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.