Mexican Fire by Martha Hix Read Free Book Online

hadn’t said no . . . so far . . . she smiled.
    A certain tender quality to his inflection, he pointed out, “That’s the first time you’ve smiled at me.”
    â€œYou’ve had me frightened,” she admitted as he squeezed each tip of her finger tenderly.
    â€œDon’t be scared. I mean you no harm.”
    She feared him, but her anxiety was more inwardly directed. Before encountering this Tejano of uncelebrated character, no man beyond Miguel had entered the private world of her passions.
    Passions. ¡Maldición! What was she thinking? Salaciousness was wrong, wrong, wrong! Yet she couldn’t deny it.
    â€œWill you help me?” she asked, determined not to dwell on her emotions. “Will you spy on Santa Anna?”
    Reece’s finger and thumb moved to her wrist, applying a slight pressure. “Why would I want to do that?”
    â€œFor a thousand pesos.”
    Silence. Beyond removing his fingers from her flesh, Reece didn’t budge. A cricket’s screak was the lone sound beyond the pounding surf.
    Eventually Reece said, “That’s a lot of money, even for the rich Doña Alejandra.”
    â€œThen you’ll accept?” she asked hopefully.
    His mustache, darker by a couple of shades than his hair, flattened as he frowned. “Not so fast. Tell me something. Have you ever met Santa Anna?”
    â€œOnce, several years back,” she answered. Yet that wasn’t quite true. She’d tried to put it out of her mind, with some success, but now bits of memory tumbled each over the other. There was that one time. When she’d been forced by propriety to answer Santa Anna’s greetings. That one brief encounter didn’t bear repeating, did it? Reece Montgomery hadn’t been there. In the meeting’s insignificance, Santa Anna wouldn’t have repeated it, surely.
    Did Reece question her hesitation?
    Her nervousness abated when he said, “Seems to me you would’ve made a visit to his hacienda, if nothing else than to extend your condolences over his loss of Texas.”
    â€œI had my own loss to lament.”
    Reece studied her lips, her face, her eyes, yet he said nary a phrase much less a syllable. Not even a sigh passed his lips. It was an eloquent silence speaking louder than words.
    He didn’t believe her.
    She knew it.
    She should have been more straightforward in expressing her lack of sentiment toward Santa Anna.
    By now the sun had set. From Vera Cruz, orange lights twinkled across the sands. From San Juan de Ulúa—and from the gunwales of French warships!—those same displays shone. Night sounds whispered through the patio, above the roaring surf and around the man and woman facing each other. Alejandra knew that while it was too late for what-I-should-have-done’s, she had to figure out a powerful or clever quip. She decided on the truth.
    â€œI want nothing to do with him,” she said forcefully and vehemently, determined to amend her previous statement.
    Reece rubbed his chin. “Didn’t your husband follow him to the Alamo? Wasn’t he a faithful Santanista to the end?”
    â€œAll of those things are true.”
    â€œWhy do you want me to spy on Santa Anna?”
    â€œI want nothing from you personally. We Federalists need your help.” She took a breath. “Yes, my husband was loyal till death to his betrayer. But Miguel’s was an . . . an awful death,” she said bitterly. “For two weeks he lingered in that place called San Antonio de Béjar. Two weeks, Señor Montgomery, without medicine or bandages or proper food or even a roof to protect him from the elements.”
    She swallowed. “He wasn’t alone in his suffering. Many Mexican soldiers died the same horrific death . . . all the while their commander took no regard of their pain.”
    â€œIt was a time of war, Alejandra.”
    Reece’s face was an unreadable mask, requiring