Mexican Fire (31 page)

Two weeks passed, and still he hadn't returned. Another week passed. She grew worried, then frantic. Had something happened to Reece? She shouldn't have fretted. El Presidente received a communiqué that all was fine in Oaxaca. Forthwith, Colonel Montgomery would return to the palace.

The next day Mercedes Navarro, Chico in her arms, arrived in the capital. It was both a joyous and somber reunion for the sisters, for Josie's death had saddened Mercedes.

When Alejandra told her sister, “ 'Rasmo is in Mexico City,” Mercedes's mood turned to frustration. She was well and truly finished with the man. It took one more confrontation with Erasmo for him to accept it, a clash Mercedes described in detail to Alejandra the morning after it occurred.

Her mind free of worry over Reece's safety, Alejandra was swept with concern for the man who had long been her friend. Erasmo had offered support and friendship during those early, terrible days of her widowhood. And she owed her meeting Reece to him, too. If Erasmo hadn't gotten her involved in that harebrained scheme to turn Reece into a Federalist spy, she might never have become so close to her beloved Tejano.

An ally for Erasmo surfaced in the form of Humberto del Lago: Mamacita's brother. In the aftermath of Bustamante's fall from grace, Tio Humberto had become disenchanted with the government. Alejandra, meeting with Tio Humberto at his Mexico City home, had prevailed upon him to hide Erasmo. Together, the men published Federalist broadsides condemning El Presidente and urging revolution.

Mercedes Navarro turned her attention to Dr. Edward Moran. He grew fascinated with the widow Navarro, and asked Alejandra if she minded if he pursued her sister. Of course she didn't mind.

The next Saturday afternoon, a warm and glorious day with birds singing and musicians playing, the sisters sat on benches in the
zócalo
, watching the baby as he lay on a pallet and taunted Alejandra's puppy. The dog, his tail wagging, rushed forward to growl playfully at Chico. The boy rolled to his back, laughed and grabbed a hank of curly white fur. Frisco didn't object. Nor did he seem to mind when the black-haired lad tugged on his ear.

Babies were such a joy. Alejandra wanted children of her own–wanted
Reece
's children. Suddenly, she imagined herself in that wilderness known as Texas, in a modest home that Reece had built. The table was set. At least three blond boys, all spit and polish, sat for the dinner Alejandra had prepared. She chuckled to herself. Little boys were rarely spit and polish. And it would take several cooking lessons . . . Alejandra had always liked a challenge. But she must do something to reconcile with Reece for those dreams to come true. These four weeks had been pure torture.

“Your thoughts must be far, far away,” Mercedes said, pulling Alejandra back to the
zócalo.

“True. I was dreaming about children.” Alejandra glanced at Chico. He slept, a watchful Frisco curled against his fat tummy. “He's such a happy child.”

“Sí.
I hope he'll stay that way.” Mercedes brushed her mantilla over her shoulder. “I will do my best to make him happy . . . as Josie would have done.” A half minute passed before she changed the subject. “Edward knows I may be barren.”

“And how does he feel about it?”

“He says I am lucky to have Chico . . . and that he would feel lucky to have such a boy as mine.”

“You are fortunate, Mercie.”

She nodded. “Yes, I believe so. And he is a wealthy man.”

“Is that important to you?” Alejandra asked, fearing it might be so.

“Only in that we are equals. I married one doctor who was out for riches and heirs, not for love. I won't do it again. And I have no heart for political zealots such as Erasmo. I want to live a quiet life. In New York.”

“Quiet life in New York? Perhaps you've forgotten the life in that city.” Alejandra laughed gently, then turned serious. “Mercie, has Edward asked for your hand?”

“Not yet.” Mercedes pointed at the boy and dog. “Look at them. Aren't they precious together?”

Before Alejandra could agree, a man called to them. They turned their heads to Edward Moran, who was walking toward them. A radiant smile blossomed on Mercedes's face.

He bent to take Chico in his arms, which pleased Mercedes. “I would turn up my nose at him,” she whispered to her sister, “if he couldn't accept the little one. Love me, love my child.”

“Did you say something, Mercedes dearest?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” The widow Navarro got to her feet, and swept over to man and yawning babe. She put her hand on Edward's arm. “I said to Dulce, ‘I'm going to marry that man.' ”

His mouth dropped open; his face flamed. After a moment, his face burst into a grin. “Wh-when?”

“As soon as arrangements can be made.”

“Uh, ah, well then, we must see to them.”

Mercedes wrapped her arms around him as well as Chico.
“Bueno.”

Alejandra studied the happy couple. Perhaps their courtship had progressed much too fast, but she got the feeling their marriage would be a good one.

Right then Frisco caught sight of something and gave chase. Alejandra called to him, but he didn't obey. He ran across the
zócalo
, past the palms and musicians, making for a squad of uniformed riders approaching the presidential palace. At the head of the soldiers rode Colonel Reece Montgomery. Her heart skipped, a smile lighting her face. She rose from the park bench, then ran across the plaza.

Laughing, he bent to take Frisco onto the saddle.

“Reece!”

He turned his head. . . and his smile faded.

“I see you haven't stared down any firing-squad barrels. Yet.
Alejandra.”

The verdant plaza as backdrop, Reece, with Frisco in his arm and Rayo prancing in place beneath him, looked down at Alejandra. Damn she was beautiful, all dressed in mantilla and lace . . . and with her exotic hazel eyes gazing up at him. He wanted to sweep her into his arms, kiss her till she couldn't see straight, and make love to her until the last half of the next century.

All right here in Mexico City's
zócalo.

But he was too exasperated for any of that, his time in Oaxaca not softening his annoyance one whit. He wanted her to care enough about herself not to put that comely self in the line of fire. Which she hadn't.

He might as well have wished for the gold at rainbow's end.

“Was your mission a success?” she asked.

He knew what she meant: had he found Garth. “We put down the uprising,” was Reece's terse reply. He gave her a nod, then nudged Rayo's side with his heel. “Be with you later.” Over the clatter of horse hooves as he set the procession of soldiers once again in motion toward the palace's stables, Alejandra's “hut, Reece . . .” came to him. He didn't glance back.

But Frisco protested leaving his mistress. He barked and fidgeted, fidgeted and barked. Limpid eyes turning to Reece, Frisco growled. A half second later, he nipped the chin needing a shave.

“Ouch, dammit!”

“The dog, he wants his mamacita,” teased one of the troops.

The soldiers had a good laugh, and Reece was glad Capitan Zecatl was behind the company, making a detour by Perote Prison for inquiry purposes. Pepe would have landed on that mamacita business to tease hell out of him. Nonetheless, the remark turned over in Reece's head at least twice before he halted Rayo in front of the palace stables. Muzzle pointed down the path they had taken, Frisco yapped mournfully. By damn, the dog wasn't alone in loneliness–Reece wanted Alejandra, too. To hell with aggravation.

Pup tucked under his arm, he threw his leg over the stallion and jumped to the ground. He turned and dashed in the opposite direction. A slight breeze ruffling her mantilla, her haste swishing her skirts, Alejandra met him half way.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “for causing your ire.”

Frisco, like a greased pig, slithered out of his arms to jump up against Alejandra's skirts.

“Move over, boy,
el jefe
is moving in.”

Reece yanked her into a kiss that had him shivering from the top of his head to the tip of his boots. Somehow they made it upstairs without causing too much more of a spectacle.

The only subject discussed beyond their relationship and healing it? Garth Colby. He was not in the Oaxacan prison. Reece expressed disappointment, but Alejandra had an absorbing method of easing it.

It was the next afternoon before either appeared in public.

They held hands upon leaving her room that Sunday to attend the weekly bullfights. His newly acquired carriage provided enough privacy for long, deep kisses. At the bullring, however, they were models of decorum . . . if other people weren't looking too closely, that was, since Reece's leg insinuated itself scandalously close to hers. And his hand
just happened
to drop to her thigh a couple of times.

Reece was barely aware of the matador and toro. Nor did he pay heed to the trumpet fanfare, to the enthusiastic crowd and their
“¡Olés!,”
or to the tossing of roses. He gave as little regard as could be judged courteous to El Presidente, who sat in front of them in the presidential box. And Reece answered as few questions as possible from the attendees to the left of Alejandra, Mercedes, and her new fiance.

Reece's eyes were on his darling.

He laced his fingers with hers, then brought her hand to his lips. Weakened by love and those long days of absence, he was on the verge of whispering, “Marry me,” when Antonio turned around. Reece was glad for the interruption. He was in no position to ask for her hand, not yet.

Antonio spoke. “Since both of you have been–shall we say?–indisposed for the last twenty-four hours, you haven't heard the news. Admiral Baudin has conceded in peace negotiations. The treaty has been signed and sealed by all parties. I granted General Guadalupe Victoria the authority to act thus, you know.”

Mercedes picked up her fan to cool her face. “I was told the Federalist press coerced you–Ouch!”

“We're all pleased at the peace treaty, Your Excellency,” Alejandra scooted her foot back from thumping her sister's ankle. She smiled and brushed her mantilla over her shoulder. “You are to be commended for your valor and grace in accepting the agreement.”

“Gracias.”
Antonio nodded benevolently. “And you'll be pleased to know, my dear Alejandra, that Admiral Baudin has accepted a portion of his monetary demands. The French fleet sails from Vera Cruz forthwith.”

Everyone in range of his voice gave shouts of glee, except for Reece Montgomery. Skeptically, he asked, “Accepted a portion of his monetary demands? What does that mean?”

“Are you deaf or something, Cazador?” El Presidente's affected benevolence turned to a display of overdone disbelief. “It means the Froggies and their prince have admitted I defeated them and, taking the scraps thrown to them, they are withdrawing like the whipped dogs they are.”

“I see.”

But Reece didn't see at all. Knowing Charles Baudin and the little prince, he figured Antonio's wasn't the whole story. Later that evening, after siesta, Mirabel Velasquez returned to the palace from her trip to Vera Cruz, where she had given over Reece's packet to a French courier for transport to Texas. She met Reece and Alejandra beneath a tree in the almost deserted
zócalo,
and relayed a true update on the Pastry War.

Pierre Toussaint of Jalapa had been generous. Sir Richard and his co-negotiator, General Guadalupe Victoria, had been able to offer partial payment on the debt. Charles Baudin agreed to this under conditions. French ex-patriots would be allowed to return to Mexico, their properties restored intact; each and every one of their claims against the Mexican government was to be retired; King Louis Philippe would be compensated for his costs in the war; and all of this was to be done on a regular and timely basis.

If Mexico balked at, or stalled on, so much as one condition, the wrath of both France and Sir Richard Pakenham's mother country, England, would land on the Mexican nation. It would be full-scale war.

Neither Reece nor Alejandra doubted Baudin's threat. Yet he noted a mysterious look in her eyes, an expression of satisfaction.

Before he could question her on it, Maribel said, “Unfortunately, His Excellency the President is unaware of most of the agreement. He believes the capitulation is total.”

Reece, nonetheless, got a chuckle. When Alejandra and Maribel both asked what amused him, he replied, “François leaving Mexico without gaining his coveted scepter and crown.”

“God has been merciful,” Alejandra said, smiling.

Maribel, a gangly and homely female approaching her twentieth birthday, shuffled her feet and laced her hands. “Their leaving could mean trouble for Tejas.”

“Perhaps–” Cathedral bells drowned out the rest of Reece's words, but that was for the best. Until he sorted through all the implications of what Texas could win or lose by this latest development, keeping his own counsel was the best course. After the last bell pealed, he took both ladies by the arm and said, “Let's return to the palace. Antonio is expecting us for his celebration dinner.”

Peace and merriment reigned at the dinner prepared for a score of El Presidente's top officers and their ladies. At least until after-dinner libations had been served, jubilation reigned. Then the atmosphere turned quiet.

El Presidente toyed with his brandy snifter. “Companions in arms,” he said, his eyes lifting to scan down the long table, “it pleases me, knowing the
Guerra de los Pasteles
has come to an end, and the French are vanquished from our shores.”

A chorus of
“¡Vítor!”
went round the table.

Smiling magnanimously, Santa Anna made a gesture to bring quiet. “Enough, enough, kind supporters. We must now move on as a country–as a noble and mighty country. Greatness is part show, you must understand. We must demonstrate to the world that we are rich and strong.”

Rich and strong? It was all Reece could do not to shake his head in amazement.

El Presidente sat straighter in his chair. “I have been thinking of ways to show our grandeur and stability. Thus, I feel we should first dispense with the copper
cuartilla
–
it
is too easily counterfeited. And I believe we must improve our beautiful capital. The Parian section is a disgrace; it must be demolished to make way for a modern marketplace. We would benefit from a new theater, grand and glorious, too. Furthermore, it is time for a railroad to be built, linking our capital with the coast at Vera Cruz. Speaking of that city, with free trade open to us again, we need to replace the customs house there.”

All of that sounded well and good. Mexico did need each and every one of its President's suggestions, but . . . Reece picked up his snifter, swirled the contents, and waited for the other shoe to drop. The wait was incredibly short.

“Of course, the theater should be named after me,” El Presidente said, and Alejandra and Maribel, seated opposite at the table, glanced at each other. “And it would be fitting to erect a statue in honor of my great sacrifice on that portentous day of last December fifth. You, my trusted friends, were with me, standing at my side, in Vera Cruz, when I faced down the French marines.”

What? As Reece recalled it, he and Pepe had been with him. At the rear until the French were in retreat.

Antonio sighed dramatically. “With pride I lost my leg in service to my country. I suffer greatly from my wound, I do not have to tell you. My people, from Oaxaca to the great northwest, admire the valiancy in which I struggled for life and beat death to become their–your!–leader for a second time.” Tears poured down his cheeks. “That is why . . . why . . .” His voice broke.

Maribel's father, General Velasquez, clapped with enthusiasm. But a pregnant silence passed before the other diners joined him, their displays lacking Velasquez's vigor.

Taking a linen napkin to his face, El Presidente blew his nose. “Well, as I was saying, the country deserves to have a memorial commemorating my profound sacrifice. I have consulted my heart, and have come up with the answer. The casket bearing my leg shall be enshrined here in Mexico City so that pilgrims and natives alike may pay homage.”

Eyes glazed now, Antonio didn't notice the looks that were passing back and forth between the dinner guests. Reece noted Alejandra's expression: round-eyed amazement. All around was dead quiet. Even Velasquez seemed taken aback.

Antonio's chest swelled. “An honor guard from Manga de Clavo will escort
mi pierna
to its final place of honor.”

“He's lost his mind,” Alejandra whispered to Reece, and he widened his eyes in agreement. Maribel appeared on the verge of throwing up her con-sommé.

“Of course, there shall be a military funeral as soon as mourners from far and wide can congregate.” The president pushed to stand unsteadily. “No world leader, be he prince or king or president, will wish to be absent.”

Old Three-Quarters–as some had been given to calling El Presidente of late–forced Reece into a struggle: to chew the inside of his cheek or let loose pent-up sentiments. Reece lost the battle. He went into a gale of laughter.

Alejandra stomped his toe to quiet him. Trying to check himself, Reece feigned a coughing attack. El Presidente, however, found no amusement in the ridicule. “Explain yourself, Colonel Montgomery!”

Reece cleared his throat, pushed back his chair and stood military straight. “You see, Your Excellency, I have a particularly ticklish inner thigh,” he lied in a voice as grave and rocked with emotion as any proper pilgrim might be at paying homage, “and the esteemed Doña Alejandra–” he turned to pat her head “–must have been so moved by your oratory that she thrashed her hand to an improper place.”

Caught up in the performance worthy of Santa Anna's proposed theater, she covered her lips with her fingers. “Indeed, I was moved. I've never heard such, and I, well . . .”

“Don't be embarrassed,” Reece said. “We know you must have been driven to such fervor by your want of fitting words . . . to describe how moved you are by El Presidente's cleverness.”

“How clever you are, Colonel.” Her fingers went together in mock supplication. “I do have a problem with my hands sometimes. They seem to do the strangest things.”

Her fingers darted to pinch him in the most unmentionable of places. He howled, then bent double. Everyone else at the table found interminable mirth in his pain . . . including El Presidente. When Antonio ceased laughing, he said, “Colonel, you and your lady have put on such an excellent presentation, I will forgive you–this time!–for making sport of me.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency.”

Reece may have expressed empty gratitude, but he knew he had made a terrible blunder, especially when Cruz Velasquez hunched his shoulders, leaned across the table and said, “Sometimes I doubt your integrity, Colonel. And you, my president, my
gran señor
–” his head swiveled to the table's end “–should take heed that such mockery denotes malignant effrontery.”

Antonio honed in on Reece. It was obvious he looked at him in a new light. “If I discover you treacherous, Colonel, I shall personally castrate you.”