Victoria walked down the street carrying a kettle of
chicken soup and grumbling to herself. She had been to the
edge of town that morning and still there were no soldiers
posted as lookouts. Didn’t the officers understand how
close Santa Anna’s army was? Why did they not prepare? It
had been four days since she’d arrived in town. She’d
expected to help Juan secure his house here and move into
the fort--and perhaps prepare the women. No one took her
warnings seriously except Diego and Juan.

She glanced down at the heavy iron pot she held. All
she’d done so far was take food to the hospital in Maria’s
stead—not nearly the action she’d desired. Juan had
dismissed his cook after hearing the news Victoria brought
and smartly the woman had packed her things and headed back
to her home west of town to warn her husband. The soldiers
might enjoy this soup after the rations of corn tortillas
they’d endured but what would happen to the injured and
ailing men once Santa Anna invaded the streets?

Again she worried about the lack of readiness.
Shouldn’t people be doing something? Preparing? It seemed a
few Tejanos were, but not the stubborn and blind Anglos.

She strode past the barracks, making a bee-line for
the stairs to the hospital floor. Just as she mounted the
first step, a dark blur of motion dashed out from under the
stairway. The large mud-colored mongrel bounded toward her
with its teeth bared, a rumbling growl in its throat.

“No!” she cried out, teetering on the brink of losing
her balance as the dog dove into her skirt and between her
legs. “No! Eyiee!” Hot soup sloshed out from under the
kettle’s lid and over the edge to burn her fingers. She
would lose it all if she dropped it!

Suddenly a strong hand gripped the kettle and then
grasped her elbow, steadying her. She looked up into a face
that hadn’t seen the sharp edge of a razor in weeks. His
beard was the color of rich coffee but it couldn’t hide the
handsome contours beneath. Anglo, she reasoned. Easy to
spot with the dark hair, streaked blond by the sun, and
cobalt blue eyes. His body tensed as he held tight to a
ruff of fur at the dog’s neck and pulled it away from her
skirt. “Guess the smell of that soup was more than the poor
mutt could take. You got that now?”

“Gracias,” she said, gripping the kettle to her like
a shield. Juan had warned her against being too familiar
with the soldiers, saying they saw few women and were as
uncouth a lot as he’d ever known. She sniffed. This man
reeked of horse and sweat and days on the trail—not exactly
a heady combination.

He tipped his hat. “Name’s Jake. Jake Dumont.

“Gracias,” she said again.

He was blocking her path. She started to side-step to
go around him but then he side-stepped and was in front of
her again.

His eyes narrowed under his dark brows. “You don’t
speak English? A shame.” His gaze slid over her, moving
from the heavy blue cloak that covered her head all the way
down to the base of her gray skirt where the tips of her
boots peeked out. Angry heat flushed through her. He had
nerve, this Anglo!

She raised her chin and gave him the haughtiest look
she could muster under the circumstances. Repositioning her
grip on the kettle, she started up the stairs, surprised
when the man shoved the dog purposely to the side and
followed her. She stopped and turned, putting the hot soup
between them. If he thought to annoy her, she had plenty of
protection.

He glanced at the soup and then back up at her. A
devilish look came into his eyes. “You think that would
stop me?”

She tipped the kettle in warning. A drop of hot
liquid splashed onto his pants.

Faster than lightening, he grasped her
wrist. “Careful woman. There may come a day you won’t want
that part of me scalded.”

Oh! He was a wicked man!

“Look. Let’s not start a battle where there doesn’t
need to be one. I’m just going in the same direction as you-
-to see the doctor.”

“You are sick?” He seemed like the last man on earth
who’d be ill. His firm grip revealed only quick reflexes
and crushing strength. Too late, she realized her ruse was
up. She’d spoken her thoughts out loud—in English.

He smiled slowly, his gaze knowing. “No. But my horse
is.”

Captured momentarily by the deep blue of his eyes,
her heart thudded in her chest. He was different than
anyone she’d known before and so sure of himself. Was this
an American trait? She wasn’t sure she liked it. It
bordered on rudeness. They had not been properly introduced
and here he was still touching her wrist.

As if he read her thoughts, he released her arm and
took the kettle from her hands. “Relax, miss. Although you
are the prettiest señorita I’ve ever had the pleasure of
meeting, I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment.”
Then he passed by and continued up the stairs giving her a
disconcerting view of his worn buckskin backside.

She frowned. She hadn’t expected him to suddenly turn
charming. Drawing up the hem of her skirt, she followed.