Mexican Fire (14 page)

There had been no shouts of recognition this time I This time the West's Napoleon had foiled his would-be captors.

So what if General Arista had been captured? He deserved it, since he had disobeyed orders. Cannons boomed from the distance. Ah ha! The fighting had begun. So what if many lives might be lost in this French raid? Antonio didn't give a damn about soldiers—beyond what they could offer in battle!—and he knew any fatalities could be turned to his own benefit.

“I am a lucky man!” he shouted, throwing his arms wide.

A woman—a hag, to be sure—shuffled out of a doorway. She carried a pail of slop. Her ugly old eyes widened and her mouth dropped when she got a gander at the unclothed man. Shouting a string of outraged curses, she threw the pail's contents at him. Her aim was as poor as she was repulsive.

He turned his head to wink at her, then repeated, “I am a lucky man.”

“You are naked,” she shouted back, trying to shoo a girl-child back into their hovel. “Naked and unappealing.”

“I am
very
appealing, señora,” he said, his eyes running up and down the girl's nubile form. Well, this was neither the time nor the place for erotic antics. “Señora, I am your savior!”

“Sí
,
and I am as beautiful as the sisters Toussaint.” She shook her head in disgust. “You couldn't save yourself if your life depended on it.”

“You are attractive, señora. But you are wrong about my abilities—I am General Santa Anna.”

“Certainly, Señor, and I am a sister Toussaint.” She laughed. “You are not the general. Even if you were, I would still try to throw slop in your face.”

Nothing could spoil his good cheer. He bowed to her. “Your opinion will change. Soon you will hail me.”

“Away with you, silly mullet, before I have you trussed and led away to the Insane Hospital.”

Chuckling, he waved to the hag, and returned to his skipping. The people would love him again. They would! He just knew it. Soon they would return him to the presidency. For the rest of his life, he intended to live in the splendor he merited.

His glee lasted less than thirty more seconds.

 

 

Reece bit back a grin as Antonio charged naked into the anteroom of the barracks that was empty of people, save for one trussed Anglo soldier-of-fortune. Rushing forward to untie the bindings that crisscrossed his favorite colonel's arms and chest, Antonio unknotted the gag.

“Montgomery, where are the guards?”

Reece, wearing a uniform befitting his rank, spit a nasty taste from his mouth before tossing the ropes on an easily reached table. “They left. Said something about having bigger fish to fry,” he explained truthfully. The two guards had run when the French task force had arrived, sparing Reece and his cousin the chore of killing them.

“Where is the prisoner LaTouche?”

“His buddies sprang him. Not more than ten minutes ago.”

Antonio scowled. “And you allowed that?”

Reece lifted a shoulder at the incredulous tone. “What could I do? They roused me from sleep”—a sheepish look crossed the Mexican's face at Reece's explanation—“and all I saw were knives at my throat. If I'd martyred myself, they still would've gotten the stripling.”

Whipping around, Antonio stomped to the cell where LaTouche had been held. A hand on his hip, he said, “Well, what difference does it make now? LaTouche's stories were nothing beyond false, anyway. All that blather about Baudin giving up on his blood money.” He ground his teeth and glanced around the barracks. “Well, what does it matter?”

Again he faced Reece. “Where is your man, the peasant Zecatl?”

“At Casa Montgomery, I suppose. He's to meet me at six this morning.”

“Six has come and gone.”

Reece settled into a chair. “I'm willing to wait till he gets here.”

“If he does. What good is a servant when he neglects his duties?” Antonio's frown deepened as he waved a hand of dismissal. “No matter, no matter. Listen, Colonel, we've got trouble. We can't depend on Arista's men, they're too far away. The general himself may well not be able to assist us. I imagine he's in French hands by now. As you can no doubt hear, we are being attacked.”

“I wondered what those sounds were,” was Reece's facetious comment.

 

 

By dawn Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was dressed in
huipils
belonging to an absent barracks guard, and was astride a purloined steed, riding through the besieged city of Vera Cruz, trying to gather his scattered plans and schemes.

Cannons boomed from the harbor; the stench of gunpowder mingled with the last vestiges of fog. People, soldiers, and civilians alike, scattered and screamed through the streets as shells exploded around them.

Reece Montgomery astride his stallion Rayo, Pepe Zecatl riding a cavalry mare, followed General Santa Anna at a respectable distance.

Ignoring the little figure atop the white steed, a man ran toward Reece. “Our great leaders Santa Anna and Arista are missing,” he yelled over the roar of war. “But our men are fighting, nonetheless!
¡Viva Mexico!”

A French marine darted from a doorway and squeezed off a shot of gunfire.

“Awgh!” The informer arched his back, throwing his arms wide as he pitched to a mud puddle.

His rifle aimed at the marine, Antonio retaliated. The Frenchman fell dead.

Pepe Zecatl slowed his mount. His wrists crossed over the saddlehorn, he shook his head and spoke to his sickened employer. “All of this for the want of less than a million pesos. Why doesn't the government pay off the French so that we can get on with the business of living?”

“Good question, Pepe.”

“What is the price of life, señor?” Not waiting for a reply, Pepe commented, “War, it is crazy.”

“Sí,” Reece replied laconically. “It's absurd. A farce. The foolish result of foolish men.” Just as Baudin had said.

It was then that Reece saw her.

Bereft of her sling, Alejandra, her hair and skirts flying, ran across the smoke-filled plaza. She stumbled. Breaking rank, Reece headed his mount in her direction. He rode alongside her, leaned down and, fearing unnecessarily that he might fall from the saddle, he scooped her up. He would not allow her to be the next victim of war.

She fought him.

It took all of his strength to place her, face down and derriere up, between himself and the pommel.

“Traitor! Bastard!” She reared her head, twisting to the right and drawing back her arm to elbow him.

Reins in one hand, he caught her upper arm with the other. “Dammit, be still.”

“When hell freezes over.”

Pepe cast his gaze to the battle of the sexes, lost his pallor of the aggrieved, and shouted,
“¡Vítor!”

Despite the battle and destruction and death all around them, Alejandra's movements were doing powerful things to Reece's groin. Actually, it hurt like hell. But . . . To see her, to feel her, to inhale the sweet scent of her, to listen to the sound of her voice—even though it was raised in outrage—he was carried away from the war waged by men.

This was a purely man-woman battle.

He was aware of Antonio, ahead of him, turning and stopping. “Colonel Montgomery! Put down that woman,” Antonio shouted, amusement in his voice. “We have a battle to join!”

That he did, have a battle to wage. His palm curved over the swell of her rear. “Fancy meeting you here,
mi corazón.
Can we be friends?”

“Oooh 1”

Like a mustang, she bucked. Her elbow struck his jaw, her punch mighty. Pain exploded like grapeshot from a warship. He felt his right boot leave its stirrup as he keeled to the left. Her foot came up to strike his arm; he dropped the reins. At the same moment, a bullet exploded in front of his mount. The stallion reared. Reece lost his hold.

He hit the cobblestones near a building entryway. Alejandra fell on top of him. The air whooshed from his lungs. She tried to right herself, but his fingers found her wrists. He held her in his ungiving grip. They were sprawled on the sidewalk. A retaining wall sheltered them from the line of fire.

Reece grinned. And why not? Her breasts were very near his mouth, her pelvis thrust against his stomach. He drew up his legs to bring her closer. He had no desire to join the other fight. Until the French and Mexicans had had enough of each other, he could keep Alejandra safe, or as safe as possible, right here.

“Let go of me, Reece Montgomery! I must cross the plaza.”

“No. You're safer right here. A bullet could get you—”

“You're poking me,” she bit out.

“I hope so.”

“Not like
that
, you monster! You've got something in your breeches that's—”

“Damned right I do.” Actually, his hunting knife was giving him a few problems, too, but why mention it? “It's weaponry to pierce the fair lady with.”

“You'll never again pierce me with anything, El Cazador,” she came back, biting out his name as if she had swallowed
una cucaracha.
“Never!”

“Better not bet the family farm on that, sweetheart.”

He ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip as he looked up into the fury of her hazel eyes. Her hair, so long and lovely and thick, was in wild disarray around her shoulders. She wasn't fighting him now. Her gaze was welded to his.

He moved his thumb to the center of her palm, making circles on that soft center. “Miss me?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Like the infirm misses the leeches!”

“Good.” He moved a leg, insinuating it between her thighs. “Want to kiss and make up?”

Alejandra Sierra had no desire whatsoever to kiss and make up with the treacherous El Cazador. Sprawled as she was on this sidewalk in Vera Cruz, mindful of both his aborted abduction and the hellfires surrounding them, she would rather bare her breasts to the invaders than to kiss this devil.

Of course she remembered their last meeting, where she had been a simpering, moaning, squirming wanton in his arms, but she was keenly aware of his Francophile leanings. Francophile? Ha! He was true to no one, and probably not even to himself.

Muskets fired from somewhere behind her. Cringing at the sound, she heard other dins of combat, smelled the stench of gunpowder and death, saw the carnage of foiled diplomacy. And she felt the grip of a traitor.

“Let go of my wrists,” she ordered through clenched teeth, and glared down into his mocking blue gaze. “Tend to your business and let me tend to mine. ”

“Which is?” he asked as a cannonball exploded behind them, drawing flinches from both him and Alejandra.

“Saving an old man from the horrors of this war. And you are detaining me. Let me go. Don Valentin Sandoval is in that inn”—she pointed across the plaza—“right there. I must see to his well-being.”

Admiration shining in Reece's eyes, he replied, “Your intentions are good, honey, but I won't let you cross the plaza.”

“You don't tell me what I can and cannot do!” She tried to squirm out of Reece's arms, but he held her tightly. Don't think about how it feels to be this near to him, she cautioned herself, and don't let on about how many times you've thought of him. “El Cazador, do your mind's bidding. Whatever that may be. As long as it doesn't involve me.”

“You sure about that?”

She wouldn't have answered, even if a squad of blue-and-red-clad soldiers, hugging the doorways, hadn't rushed past them. One of the men nearly tripped over Reece's oversized boots.

Santa Anna, his brows knitted, stomped over to Reece. “Colonel Montgomery, are you, or are you not, with me?”

“He is not! Believe me, he is not.” Alejandra looked up at the man who had led her husband to his death. And who would lead others to the same end—right here in this city! Yet no matter her distaste for the deranged general, her nationalist spirit—
decoro nacional—
would not allow anyone Mexican to suffer for the misdeeds of the treacherous El Cazador. “He cavorts with the French. I, myself, caught one of Baudin's men at Casa Montgomery.”

Why wasn't Reece doing something to stop her accusations? she wondered.

Santa Anna smirked. “Would that Frenchman be the yeoman Jacques LaTouche?”

“I have no idea of his name.”

“It is Jacques LaTouche,” Reece confirmed. “Tall fellow, blond. Young. Kind of skinny.”

Alejandra scowled. Turning her face to Reece, she watched his relaxed expression. What did all of this mean? Then she knew. Her blood went cold, her face ashen.

“Do you mean to say . . .” Once more she glanced at Santa Anna,. “The both of you are in collusion with the French?”

Reece laughed. So did Santa Anna. The general spoke. “Doña Alejandra, indeed you are wrong. Colonel Montgomery lured the sailor into a trap. LaTouche was captured last night.”

She should have been relieved, hearing that Reece sided with her countrymen. Trouble was . . . “Why would a simple yeoman catch the great Santa Anna's attention?”

“Nothing escapes my regard, Doña Alejandra.”

That, she doubted. “I think you should investigate this colonel who claims to be your champion.”

“Don't trouble yourself with that which isn't your concern, Doña Alejandra. I heard you say you have an old man to tend. Go to him.”

For a second she ground her teeth, but then found merit in Santa Anna's rank dismissal. “You heard your superior,” she said to Reece. “I have a mission to accomplish. Unhand me, and go to your
gran señor
.”

Solemn now, Reece let go her aching wrists and allowed her to rise to her feet. No more than ten feet in the distance, his mount waited. As did Reece's short, grinning
mozo.

“Hurry, Señor,” called the servant. “The eclair eaters are advancing!”

“Do you follow me?” Santa Anna pulled a pistol from his borrowed belt, training it on El Cazador. “Or do I kill you for insubordination?”

“No need for that, Antonio, I'm at your service,” Reece said as he levered to stand, to thrust Alejandra toward the doorway's safety. That done, he brushed the seat of his uniform breeches. “Give me a couple of minutes, though.” He winked in that totally reprehensible manner that men employ in relating to each other. “You know how it goes . . .”

“As long as it doesn't go on too long,” Santa Anna replied, appeased and somewhat jovial. He mounted the purloined steed. Leading the horse around bodies and debris, he headed toward the harbor.

At the last visible swish of the horse's tail, Reece said to Alejandra, “I'm taking you home.”

“You've added deserter to your list of accomplishments?”

“You need to be protected.”

“I'll take care of myself, thank you very much.” She turned toward the inn. “And I
am
going in that building. Don't try to stop me, El Cazador, or you'll regret it.”

“I won't stop you. If you'll make me one promise.” He paused. “Take care of yourself.”

Stunned by the tenderness in his voice, Alejandra twirled around. For the first time since this altercation started, she looked at him, really examined both his comportment and appearance.

He wore the vestments of a Mexican colonel, and she supposed they were his now to wear, since Santa Anna had been reinstated in the military.

Refusing to contemplate all that Reece's uniform implied—this was neither the time nor the place for anything but a Mexican victory, and certainly not for fighting against one's own army—she concentrated on Reece's expression. Care and concern shone in his eyes. His mustachioed mouth wasn't one of cruelty or mirth; it was pulled into bracketed worry.

Then it spread into a half smile as he took a step toward her. “I think I'm falling in love with you, Alejandra.”

At first those softly yet adamantly spoken words drifted over her like salve on an old wound. Love, it was such a beautiful state of being. But Reece was confusing lust with a deeper emotion.

True love meant faith and mutual respect, among a thousand other admirable qualities. He had promised to help her cause; he reneged. He had said he wouldn't bring Santa Anna to her home, but he had. While there he had imperiled the Federalist cause by casting doubt on her character. Yes, he had apologized, but still . . . She doubted he was loyal to anyone or anything. Never could she love a man without honor.

Yet she was no paragon. His touch had reminded Alejandra that she was just as weak, just as lust-filled.

He offered his hand. “If you want to cross the plaza, sweetheart, I'll help you.”

She nodded. He swept her into his arms. Hunching his shoulders, putting his back to the line of fire, he rushed across to the inn. Safely there, he asked, “Do you think you could ever fall in love with me?”

Her heart tugged her chest. She didn't know what to think or feel, or how to react.

“Fight for my country, Reece.” Her voice lost its brittle edge, yet finality and goodbye honed each word. “Take care of yourself.
Vaya con Dios.”

 

 

Reece watched Alejandra enter the inn. He had failed at making peace with the woman he adored. To him, love meant sex, of course. Forever, he would hanker to hear her voice, to breathe her flowery and womanly scent, to touch her as he wanted no other man to do, to see her face in the throes of passion.

But love was more than all that.

Always, he had admired her spirit and fire. Spiritually, she was tough as a piece of pemmican. And who couldn't love a woman with so much depth to her convictions? They shared one opinion: both of them despised General Santa Anna.

But she did more than despise Reece Montgomery, he felt certain, and she'd hold that opinion as long as she thought him a miscreant. If only they were in a different place, a different circumstance, he would be free to prove that he was a man worthy to love and be loved by Alejandra. While it wasn't his nature to lie and betray in matters of the heart, their situation was bigger than just one man and one woman.

The broader scope of life and the events that brought him and Alejandra to this place at this point in their lives demanded certain actions from Reece. If they met under different circumstances, he might have had a chance.

Reece climbed into the saddle, heading his stallion Rayo in Antonio's direction. Pepe rode beside him as they caught up with their “leader,” who was far to the rear of his forces, a full block from the city walls. But the time they reached the central portal to Vera Cruz's walls, Reece could see nothing but the blackened and pitted presidio, San Juan de Ulúa. And the backs of retreating Frenchmen.

The humbly clad Antonio rode forth to head his heretofore leaderless but brave men of war. His charger prancing, the general gave a horselaugh. “Eclair eaters, run back to your longboats Tell your prince and the one-armed admiral that the Mexican Napoleon has sunk his teeth into your soft centers! I have beaten you!”

What?

Reece shook his head, as if the motion would clear his suddenly fuzzed reasoning. Beyond a few shouts for the rear guard to move up, the man who called himself Napoleon had done nothing personally to quell the attackers. How could he claim to be part of the rout?

Yet the vanquished fled to their vessels of escape.

With the raiders in retreat, Reece had one chance at finding Garth: he had to stay in Antonio's good graces.

The general threw back his head to laugh again.
“¡Viva Mexico!”

“¡Viva Sahnnn-tahhh-nah!”
was the victorious roar from the warriors.

It was then that a cannon exploded.

The general's horse screamed as its chest burst like an overripe melon. Equine knees buckled, balance lost. At the same moment, the rider's hoarse shriek filled the air as both rider and charger fell. Antonio López de Santa Anna, struck by enemy fire and crushed by the horse purloined for battle, lay mortally wounded. His left foot had been blown away.

Reece saw his plans ripped apart. With the French retreat, the man who had ordered the atrocities at the Alamo and at Goliad had been the last hope for Reece finding his brother. Now there was no hope.

All he could do was give Antonio López de Santa Anna the honor that had been denied the Texan freedom fighters: a decent burial. He yelled for three soldiers to assist him in getting the body away from the harbor. Only two of them complied.

“What is the matter with you, man?” he called to the white-faced boy. “Haven't you the stomach to help?”

“Let him rot in the breezes.” The boy turned away.

A couple of blocks inland, the bells of Catedral Parroquia began to toll. A stone's throw away, the bells of St. Fernando Church met the plaintive chimes.