Mexican Fire (36 page)

It was then that the door opened, a cool breeze swirling through the suddenly too close room. A tall man, dark-haired and rail-thin, entered. He had to be Garth. He smiled hesitantly at Alejandra. Behind him walked Reece.

Horrified at the intensity of Felix's oath, Alejandra recoiled. What had happened? What was wrong? Dear God,
what was wrong!

“I wish to reason with you,” Reece said in his strong baritone.

Felix yanked the pistol from his waistband, pointing it at Reece. Hurt and rage thundered across the Mexicano's face. “For months I have prayed for this moment. Yet I never thought it would come to pass.”

“Stop it, Felix,” Garth demanded as Pancho and Cisario rose from their chairs.

Felix took a limping step toward Reece. He cocked the pistol.

Death was at hand.

Though not a man afeared of his Maker, resignation scaled into Reece's throat as he ogled the gun barrel pointed at his face—three or four paces away.

No one in the room stirred, except for a cricket that jumped between Reece and the gunman before continuing on to a point unknown. Reece kept his eyes on the pistol. He could move fast, most certainly, and perhaps disarm the angry Mexicano. Perhaps. If only he could get to one of those Brown Bess muskets leaning against the corner—provided they were loaded—but could he kill the boy he had sent on this desperate course by banishing him to the Perote dungeons? Who else would get in the line of fire during the fracas? Reece didn't like his answers.

Felix took another step in his direction. A dearth of paces divided predator from prey.

What would happen to Alejandra? Nervously, he glanced at her horrified face. She sat, still as marble, at the table. Damn—why hadn't he hog-tied her and put her aboard that mule-drawn wagon with her sister and the others?

What a cursed irony life was. Alejandra had slain Garth's dubious rescuer, and he had rashly imprisoned a young man who would become his brother's pal.

Back on December fifth, at the Vera Cruz harbor, Felix had been driven by principles. He refused to carry the injured Antonio López de Santa Anna away from the battle scene. Wasn't it funny, Reece had hated the general as well, yet he had been so desperate, wanting to keep Antonio alive in order to continue his search, he had acted in anger and fear for the success of his own purposes.

Now Reece would pay for his selfish and hotheaded act.

If only—and he wasn't usually a man for if onlys—Alejandra could escape. But now? He must trust his brother to help her.

Garth broke the silence. “Don't shoot him, Felix. Montgomery is my brother.”

Bianca gasped. Again Pancho and Cisario crossed themselves. Alejandra was crying.

Confusion, betrayal, and disappointment blanketed the gunman's face. He didn't lower his arm. “You never said thus. When you gobbled my food and accepted my charity, you never uttered one word about this Santanista vermin being your kin.”

“I never thought we'd face him, Felix. Never. And he's not Santanista. It was all a ruse to free me.”

“But he didn't rescue you. And you, my supposed friend, could have been honest.”

“I would've been. Eventually.”

Felix's face lost a modicum of its rigidity as he scanned Garth's racked features. “Yes, I think you would have. Unlike your brother, you are a decent man, Garth Colby.”

Reece heard a sharp sound from behind him. A sharp sound escalating to a thunderous bang. Felix moved the pistol barrel as a gush of air hit Reece's back. The door was kicked open.

His eyes veered, and Reece couldn't believe them. Musket raised, Erasmo de Guzman—what was he doing here?—charged into the shack.

De Guzman, big and lumbering, shouted to Felix, “Put down that pistol and reach for the ceiling,
amigo,
or I'll scatter your brains from here to Perote!”

The gun dropped from Felix's hand to the earthen floor. The shock discharged the pistol, its powder ball narrowly missing Reece's oversize feet.

Bianca rushed forward to drape her arms around her brother. Alejandra ran to Reece, but her eyes were on Erasmo.
“Mi amigo,
thank you!”

Cisario creaked over to pick up Felix's pistol. Pancho shook his head and took another sip of coffee. Garth stepped to Felix. “I don't know what is happening,” Garth said to his former cell mate, “but I'm glad it forced you into pause.”

Alejandra backed away from Reece to stand by Erasmo. Shoulders squared, she announced, “I can explain what happened. This is my friend, Erasmo de Guzman. He is a Federalist, as I am. We do
not
mean you harm.”

Erasmo nodded, lowering the musket. “We must cease fighting amongst ourselves. I know you are Federalists, men, since I overheard you speaking with my friends at that place you abducted them, and be it known, our quarrel is with Santa Anna.”

Felix pointed a shaking finger at Reece. “He is Santanista.”

“No, he isn't,” Erasmo supplied smoothly.

Reece interjected, “Right, I am not. But why do you defend me, de Guzman?”

“I owe you a favor, if not my life. You sent the French to save me from Santanista clutches. This morning I came upon your camp, as these men accosted you. I followed to repay my debt. I will help you escape Mexico.”

Reece found himself wary of such friendship, but argue it, he didn't, especially when Erasmo said to Alejandra, “I have worried over your fate,
amiga.
It pained me knowing you fled the capital with soldiers at your heel.”

“You are a dear and true friend, 'Rasmo.”

Erasmo molded an arch glance at Felix. “Remember that, fellow Federalist. It is I who leads the pack. I am Erasmo de Guzman of Vera Cruz.”

Respect lit the angry Mexicano's eyes. “Holy Mother,
you
are de Guzman?”

“One and the same.” Erasmo tried to appear humble.

His efforts fizzled with Reece. Something about this unexpected appearance had the sour fetor of week-old fish.

“Where is Mercedes?” de Guzman asked Alejandra.

“Gone on to Vera Cruz.”

With a beat, de Guzman asked, “With her new doctor man?”

Alejandra bowed her head, and a strange, almost mad, expression set the arch Federalist's face. Reece didn't know why he distrusted de Guzman. It might be because of that night on the beach fronting Casa Montgomery, but Reece doubted it. This fellow had been bent on avenging Alejandra's honor, which wasn't a bad thing to do. And the Lord knows de Guzman had suffered for his principles . . . Maybe I'm being too judgmental where he's concerned, Reece told himself.

Besides, in the greater scope of things, de Guzman's appearance had been more than precipitous. Reece must cease counting the teeth of gift horses. “Where do we go from here?”

“A ship north from Vera Cruz,” de Guzman replied evenly.

“We lack horses.”

“Can we buy more?” Alejandra asked Cisario.

The old man nodded. “There is a rancher not far from my home. He has many good mounts to sell.”

“If you think I travel with the bastard that caused all my suffering,” said Felix, “you all have another thing coming. I will
not
ride alongside Colonel Montgomery.”

Reece observed the speaker, then turned his eyes to Garth. Emotions were roiling in his brother's angular face. He would not put his brother on the spot. “We'll split up. Garth, contact the French when you reach Vera Cruz—they should still be there. Admiral Baudin will sail you home. Take Felix and his sister with you. And Cisario and—”

“I'm not leaving,” the old man put in forcefully. “Here is my home.”

“Garth, it will be you, Felix, Bianca, Pancho—you do want to go, don't you, Pancho?”

“Sí.”

“Are you forgetting something?” de Guzman asked. “We have but four horses amongst us. Four horses and seven riders.”

“We have money,” Reece answered. “Cisario will purchase more mounts.”

Alejandra's friend of long standing bent his head toward Cisario, but his question was addressed to her. “How do we know he's to be trusted with money?”

She lifted her chin. “Cisario is trustworthy.”

And so it was that Reece's brother, the sibling he had sought for almost four years, departed the mountain overlooking Perote. Garth left with his friends—Felix, Bianca, Pancho. It pained Reece, saying goodbye when he and his brother had barely said hello, but he had to be practical. They were at least a day from Vera Cruz, and forestalling trouble was the best course.

 

 

The moon had climbed up the eastern horizon, resting low on it. They sat on the ground outside Cisario's humble domicile, awaiting his return with the purchased horses. Reece, Alejandra, and Erasmo shared a pot of beans provided by Bianca, who had left with the others hours ago.

Before they had departed, the atmosphere was strained thanks to Felix's resentment toward Reece. Yet she'd had the chance to converse with Garth, and she liked him, though his over-thin appearance had shocked her. She got the impression he had a lot of inner problems to heal. The only light that had brightened his blue eyes had come when he mentioned Becky McNeely. Reece had not told him Becky was dead, and Alejandra understood his reasoning. Garth had enough trouble right now without adding grief to it.

She glanced at Reece; he ate quietly, not adding to the conversation, and she sensed his brooding had to do with Garth and the bad news to relay.

Erasmo put his plate aside. “I have something to tell you. I didn't want to mention it in front of the others. My journey from the capital has not been without insight. I came upon compatriots yesterday. They tell me an honor guard of three has left the estate of Manga de Clavo.”

“So what?” interjected Reece.

“Do I need to tell you, those who were close to El Presidente, that the cortege carries the remains of his leg?”

Reece shrugged, and repeated, “So what?”

“If you are El Presidente's opponent as you profess to be,
mi amigo norteamericano,
you would see the gain in this. Alejandra has told me about his plans, and how he banks on the rites to glorify his name. If the casket is thrown to the wind, Santa Anna would not be able to have his elaborate funeral. That would drive him completely mad. And the country would not have to wait to depose him . . .”

She ought not to be fascinated by this concept, yet she was. What with Santa Anna's despondency over the Pastry War treaty, he was more vulnerable than ever to waving his true colors. Though she pitied him, Alejandra saw no reason to leave the nation's fate to a drug-crazed despot.

“I have heard the casket is crystal,” Erasmo said. “Paid for out of Treasury coffers, as are all Santa Anna's extravangances. While our people suffer in poverty.”

“He gave his limb in battle.” Reece frowned. “Why shouldn't he be entitled to a government-provided casket?”

Alejandra wasn't swayed by such opinion. She thought about the abject poverty of Mexico and the conditions that turned good men to bad. Such as the bandit Enrique.

Erasmo leaned forward. “If the casket is stolen, Santa Anna will go mad. His advisers will be forced to recognize it, then they will demand his impeachment. Such unrest would clear the way for a Federalist to take his place.”

“What a crock of dung,” Reece said, putting it mildly and getting to his feet.

His eyes settling on Alejandra, Erasmo pleaded, “Do you agree with this assessment, amiga?”

She refused to glance at Reece, but she could feel the searing heat of his gaze upon her. He wanted her to side with him. Yet she could not, with any conscience, do that.

Erasmo glanced at Reece, then at Alejandra. “I need your help.”

“Get your Federalist comrades to help you, de Guzman, and leave me and Alejandra out of it.”

“But you are here, and you I trust. More than that, I would not have anyone else sharing in the glory.”

She wasn't after glory, but she owed Erasmo so much. For all the years he had been devoted friend to both her and Miguel. For the years he had helped her through her widow's grief. How could she turn her back on him? And could she turn her back on herself? “I see merit in your suggestions, 'Rasmo.”

Reece thrust his tin plate to the ground. “You are crazy. Both of you are crazy.”

“Querido,”
she said softly, “I know the idea sounds bizarre, but I think it could work. Losing his sainted leg for the second time would topple Santa Anna.”

Erasmo spoke. “It won't take long to steal the casket, a couple of hours at the most. And then we can go on to Mer—go on to Texas.”

“No!” Then, patiently, Reece pointed out to Alejandra, “Sweetheart, we are less than a day from Vera Cruz. Less than twenty-four hours, once we get horses, from freedom. Forget Santa Anna. We have the future, and that's all that should matter.”

He was right, of course. “But it wouldn't take more than a couple of hours.”

“I'll have no part of it, and you won't either, Alejandra,” Reece said with a grate. “It's ghoulish.”

“I could leave Mexico with peace of mind. For Mexico, for myself, for Miguel . . .”

Reece's face tightened. “Your husband wouldn't have wanted you chasing trouble. He would want you safe and happy. Just as I do. If you fall in with this witless scheme, I'll know that . . .” He took a step toward her. “Don't do it, Alejandra.
Don't
do it. ”

Vexed at his demand, she shot back, “That is the way it is. You've found your brother, so let's just sail merrily away to Texas. And we'll never, ever”—she threw her hands wide—“give one tiny, bitty thought to what I worked so hard to accomplish.”

“Not a bad suggestion,” Reece answered sourly.

The night took a sudden chill. She stood and walked away from Reece and Erasmo, stopping to rest her forehead against the shed. For all the love she and Reece had shared, for all the problems they had settled along the way, he didn't understand her.

She must settle her mind. Or make it appear as if she had. Reece would just have to understand. Just have to!

Returning to a scowling Reece and a pensive Erasmo, she said to her friend, “I won't go with you. If you steal the casket, you do it alone.”