Mexican Fire by Martha Hix Page B

“Without me to prepare your meals, you would grow skinny as a cactus thorn. And then the fine señora would call no more. She would lift her nose to you as if you were manure on her slipper. I will not have that for my Señor. Not at all.”
    â€œOnly because I pay you royally.”
    With an exaggerated roll of eyes, Pepe responded. “Sí, El Cazador.”
    There it was again. El Cazador. Reece disliked the term, even though it was a literal translation of the way he had earned his living as a lad. While Pepe had a tease to his inflection when saying “the hunter,” most Mexicans spoke it more as a term of awe or respect, as if he were capable of great feats, as though he could fell grizzlies with his thumbnail. Which made Reece uncomfortable. For most of his thirty years he hadn’t been respectable. He had done as little as possible to make something of himself; had gambled and cheated; had caroused and cavorted with no conscience about the consequences. And a lot of other things short of murder and treason. No, El Cazador spoken with awe didn’t swell his chest. He would rather be known as plain ole Reece Montgomery.
    And, hell, he wasn’t even a great hunter. That title went to his brother. Garth . . . don’t think about him, Reece told himself.
    Reece picked up a brandy decanter sitting on the bureau. “Say, Pepe ole boy, join me in a drink?”
    â€œA game of cards, too?” was the hopeful reply.
    â€œNo cards tonight, Pepe. Not tonight.” Reece filled two snifters and handed over the second before walking to the French doors that opened to the patio and afforded a commanding view of the beach. “Tonight I need to talk.”
    â€œAbout the señora?”
    â€œNot about her,” Reece lied. Taking up his native English, he said, “Yes, I want to talk this thing out, and you’re going to lend an ear, like Garth did in the old days.”
    â€œI cannot understand. Try the Totonac I have been teaching you?” Pepe’s round face took on a sunny expression. “Maybe you will teach me English?”
    â€œWe’ll start the English lessons soon,” Reece promised faithfully, “but not today.”
    Again lapsing into the anonymity of an American’s tongue, he continued. “What does it matter, her allegiances? My best bet is to go with my plans to mislead her. With this tack, Antonio will know I’m ‘loyal’. It has to be this way.”
    Uncomprehending, Pepe scratched his head.
    â€œShe put herself in a man’s world, so I shouldn’t feel guilty for protecting myself.”
    â€œSí, la señora es muy bonita,” Pepe put in.
    â€œI can’t think about that. I can’t be a prisoner to my lust, dammit! My loyalties are to my brother and the Republic of Texas, not to Mexico or that bastard at Manga de Clavo or to a certain green-eyed siren.”
    For the past thirty-two months he had invested his heart and soul in perpetrating an elaborate ruse. None was more loyal and true to the disgraced and dishonored former caudillo of Mexico than the disgraced and dishonored Texan from St. Louis.
    Or so he and Sam Houston of Texas wanted it to appear.
    In truth, none was more loyal to the Republic lying north of the Rio Bravo than Reece Montgomery. It started out simple enough. As an investigation of his brother’s whereabouts.
    Six years ago Garth Colby was granted a tract of land south of San Antonio. He became an outspoken critic of the government in Mexican Tejas. Then he had become militant. In late 1835 he was arrested, chained and led south. He wasn’t in the state prison in northern Mexico, an escaped Texan prisoner had attested to that. Garth had to be in one of four places: San Juan de Ulúa, Perote, Oaxaca, or Mexico City.
    There was no escaping those places. Not yet anyway.
    Reece glanced at the drawer where he’d placed Garth’s picture, then looked away. At