Mexican Fire (17 page)

They retired to Campos de Palmas, to a sleeping chamber decorated in blue. It wasn't Alejandra's room; Reece refused to lie on Don Miguel's bed. He didn't cotton to the idea of encroaching on another male's territory, even when the other man was dead. Reece didn't have to be reminded her husband still lived in Alejandra's heart.

Reece was jealous, damned right he was, of a dead man. He had to find a way to put her memories to rest.

Yet he loved her sexual aggression. He had certainly never expected it. Strange woman, this Alejandra Sierra. Strange and wonderful. As he pulled back the covers and drew her into his arms, he realized how little he knew about the widow of Campos de Palmas.

When her fingers skimmed over his buttocks, Reece gave his attention to all her aggression . . . By morning they were exhausted from an evening of revelry and a night of passion. Without so much as a morning kiss, though, Alejandra jumped out of bed, collected her strewn clothes and saw to her ablutions. She dressed in riding garb, dressed quickly.

“What's the hurry?” he asked, propped on an elbow in the mussed sheets. Her reply was to ask for his assistance with a button. He complied, then got out of bed to dress in yesterday's garb. “Don't I get a good morning?” he asked.

Tentatively, Alejandra smiled at him. “Well, yes. I—”

He words were interrupted by a maid knocking on the door to serve morning coffee. Reece figured Alejandra's haste wasn't because his presence shamed her. Preoccupied was the only solution he came up with. At first.

He followed her downstairs to the dining room. She didn't bother to acknowledge him to the staff. Could he be wrong? Was she ashamed of bringing a man here? He understood that. He didn't have a lot of experience with servants, since he was a simple man, but he knew enough to know they thrived on gossip. His presence would be fuel for the talk fire.

Last night he'd wanted to court the widow Sierra, all proper and right, and here he was, standing with the scent of her body still clinging to his clothes as the morning sun spilled into the eating
sala.
He shouldn't have put her in an embarrassing situation, but what was done, was done.

“Something wrong, darling?” Alejandra asked.

Shaking his head, he pulled out her chair.

“I prefer informal breakfasts,” she explained, pointing to a mahogany buffet topped with silver, crystal, and porcelain. “Please help yourself.”

All he wanted was to grab a cup of coffee . . . and to get her the hell away from Campos de Palmas.

A lot of things had him uneasy. This place was a far cry from his boyhood home. The Montgomerys had lived in a trapper shack; they were lucky to have enough cutlery to go around. What in the name of Christ had he gotten himself into, thinking he could court such a wealthy woman? He could offer her love and a few financial comforts—he wasn't stone broke—but would his offerings be enough for her?

He poured himself a cup of the offered coffee.

She didn't intend to eat much, he noted. A
bolillo
roll and a slice of bacon was all she took on her plate. She was too busy barking orders to the serving girl—the moon-faced one he remembered as Ninfa—to pay attention to the fare.

“. . . and tell Señor Ramirez I will meet with him, say in a half hour, at the west field.” Alejandra took the smallest sip of coffee. “Have the Christmas
piñatas
arrived?”

“No,
patróna.”

“Send someone into town to find out what's happened to them. I won't have the children of Campos de Palmas disappointed at Christmas. Another thing, what about the gift baskets? Does Jaime have everything he needs to put them together?”

Ninfa shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “We have everything for the food baskets. It will not be a problem there, Doña Alejandra. But the materials and threads for clothing, well, they are unavailable.”

“Thanks to the blockade,” Alejandra muttered.

“Sí.”

Alejandra glanced at her plate. “Have you taken a tray to Don Valentin?”

Ninfa nodded. “He ate well this morning.”

“Thank goodness. Well, that will be all,
gracias.”

Reece had had enough of this. “Hello, Ninfa. Good morning. Nice seeing you again.”

The serving girl ducked her chin. “Good morning.”

Alejandra blushed, but recovered quickly. Ninfa had no more than left the dining room before Jaime the
mayordomo
made an appearance. He carried a small silver tray that bore several envelopes.

“Looks as if the norther has blown through,” Reece said to the butler. “Nice weather we're having today, don't you think?”

Jaime didn't appear fazed by Reece's appearance at breakfast. In fact, that was a grin of approval on his long face. “It is warm for late December,” he said. “But, Señor, the weather is unusually fair in Veracruz.”

“That will be all, Jaime,” Alejandra interjected. The butler leaving, she tore open the letters and read them quickly.

“Bad news?” Reece asked, wanting to question her about several other matters. But this wasn't the place, not with servants in the vicinity, and he wouldn't put her on the spot.

“No bad news. Just a few letters from my mother.” Alejandra broke the
bolillo
in half, then halved it again. She took a tiny bite of the bread. “And word that a hundred sacks of my coffee still haven't been sold. They grow stale on the docks of Vera Cruz. Thanks to export problems.”

What Baudin's men wouldn't give for that coffee. . . What they wouldn't give for a good drink of water! Even though the islet citadel had been captured along with the other forts, no water supply had been secured. Lately, Baudin had sent north for kegs of water, but the supply arrived brackish. “A hundred sacks of coffee isn't much in the larger scheme of things, I wouldn't imagine.”

Her mouth tightened. “Did you know it takes an entire season for a single coffee tree to produce a mere pound of beans?”

“Guess there's a lot of things I'm stupid about.” He pushed aside his now-cold coffee cup, and leaned toward Alejandra. “Like why you've avoided talking with me this morning. Does it bother you, having me here in your home?”

She flushed. “I guess the morning sun puts a damper on wild and wanton behavior. I shouldn't have to point out your presence here is highly improper. I've never brought a man to my hus—to
my
home before.”

Reece didn't miss her near mistake. Don Miguel may have been dead since '36, but, like a male animal in the wilds, his territorial rights still lingered. It ragged Reece, her persistent devotion to a dead man, especially since Miguel's death had provoked her into politics to begin with.

Reece pushed his coffee cup toward the table center. “You could've asked me to leave last night. Or you could've objected to our coming here in the first place. Or were you too drunk to care what you were doing?” He paused. “Or who you were doing it with?”

Her face went colorless. “I wasn't so intoxicated that I didn't know what I wanted. What I want. But, Reece, you must understand. I need to get used to being . . .”

“Human?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Anyway, what is done, is done. ”

“I'd hoped you wouldn't have regrets.”

“I have none where you're concerned.”

Those words sounded good to Reece. Damned good. “I know how we can solve the problem, Jandra. Let's stay away from Campos de Palmas.”

“Silly love! There'll be less talk here than there will be from the attendees from last night's
la posada.
You have a saying in the English language, something about making a bed and lying in it. Well, my bed is made. Now I will lie in it.”

“As long as I'm with you . . .”

She grinned. “What a nice
bed
to lie in!”

He had won, and great satisfaction burst within him. But in his victory, Reece realized that he had made too much of the dead man standing between them. If the situation came up again, he would be more patient. He hoped.

A worried look replaced Alejandra's smile. “But first I must talk with my estate manager. Please accompany me, Reece.”

 

 

Eschewing horses, for mounts would have precluded holding hands, Alejandra and Reece strolled into the balmy winter afternoon. He had been troubled by being at Campos de Palmas, and she was glad he'd dropped the subject.

They passed a shed where roasting beans wafted a delicious aroma. Workers turned surprised eyes to the stranger who accompanied their
patrona.
And to a man, they smiled and tipped their sombreros.

“They don't seem to have a problem, your being seen with me,” Reece commented and winked at Alejandra.

“They are peasants.”

“Yes, but I guess they figure you were alone long enough.”

“Mexican men live and breathe romance.”

“I've noticed.” They walked the path leading to the hilly coffee fields, Reece's fingers tightening on hers. “Was Miguel like that? Romantic.”

To this point she'd figured Campos de Palmas had been the problem with Reece. But that wasn't it at all. He was jealous of Miguel. She swallowed. How could she handle this problem?

“Doña Alejandra,” called the plantation's manager, and she was relieved for the excuse to ignore Reece's question. “You were wanting to see me?”

 

 

She must have talked with that Ramirez fellow for half an hour. Reece was a fish out of water, not knowing the first thing about coffee-growing. He was pleased when Alejandra broke the conversation by suggesting she and Reece take a walk through the fields. “So you can see the most beautiful land in the world,” she said. Seeing Campos de Palmas wasn't high on his list of interests, the coastal grasses of Texas being more to his liking, but he agreed to the walk.

His thoughts were on . . . “Not a bad custom, romance.”

“You should know. You're pretty good at it.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me, sweetheart,” he teased, giving her a meaningful wink.

“Oh . . . you” She laughed. “What do you mean, dirty-talking? I referred to the serenade and the roses and your admirable intentions toward being a gentleman.”

“Failed intentions.”

She stepped to the side, closer to him. “Oh, Reece, you were never more my hero than when you succumbed to my, um, charms.”

He wiggled a finger at her nose. “Much more talk like that, and you'll find out what it's like to make love in a coffee field.”

“Should we dare?” she came back, laughing and turning in front of him.

Reece looked to the right, to the field and eyed the pickers toiling. “Your people aren't within easy hearing distance, but with all that hollering you do, why, wolves would be howling all the way from here to the Mississippi.”

For his comment he received a swat to the thigh. “My hollering? What about your groaning and growling?”

With a sheepish grin, Reece replied, “It's a good thing that old man—what's his name? Oh, yeah. Sandoval. It's a good thing old Sandoval is deaf, or he wouldn't have slept a wink last night.”

“It seemed to be his first good night in weeks.”

“Now, Jandra, how would you know? You weren't paying a damned bit of attention to his snores.”

“True. I shouldn't neglect my duties toward him.”

Sensing that this was a return to the old Alejandra, Alejandra the Zealous Federalist, Reece decided a change of subject was in order.

He reached for a wide green frond shading a coffee plant. “I've been curious about something. What's the purpose of growing bananas amongst the coffee?”

“Coffee needs shade to grow. And water to bud. And dry weather to pick.” She waxed enthusiastic about raising coffee. “And—”

“Last night you said you're sick of coffee.”

“That was last night.”

Before he could digest the meaning of Alejandra's reply, he heard an
“¡Hola!”
from over his shoulder. He turned. A young woman approached them. She wore a rebozo around her head, and carried a wrapped bundle. A squalling bundle.

“Josie, you've had your baby!” Alejandra, question in her tone and expression, then asked, “What brings you here? Has my sister sent you? And why are you walking?”

Around the baby's bawling, the peasant replied, “I caught a ride to your gate. You see, Doña Alejandra, I've brought my newborn son to meet the great lady of Campos de Palmas. I know you love babies.”

“I do.” Alejandra's hand settled on the baby blanket. “May I hold him?”

“I would be honored, Doña Alejandra.”

Alejandra took the baby into her arms. Immediately the crying ceased, coos taking its place. She peeled the blanket from a remarkably fair-skinned, fine-featured face.

“He is beautiful,” Alejandra murmured. She put her nose to his smooth cheek. “I love the smell of a newborn. There is no other scent like it. It's life unspoiled by circumstance.”

Reece listened to her words and tone. They spoke the language of regret. And that was longing in her eyes. She had lost one child; never for a moment did Reece think she didn't long for another one. He could give her a child. Perhaps he already had. It warmed him, thinking about Alejandra holding their child in her arms. He loved her. And wanted to spend the rest of his days proving it.

Sure, Montgomery. Right. He had to be practical. His was a temporary mission in Mexico. By the time he finished, the whole of Mexico would know Reece Montgomery was as Texan as Davy Crockett.