Mexican Fire (35 page)

On horseback, Reece and Alejandra followed the
bandidos
-turned-allies and their burros up the mountain. Fog had cleared, the sun breaking through—to highlight the body draped over one of the beasts of burden. For more than an hour they climbed toward Cisario's house. Garth would be there. It had been almost four years since Reece had seen his brother. Four long, agonizing years. But soon—soon!—they would be reunited.

Reece's happiness was dampened, though, by Alejandra's melancholy. He knew she grieved for shooting the Federalist
bandido,
even though he had been a sorry excuse for a man.

Reece turned his face toward her. Riding the gelding, she gave little attention to anything. Her shoulders were slumped, her long black hair fell forward to cover her cheek. Reece nudged Rayo toward her mount. He touched her shoulder. “Sweetheart,” he said in English, “you can't let it bother you, killing the bandit. Remember, if he hadn't grabbed for the gun, it wouldn't have discharged.”

“I know, I know.” Her tormented eyes turned to Reece. “But when I think—I killed my ally, I killed Garth's rescuer.”

“Honey, he would've turned us over to the Santanistas.”

She laughed, an agonized sound. “What a heinous country is mine, where poverty forces people into despicable act!”

“We'll be away from here . . .
soon.”

“Thank God for that.” She smiled tentatively. “My darling, forgive me. I've been so wrapped up in myself, I forgot to tell you I'm thrilled you'll be with your brother. Today.”

“Thank you,” Reece replied, anticipation skittering through him.

Cisario halted his burro and turned around. “That is my house.” He pointed to the left. “Up there.”

It was a small shack, dilapidated and weathered. An almond tree, beautiful and tall, shaded it. Pastured nearby was a lone horse of less than prime quality. Chickens, two of them, scratched the earth and stepped around a goat. A dozen yards to the shack's side stood another building. A shed. As Reece rode nearer, he heard hammering.

“You will find your brother in the shed, Señor,” Pancho said. “He has been repairing saddles. In hopes that we could get more horses.”

Reece nodded. His hand unsteady, so anxious was he, he descended his saddle. He ground-tethered Rayo, then went to help Alejandra from the gelding. “Let's go see Garth,” he said.

She shook her head. “It should be just the two of you.”

“But, honey, I want you to meet him.”

“There will be plenty of time for that. You go to your brother.” She glanced at the dead bandit. “And I will help bury the dead.”

Reece decided she needed to do that, for herself, for her conscience. Hugging her to him, he kissed her forehead. She stepped back.

“Go. Don't let another minute pass.” She stepped out of his embrace, pivoting around to the men untying Enrique from the burro's back.

Reece swung around and made for the shed. He almost yanked the rope pull. But didn't. After all Garth's years of incarceration, after his recent gunshot wound, what would greet him? How would his brother greet him?
Prepare yourself.

Hesitantly, he opened the door. The hammering ceased. Garth sat on the floor, a saddle thrown over a bench in front of him. Or was it Garth? The man looked too scrawny to be . . .

“Almost finished here, Felix.” A gray-streaked dark head lifted. Tired blue eyes rounded. “Monty? Are you . . . Monty?”

“I sure ain't Teddy O'Grady,” Reece kidded, referring to a cantankerous trapper both had known in St. Louis.

“I'll be damned.”

The saddle toppled over as Garth got to his feet. Reece, no matter that he'd prepared himself, was stunned at his brother's appearance. All that gray at the sideburns. He was way too thin and haggard. The startling blue eyes of 1835 were now dull and world-weary. He looked older than his thirty-three years. Reece did his best to cover his shock.

He met his brother's hug and handshake. Damn, it felt good, this reuniting! Worry and anxiety heaved out of him, yet. . . “How badly were you hurt?” Reece asked, concerned.

“Shoulder wound. It's all right now. Just a twinge or two every once in a while. My friend Felix wasn't so lucky. He's gut-shot. Thought for certain he'd die, but Cisario pulled him through. Somehow.”

“Good man, that Cisario,” Reece said honestly. Too bad they had met so inauspiciously.

Garth pulled back to eye Reece. His tone was grave. “I heard you are a wanted man, very much stalked, but what are you doing here?”

“I'm here to fetch you, what do you think?”

“Took your time doing it.”

“Until lately, brother, I had no idea where you were,” Reece explained. “And once I did, you'd already escaped from Perote. The trip from Mexico City took a while, too. You see—” he smiled “—I've got my fiancée with me.”

“That is the word spread by El Presidente,” Garth said. “There are two of you being hunted.”

Reece wasn't surprised his brother knew about the situation, not with the
bandido's
having recognized him and Alejandra, and their wanting bounty money.

Obviously masking some emotion, Garth urged, “Tell me about the woman.”

“You'll like her, brother. At least I hope you do, because I've been in love with Alejandra Sierra since the moment I laid eyes on her.”

“Since you love her, she'll be plenty fine for me.” There was sincerity in those words, yet that strange look still shrouded Garth's eyes. He stepped back. “What did it take for you to trade your colonel's suit for
huipils?”

“It wasn't what you think.”

“It sounded pretty clear to me. And you'd better get the hell away from here. Now.”

Surely his own brother would know him better than to think Reece a true Santanista. It would answer the question of his odd behavior, though. Yet Reece responded, “Let's not let another hour pass. Let's go.”

Garth ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair. “It's more complicated than that. There's Felix. And his sister. They're my friends, and when I leave, they go with me. Cisario and Pancho can't be abandoned, either.”

“I don't have a problem with that,” Reece stated, noticing Enrique hadn't been mentioned.

“You will have a problem.” Garth walked to the grease-paper window. “You'd better collect your woman and get gone.”

After all these years of seeking his sibling, after all the many complications and sacrifices, Reece had never imagined this would greet him. Had he found Garth only to lose him? “Don't be vague with me, brother. What is going on?”

“You sent Felix to prison.” An edge of steel cut each of those words.

Confused, Reece replied, “I never sent anyone to prison.”

“What about that day the French attacked and you dragged Santa Anna from Vera Cruz? You don't remember ordering a young man arrested for refusing to help?”

The memory returned. “He was subordinate.”

“What a fine Santanista you became, little brother.”

It hurt, having his brother's censure. Cut to the marrow of Reece's bones. “I
acted
as one, but my reasons for being in Mexico were to help the Republic. . . and to find you.”

Quiet fell, deep and wide, before a smile broke across Garth's circumstance-ravaged face and he clamped his fingers on Reece's shoulder. “When I found out you were in this godforsaken country, I thought it was to liberate me. As time went on, though, I gave up hope.”

“I am here.”

“I should have known you wouldn't forsake me.”

It was then that the brothers truly reunited in their hearts. Neither was a man for crying, yet tears were in each brother's eyes. Both thought they could conquer the world at that moment, but Reece was the first to face reality. They were hunted. And one of Garth's partners was dead.

“Garth, Enrique is dead.” He explained the happening.

“Enrique was a bastard. And I think he is the one who alerted the guards at Perote about the prison break. For money, of course.” Garth ran a palm down his faded and ragged shirt. “May the devil take him.”

Reece hoped Alejandra would let go of her grief over the
bandido.
Grief was an emotion better saved for another time, a safer place. “We've got to get to Vera Cruz, so I'd better see what I can do about making peace with your friend.”

Reece didn't dread confronting Garth's former cell mate. He did dread telling his brother about Becky. Maybe once they were safely out of Mexico . . .

 

 

The grave had been dug. Alejandra had insisted on helping Pancho and Cisario, and another woman assisted also. Bianca Fuentes, sister to Garth Colby's former cell mate. Bianca was a pretty woman, shapely and petite, with dark hair and eyes. Although she was curious about the strange woman's identity, she pressed neither the men nor Alejandra for an explanation.

And she didn't seem bothered that Enrique was dead.

When Pancho and Cisario knelt to pray over their fallen partner, Bianca suggested she and the visitor go inside. Alejandra said a few words to the Blessed Virgin on her own.

Following behind Bianca, Alejandra entered the aged
peón's
modest abode. It comprised but one room with a fireplace, four chairs surrounding a battered table, a dozen or so muskets that leaned against a room corner, bedding rolled into another corner, plus one narrow bed where a bandaged young man—probably younger than twenty—reposed.

“Lady, this is my brother Felix Fuentes. Felix, say hello to our visitor.”

“Hello, señorita. What brings you here?”

“She is a guest of Cisario,” Bianca explained quickly and much too briefly. “By the way,
mi hermano,
Enrique is dead.”

“We will all breathe easier for that.”

Bianca lifted a black brow at Alejandra. “As you can see, we do not grieve. Enrique was wicked and evil.”

Alejandra supposed she ought to feel better, but somehow she didn't.

Less than a minute after entering the house, Alejandra was yanked by recollections. Felix was the same waiter at Café Plantain who had conversed with her as well as Erasmo and Don Valentin—though Felix didn't seem to place her. Why should he? She glanced at her dirty, ragged attire. No longer was she mantilla and lace, as she had been at the café . . . on the very day she had first seen Reece. So much had happened since then, but she wouldn't ruminate over the past. Guilt over taking a man's life was a palpable thing.

Beyond that, her heart went out to poor Felix; he had been grievously wounded in the escape from Perote, but thankfully his strength was returning. In fact, he had recovered to the point that he yearned to flee for Vera Cruz and a ship bound for Cuba.

As the minutes passed and he talked about his plans, he studied Alejandra. Question began to form in his brown eyes.

Pancho opened the door, and he and Cisario entered the house. “We have finished our prayers,” said the older man, but both of them cast furtive glances at Felix, then at Alejandra.

Bianca nodded, then went for a battered pot of coffee. “A hot
bebida
will make you feel better,
amigos.
Come, señorita, sit down.” She motioned to the table and four rickety chairs surrounding it. “All of you, sit.”

They did. Bianca took her brother a cup of coffee, and he sat up in bed to drink it; his curious eyes never left Alejandra. His sister joined the others at table. Like Bianca and her brother, Pancho didn't seem distressed over Enrique's loss. Cisario, on the other hand, appeared circumspect.

“Señor Cisario,” Alejandra said quietly, “I am aggrieved over my actions. I—I don't know what else to say.”

He covered the back of her hand with his palm. “Do not trouble yourself, señorita. You acted in self-defense, and I do not blame you. In my long years I have given up many friends, and probably will again. That is the way of life in Mexico. Good men turn to bad. Such happened with Enrique.”

Comforted by Cisario's kind words, Alejandra sighed. She would never forget the blood on her hands, but she must turn her heart to Reece's joy in finding his brother. She owed that to the man she loved. Soon, today, they would leave here. A thought germinated. Perhaps Cisario, and Pancho, could go along with them when they left; it went without mentioning, Bianca and Felix would sail out of Vera Cruz harbor when she, Reece, and his brother made for calmer waters. That was the least they could do for these good people.

“Would you leave if you could?” she asked Cisario.

The weathered man shook his head. “I am too old. I will die here, and someone will bury me under the almond tree. That is the way I wish it.”

“I would grab the chance to leave,” said Pancho.

A pistol tucked in his waistband, Felix got up from the bed and limped to the table. His eyes were now suspicious. “Who are you, señorita?”

“Alejandra Sierra of Vera Cruz.”

Bianca paled, and Felix's expression hardened as he said, “Just as I thought. Where is the Anglo colonel, Montgomery?”

She wasn't surprised Felix had recognized her. “Outside. With his—”

“Let me refill your cup,” Bianca interrupted nervously.
“Mi hermano,
go back to bed. You need your strength.”

“Let Alejandra Sierra of Vera Cruz say her piece, sister.” Felix's shoulders hunched. “With his what?”

Bianca rushed to put herself between the outside door and her brother. “I said go back to bed!” But he sidestepped her.