Mexican Fire (24 page)

Mamacita welcomed her Frenchman with open arms.

A sore-jawed and complaining Zenon at the helm, Alejandra returned to Campos de Palmas and her own problems. Reece had sent nary a word to her. It hurt, his separation, but he wanted it that way, and she must learn to live with it.

She could not mourn idle, not with a hacienda to manage. Her estate manager reminded her about all those sacks of coffee sitting on the pier in Vera Cruz. With Erasmo in Tampico, she must see they were sold. On the morning after her parents reconciled, she rode into the city and entered Café Plantain. As usual, the smell of coffee permeated the building. Belying the city's recent evacuation, the buzz of conversation fought with the clang of cutlery. When a waiter seated her in the main dining room, though, a hush fell over the crowd.

All eyes turned to Alejandra.

Ladies departed. Several gentlemen had the good grace to avert their stares. Quite a few men continued to ogle her. Several winked. More than one pursed his mouth in an imitation of a kiss.

Obviously gossip—either spread from the
posada
or from her own people—had preceded her. This fall from grace hurt more than she'd allow, even inwardly. A lady cherished her honor as the greatest of possessions. Alejandra had squandered hers.

Fidel Garcia, a bearded and brutish coffee trader known for lechery, approached her table. Without consent, he pulled out and turned a chair, then straddled it.

“Buenos dias,”
he said, smiling and displaying rotten teeth. “What brings you to the Plantain,
chiquita?”

She was in no position to play the offended damsel. “I've coffee to sell. Can you help me?”

“Business, it is not so good.”

“But coffee is still being sold to buyers here in Mexico. I must—absolutely must!—sell a hundred bags of beans. My people depend on the good fortunes of Campos de Palmas. I cannot let them down.”

Fidel lifted a bushy brow. “How do I know the product is fresh?”

“It is fresh.”

“So you say.”

“The Sierra word has always been golden, so why do you doubt it now?”

Fidel scratched his beard. “But you are not a Sierra. You are a Toussaint. And we all know . . .” Turning his ugly head, he grinned at the many men giving rapt attention to the verbal interchange. “We all know the French do things that are different from, shall we say, what pious Mexicans expect.”

She wanted to slap him. How dare he spout morals when he was amoral himself! Instead of striking his despicable face, she forced a smile. “I am not French, Señor Garcia. I am a Mexicana, and it is Mexican coffee that will ruin in the dockside warehouse.”

“What a high-minded
chiquita
you are,” he commented dryly.

She had to ignore his insult. Just had to! “Will you help me?”

A disgustingly fat hand snaked across the table to take her fingers. His middle finger scratched the center of her palm.

She pulled back as he said, “I will help,
chiquita.
But first I must inspect the goods.”

“I want you to.”

“Bueno.
” As if perusing a choice morsel of meat, he licked his lips and eyed her breasts. “Shall we retire to the warehouse?”

“I trust your word about the inspection,” she replied halfheartedly.

“I intend to do more than inspect the product,
chiquita
. I must smell it, touch it, taste it. To see what it is that such a
coffee drinker
as Colonel Montgomery covets.”

Shamed and enraged, she stood. “Your services will not be needed.”

“Getting rather arrogant, aren't you? Considering that you're no flower of virtue.”

Face flaming, she rushed from the café. Selling coffee would have to wait for Erasmo's return. Or the mainstay of Campos de Palmas could go stale. Whatever the case, she would never put herself in such a position again!

By the time Alejandra returned to her hacienda, she somewhat regretted her haste in leaving the Plantain. Fidel Garcia, she would not abide, but he wasn't the only coffee broker in Vera Cruz. She should have approached one of the gentlemen.

But how would they have treated her? Perhaps as a pariah. Well, she wasn't going to think about it today. Today she must think only of business. Ramirez, her estate manager, came forth to say that
pesos
were in short supply. And the workers must be paid. It took the greater portion of her cash to make the payroll.

Money had been a problem for a long time. Since Miguel had left. He took most of their available cash to finance his service to the Eagle and Serpent. That's the way it was: as best they could, officers armed and supplied not only themselves but also their companies. Santa Anna had demanded this of his officers as they swept north to Tejas.

And Miguel, innocent and gullible and eager, had agreed to the terms.

Alejandra frowned.
He shouldn't have done that. It was unfair not only to our people but to me.
Her fingers went to her lips. How could she criticize her husband? Santa Anna had lulled Miguel into thinking not so much as one round of gunfire would put down the
norteamericano's
rebellion in Tejas. Miguel had left with the idea he'd be home in a minimum of time.

Who was she to censure Miguel's decisions? She was no paragon, and she could have done a better job of running this plantation. Here she was, feeling sorry for herself, when another try could be made at finding a broker. If only he could sell that coffee . . .

Later that afternoon, Papa and Mamacita arrived with their elder daughter in tow. Papa took his leave to speak with Ramirez. Mercedes, wearing widow's weeds and claiming weariness, retired to a bedchamber. Mamacita settled into the
sala grande
and went for her embroidery.

“We hear you have coffee to sell,” Mamacita remarked, threading a needle.

“I do.”

“Papa wants to buy it.”

Puzzled, Alejandra took a seat. “You could never use so much coffee.”

“Don't argue with good fortune, Alejandra. Lord knows, you've spent a lifetime doing it, but don't argue this time.”

She decided to follow her mother's advice. Before dinner, her parents departed. Papa had the bill of sale in his hand.

Mercedes stayed to dine.

During soup, she said to Alejandra, “You're quite the topic of conversation in Vera Cruz. Seems you were a bit indiscreet with your Señor.”

“I don't want to talk about it.” And she wouldn't, but Alejandra had the sinking feel she had dishonored herself for a man she'd never see again.

The dessert dishes were cleared before Alejandra could think of another subject, though. She broached the coffee sale. “Why do you think Papa wanted that coffee?”

“To help a daughter in need.”

“That's an unsatisfactory answer.”

Mercedes rose from the table. “I think I'll read for a while.”

Something peculiar was going on. Alejandra followed her sister to the blue bedchamber. And she turned her eyes from the surroundings. This was the room where she and Reece had slept, had made love . . . so many times. She would not—absolutely would not!—think about him. But why did her pulse throb, her heart persist in racing?

Headed toward her sister, she said, “Mercie, it's not like you to keep a secret. Why did Papa buy my coffee?”

“Mamacita said she would disown me if I told.”

“Yes, and I'm going to throttle you if you don't.”

Mercedes went to a chair, picking up a romantic novel along the way. Obviously she had no intention of answering. Alejandra stomped over to the chair, grabbed the book and tossed it on the bed.

“Answer me,” she demanded.

A pout to her lips, Mercedes squirmed in the seat. “Well, if you must know, Papa is sending it to the French fleet.”

“I'm not believing this. By the Blessed Lady of Guadalupe, I'm not believing this.” Alejandra dropped onto the bed. The book dug at her derriere. “He undermined me with my enemy.”

“Dios,
Dulce, what does it matter, who drinks the coffee? A sale is a sale is a sale.”

“And I'm stopping this one.” Alejandra jumped to her feet. “Right now.”

Mercedes was across the room in a thrift of steps. “Oh no, you're not. You need money to operate Campos de Palmas. And if you let your stupid, federalistic heart overrule your brain, you don't deserve to be the owner of this grand
cafetelería!”

“B-but, Mercie, I feel like a traitor.”

“You are not.” Mercedes pointed to the bed. “Now, sit down and behave yourself.”

Alejandra did as suggested. And within a few minutes, her anxieties had abated. Moderately. Was she wrong to aid the enemy . . . when her own compatriots sided with the French? Was there anyone left in this land she could call her ally? Everyone had betrayed the cause in some way or some fashion. And now she was one of them.

One question remained. “Does Mamacita know what he plans to do with the coffee?”

Her sister nodded.

“Unbelievable,” Alejandra said, astounded that her mother would sanction such a move.

“Believe me, it's true. She is so happy to have him back, she will go to any lengths to keep him.” Mercedes sat down beside her, and took Alejandra's hand. “When she thought she'd lost Papa, it gave her time to think. She has made him the most important aspect of her life.”

“It's about time for that.”

“And what about you, Dulce? What about you and the Anglo? Why is he not here?”

Alejandra studied the coverlet. Her fingers picked at an imaginary piece of lint. “We are . . . finished, I suppose. And it is a good thing. We were not well-suited.”

“Excuse me? Not well-suited. I never saw two people better suited than the two of you.”

As defense against the comment she ached to bask in, Alejandra dug up everything she could possibly resent against Reece. “You would suit me with a soldier from the ranks of General Houston?” she asked.

“Surely you are jesting, Dulce.”

“I would not joke about something as serious as his union with the people who stole Tejas from us. Who fought Miguel.” Why didn't this bother her as much as it should? “Reece Montgomery was among them. ”

“He fights for us now. That ought to count for something, Dulce.”

“No it doesn't. Because he doesn't. He is a spy for the Republic of Tejas . . . or Texas, as the rebels prefer to call it. He works for them; he works for France. But mostly he works for himself.” Though she hoped her tone had been derisive, her heart swelled with pride as she added, “He has affiliated himself with Santa Anna as a means to search this country for his missing brother.”

Mercedes crossed her legs. “Can't say your Señor hasn't kept himself busy.”

“Mercie, for heaven's sakes! Must you reduce everything to the basics?”

“Why not?” Mercedes folded her arms. “And why don't we cut a couple more things to basics, yes? Such as, do you love him?”

“Yes. No. Yes. Possibly. I don't know.”

“If the two of you could begin again, with a clean slate, how would you feel about him?”

“He's made me happy, so very, very happy at times. I feel alive when I'm with Reece. If he were different, I'd love him.”

“Ah, yes . . . we do like to change our men. Try to change our men, that is.” Mercedes walked up the rug, then back again. “How does he feel about you?”

“He claimed to love me. But that was before Ch-Christmas night. We had a terrible row, and he said he was through with me.”

Mercedes chuckled. “Sweet Dulce, you silly girl, he'll probably say he's through with you a dozen times before you're laid to rest next to each other.”

For the first time, Alejandra considered a future with Reece. No. No! It wasn't possible. Why, that would be the ultimate insult to Miguel, marrying his enemy. Wouldn't it? To live without Reece was a dreadful thought. Maybe she did love him. A little. What did it matter, now?

Mercedes spoke. “This quarrel you had . . . Do you think it could be forgiven, if you put aside your pride?”

“This isn't a point of my pride. It's a point of saying and doing awful things to each other. I'm just as guilty as he.”

“What did you say?”

Alejandra's face flamed. “I belittled Reece.”

With a groan, Mercedes shook her head. “I belittled Joaquin, too. Men don't like this, it hurts their pride, which is a delicate thing, I've come to realize.” She turned her eyes to her sister. “Don't make my mistakes, not while you still have the chance to make up for it.”

Alejandra gave thought to the advice. “I should apologize to Reece. And I must never belittle him again.”

“Do it.” Returning to her usual piquant self, Mercedes said, “You ought to marry Señor Montgomery. You are right for each other, whether or not you accept it, and marrying is the only way to save your reputation.”

“That would be my last reason for taking such a step.”

“What would be the first?”

“Mercedes Navarro, leave me alone!”

With a shrug, Mercedes patted her coiffure. “All right, I'll leave you alone. I need my rest anyway. I've a journey ahead of me.”

“And where are you going?” Alejandra inquired, curious even though she dreaded the answer. No telling what Mercedes had planned.

“Tomorrow I set out for Coatlpoala. I'm going to find out if my husband's son needs anything.”