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My truck is with Antonio and his kind.”
    Pepe moved to pour more drinks.
    â€œWhen Garth is free and my work is finished,” Reece said, “I’m going back to Texas and take up ranching. The republic’s promised me a nice-sized chunk of ground. I’ve never had my own land before, you see. Of course, when it was me and Pa and Garth, we had the run of our trapping territory, but that’s not the same as being a property owner. But we lived in freedom, and no one can argue the joys of liberty.”
    Pepe formed an unfamiliar word. “Lee-ver-bee?”
    â€œLi-ber-ty.”
    â€œLi-ber-tine.”
    â€œNot quite the same, Pepe ole boy,” Reece said with a laugh. Again he returned to his soliloquy. “That’s what the Texas Revolution was all about, Pepe. Liberty and freedom. We’re going to have beautiful cities, and prosperous farms and ranches—and we’ll be making our own laws. I’m going to be a part of all that.” Reece raised his snifter to toast his mozo. “Maybe, if you’ve a mind, you can go with me. You’ll be speaking English by then, I promise. And I’ll deed you a hunk of my property, so you can be your own man for a change. You’ll be free. Life’s no good without freedom.”
    He didn’t have to imagine what Garth’s life was like. It couldn’t be anything above hell. Reece tossed the crystal snifter into the cold hearth.
    â€œRemember the Alamo,” he muttered, thinking about the dirty trick Alejandra and Antonio were trying to play on him. “Remember Goliad. Remember the price Texans paid to be free. Remember Garth. And don’t let that bastard and his trickster stand in the way of your objective.”

Chapter Six
    Nothing stood in the way of design. Soon Erasmo and Don Valentin would arrive by coach. Some way or another, Reece Montgomery would be here. The plot against Santa Anna was hatched.
    Campos de Palmas, the Sierra coffee plantation lying on a gentle rise outside of Vera Cruz, on the road to mountainous Jalapa, was alit for guests. In the house’s courtyard, marimba musicians were setting up a xylophone as well as a drum, a guitar, and a gourd. Silver and crystal sparkled in the orchid-festooned dining room. Servants poured fine wines and aged whiskeys into decanters. Dish after dish of delicacies wafted marvelous smells, the number belying the small list of invitees and the dearth of exotic spices brought on by the French blockade.
    Alejandra had thought of everything, then plans began to fall apart.
    Her hair half arranged, she left her toilette to greet an unexpected visitor. Just her luck!—an all-too-familiar carriage rolled to a stop on the coconut-palm-lined carriageway.
    Portmanteaux and two servants in her lavender-scented wake, Mercedes Toussaint Navarro, all plumes and bloom and with no telling what intention beyond invading her sister’s privacy, alighted from the conveyance.
    Â¡Maldicíon! Alejandra cursed inwardly.
    â€œDulce,” Mercedes cooed, bussing both of her sister’s cheeks.
    The petite, shapely Mercedes wore feathers and silk, Continental style. Ash-blond hair was arranged in fetching curls. Sapphires dangled from small ears and complemented huge cornflower-blue eyes. Lovely, that was the only way to describe her.
    Yet there was an air to Mercedes, a brittle aura marring her perfect beauty. It didn’t used to be that way, and Alejandra missed that more tender part of her only sibling.
    â€œMercie,” she said, exchanging nicknames, “what brings you here?”
    â€œI detect a certain dread in Dulce’s voice, no?”
    Alejandra was loath to answer. Though they adored each other, neither quite understood her sister beyond a few absolutes. The elder one was a busybody extraordinaire; both were opinionated, stubborn and possessed with a strong Latin temperament. Peace was hard to come by. Thus, Alejandra was skeptical of