Pepe, I like you just the way you are,” Reece put in and frowned at Alejandra.

“I—I didn't mean to be judgmental. I didn't understand the situation, though I certainly should have.” By the Lady of Guadalupe, Reece had told her so many fond things about Pepe, and she shouldn't have opened her mouth! “Please forgive me, Pepe. And you, too, Reece.”

Reece placed his cup on the patio. “I've been thinking about this whole situation.” Forearm braced on his knee, he leaned toward Alejandra. “You, as
la doña
of Campos de Palmas, aren't accustomed to fraternizing with those not of your station.” He paused. “Maybe I should be asking if you mind sharing an evening with
peónes . . .
and a common man.”

She realized his words had little to do with mixing with underlings. He was asking her to accept him as he was. “I'm quite comfortable with everything and everyone at Casa Montgomery.”

He straightened in the chair, and smoothed his mustache with a forefinger. “You'd better be telling the truth.”

“I assure you, I am.” She placed her cup on the table and edged his way. That warm feeling, the one she felt each time Reece was near, spread through her. “As much as I'm enjoying the company, though, I must admit I could use a walk to settle Lupita's wonderful dinner.” Her eyes tried to relay a message to Reece. Impossible, she decided, due to the evening light. “We could all take a stroll along the beach,” she added, hoping Pepe and Lupita would decline.

“No walk for me.” The cook dabbed her mouth with a forearm. “Enough of one awaits for my journey home. And that is where I must return.” She rose. “Thank you, señora, Señores, for a pleasant Christmas evening.”

Alejandra hoped her relief wasn't too evident.

“A walk sounds nice to me.” Pepe picked up the
jacaba
that sat on the patio next to his chair. “I will serenade you.”

Reece, thankfully, put a halt to the entertainment with a strong suggestion Pepe escort Lupita home. A couple of minutes after the servants departed, Reece and Alejandra were walking barefoot along the salt-scented stretch of beach, the wet sand squashing under their toes. The sky was sprinkled with pin-points of starlight, the moon casting ribbons of light across the rolling waves. Breezes ruffled their hair. His warmth caressed her side; the scent of bay rum, her nose. She should feel marvelous, but couldn't, not with her uneasiness about his strange quietness.

“Reece,” she said quietly and stopped her forward pace, “something's bothering you. What is it?”

He picked up a piece of driftwood. Throwing it into the surf, he answered in English, “Nothing.”

Anxious to jar him from his private thoughts, she said, “Are you still upset over what I said to Pepe? I know I was out of line, but I hope you can understand I thought to defend you.”

“You do know how to put underlings in their place.”

“Maybe I don't invite my people to dine, but I treat them fairly.”

“Your people,” he said, adding emphasis to the first word. “You don't own them, Alejandra.”

She had had enough of this, and refused to continue defending such an outlandish line of argument by further response. Besides, he had been closemouthed even before they had sat down at the dinner table, so his mood couldn't be attributed to her remarks to Pepe.

“I'd like to mention a couple of points. It's Christmas and we're together. Don't you think we should be happy?”

He glanced at her, then back at the water. “You're right. It is Christmas.”

“A time for joy.”

“Yes.”

“But not for you. Why, Reece, why? What is missing in your—” Her heart took an extra beat as she took a backward step. “Reece, is it—are you—do you have a family?”

“Everyone has family.”

Dear God, why hadn't she thought of it before? “Then you must miss your w-wife, especially at holidays.”

His head whipped around, his brow knitted. “Wife? What the hell makes you think . . . ? Jandra, I do not have a wife. Never have had one.”

“Whew. You had me worried there for a minute.”

“I'm pleased you're concerned enough for it to matter.”

She ought to tell him how special he was. Ought to. But she wasn't ready for confessions of the heart. And what could she say? That she knew overwhelming desire, perhaps even obsession, where he was concerned? Actually, she wasn't certain about her feelings, except that his presence made her feel totally alive. Somehow she sensed these sentiments weren't what Reece wanted to hear.

“Of course I'm concerned for your marital status,” she answered, thinking to make light. Plus, her pride kicked in. She wouldn't have it appear commitment was what she sought from Reece. “It's bad enough to enter an unholy affair, much less to add adultery to the sin.”

He moved not a muscle. Moments seemed as if they were hours before he said, “So that's how you view us, as a couple of players in a tawdry little affair.” Regretful over her poor choice of words, she said, “I didn't mean to make you angry. Really I didn't.”

“Angry? I'm not.” But his countenance darkened. “And I'm glad we've got it straight, just how you feel about us.” He did an about-face, then marched back down the beach, breezes ruffling the sleeves of his shirt as he went. “It's getting late. Let's call it a night,” he said over his shoulder.

He wanted her obedience and the luxury of his own private thoughts. He wanted too much. While she was exasperated over his unusual mood, she worried over him. Trotting after Reece, she called out, “Please don't be angry. Won't you please—”

A foghorn blared, cutting off her words. Her head turned to the sound. Lights shone from a ship on course for San Juan de Ulúa. She frowned. No doubt it was a French vessel, or one friendly to that cause. And it brought something to mind, a situation brushed from her thoughts for the past few hours.

“Easily sidetracked, aren't you?”

She turned her notice to the scowling Reece. “I . . . I, well, I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what? For being sidetracked? Don't be. I know you well enough to know your priorities don't rest with me.”

Exasperated suddenly, she retorted, “Well, don't you sound like an oh-pity-me.”

“Maybe I do. Here we are, fresh from our latest battle, and your mind's far away.” He stepped backward. “Tell me, what's so interesting about a ship passing in the night?”

“N-nothing.”

“That's my line. Think of something original, like the truth.”

She jacked up her chin. “All right. I'll give you the truth. I had two reasons for going to that cantina. One, to make amends with you. The other, I need your help.”

“How?” he asked, no sign of cooperation in his tone.

“I think I shouldn't have interferred with Don Valentin's plans to join 'Rasmo. I think he should go.” A gust of air blew a lock of hair across her cheek; she tugged at the wayward strand with an impatient finger. “He can't make the journey by carriage. So I want you to prevail upon the French to sail him to Tampico.”

“Now we get to the meat of why you showed up at Gordo's.” A muscle ticked in Reece's jaw, shadowed in the moonlight. “Why didn't you get right to it, rather than surround it with all that make-amends bull?”

“You're making too much of this,” she said softly.

He shifted a shoulder. “I doubt it.”

“But that night at the
posada
you said we could work as a team.”

“Teamwork suggests toiling together. And as far as I can detect, Alejandra Sierra works for none but her own interests. When she isn't trying to get my back against the firing-squad wall, that is.”

“Not without provocation,” she came back, unwilling to allow her character to be maligned.

“May all the sombreros in Mexico be off to you.” His voice held a sneer. “Thank you, kind Jeanne d'Arc—excuse the comparison to someone French—for going to so many lengths for the good of your great nation. Which is, in my opinion, the sorriest excuse for a republic in the world”

She gasped. Shaking, she uttered, “How dare you malign the country that gave a trapper's son from St. Louis privileges far above himself? How dare you malign my beloved Mexico!”

“There it goes again, your snobbery. You're a self-centered snob who can't see past your nose where this country is concerned.”

Her fingers itched to scratch his eyes out. Instead, she reeled around, intent on making for Moscada and a quick return to Campos de Palmas. “To hell with you, Reece Montgomery.”

No trace of tenderness in his touch, he grabbed the arm that had been injured on this very beach. “You may be right. I may end up in hell. You'll be meeting me there. Have no fear, though. I'll be avoiding you. I've had it with being a pawn in your schemes.”

“I never thought of you as a pawn,” she said, then remembered she
had
tried to use him. “My intentions tonight were decent. I was after the partnership, and—”

“Partnership in what? A roll in the sand? Since the time you showed up here with that asinine tale about a broken trace, you've been batting your eyes and wiggling your sit-upon, wanting to use me.” His fingers moved to her derriere. “Using works both ways. How about I be the user this time?”

Her free arm arced. The flat of her palm whacked his jaw. Pin-points smarted through her hand, up to her elbow. He didn't so much as flinch.

They stood staring at each other under the brilliant moon. Tension crackled between them. But as she thought about his words, she realized the truth to them. She had done everything in her power, pitiable though it was, to make trouble for Reece.

Taking a step toward him, she whispered, “You may be right about several things, Reece, but I don't deserve to be called no better than a whore.”

“I can't think of a better description.”

Shocked and hurt, any sentiment forgotten, she lashed out, “And to think I ever compared you favorably to my Miguel. You could never, ever be one-tenth the man he was!”

Feeling momentary regret for that denunciation, she flushed. But contrition vanished when Reece chuckled without spirit and said, “You talking about the bastard who had you so inhibited you couldn't stand for me to look at your naked body? The husband who left you, pregnant, and went off to put his country before his wife? Well, thank you, ma'am, but I don't want to be compared with the likes of him.”