The Return of Isabela Montoya de la Cruz

When Isabela Montoya de la Cruz returned to Alta California after nearly six years away at school, the first thing she saw from the window of the carriage was the familiar white bell tower of the mission rising above the dusty roofs of the pueblo, and the second was her father waiting beneath the pepper trees outside the gates of Rancho Montoya with his arms spread wide, smiling as though his only daughter had returned entirely because she had missed him and not because three increasingly urgent letters had informed her that Don Alejandro Valdés, wealthy, respectable, thirty-seven years old and possessed of several thousand cattle, had expressed a serious interest in becoming her husband. “Papa,” Isabela said as he embraced her, “if this homecoming ends with you placing Don Alejandro on one side of the dinner table and me on the other, I warn you that I have learned several very improper things while away.” Her father laughed. “Languages?” “Among other things.” “Music?” “Occasionally.” “How to become a respectable wife?” “Absolutely not.” He sighed, but Isabela kissed his cheek before he could begin the argument she knew was coming, because there were truths she was not yet ready to tell him, particularly the most important one—that during those years away she had finally understood why the handsome young gentlemen presented to her had inspired nothing beyond polite boredom, while the touch of another young woman's hand could leave her thinking about it for days. At dinner Isabela endured precisely twenty-three minutes of conversation about Don Alejandro before changing the subject. “And Elena?” Her father's expression changed. It was slight, but she saw it. “Elena Vargas,” Isabela continued. “Surely you remember her, Papa. She practically lived here when we were girls.” “Yes, of course.” “Where is she?” “I believe she works in town.” “Doing what?” Her father concentrated unnecessarily on cutting his meat. “Papa?” “Isabela, there are matters which have changed while you were away.” “So everyone keeps telling me without actually telling me anything.” The following morning she rode into the pueblo herself, and there she discovered that Elena's name possessed a remarkable ability to make conversations stop. At the bakery, Doña Pilar suddenly remembered bread in the oven; at the market, an old acquaintance insisted she knew nothing; and when Isabela finally cornered Mateo, one of her father's vaqueros, behind the stable, he glanced toward the street before whispering, “The Vargas family lost everything.” “How?” “Debts.” “Elena's father never had debts.” “He does now.” “And Elena?” Mateo hesitated. “Say it.” “She serves in the household of Comandante Rafael Ortega.” Isabela knew the name, because everyone knew it: Ortega was the regional government's most powerful official, a man who collected taxes, settled disputes, commanded soldiers and somehow had become considerably richer with every year he spent administering everyone else's affairs. “Why would Elena work for him?” Mateo's eyes met hers. “She didn't have much choice.” That evening Isabela stood outside Ortega's residence and watched through an illuminated window as a young servant carried wine into the dining room. Six years had changed Elena Vargas from the laughing girl Isabela remembered into a striking young woman, but Isabela recognized her instantly—and then Ortega seized Elena's wrist because she had apparently poured too slowly. Isabela took one involuntary step toward the house. Ortega said something. Elena lowered her eyes. He released her. Isabela's hands curled into fists. “All right,” she whispered. “Now I understand why everyone is afraid.” She could have gone to her father. She could have gone to the alcalde. She could have demanded an investigation. Instead she remembered every frightened face that had refused to speak Elena's name and understood exactly how useful an investigation controlled by Ortega would be. So Isabela went home, opened an old cedar chest containing clothes that had belonged to her mother, removed a length of crimson cloth, and smiled for the first time that evening. Three nights later, Ortega awoke to the sound of breaking glass. “What in God's name—” A woman stood on his balcony. Red leather riding clothes fitted close enough not to catch in a saddle, black boots reached nearly to her knees, a simple black cape hung from her shoulders, and a crimson mask concealed the upper half of her face while a red scarf covered her hair. Ortega reached for the pistol beside his bed. “Don't.” The woman's revolver was already pointed at him. “Who are you?” “Tonight?” she replied. “A question.” “What question?” “How much money did you steal from the Vargas family?” His face hardened. “Get out.” She cocked the revolver. “That was not the correct answer.” Ortega shouted for his guards. Isabela smiled beneath the mask. “That,” she said, “was even worse.” She vaulted from the balcony railing onto the tiled roof below just as two soldiers entered, crossed the courtyard at a run and disappeared over the wall, leaving behind nothing but a red scarf tied neatly around Ortega's balcony rail. By morning everyone in the pueblo had heard about La Sombra Roja . By the following night children were already exaggerating the story. By the third, Ortega had doubled his guards. Which was exactly what Isabela wanted, because while they guarded Ortega, nobody guarded his records. She entered his government office through a rear window and found ledgers documenting fraudulent loans, confiscated ranches, invented taxes and payments from families who had mysteriously fallen into debt after refusing Ortega's demands. The Vargas ranch was among them. “So that is how you did it,” she murmured. “Isabela?” She froze. Elena stood in the doorway holding a candle. For several seconds neither woman moved. Then Elena whispered, “I would recognize those eyes anywhere.” “Elena—” “You disappeared for six years and returned as a bandit?” “Vigilante.” “You are wearing a mask and carrying a pistol.” “A very effective pistol.” Elena stared at her—and then, unexpectedly, began laughing. Isabela stared back. “I don't understand what is amusing.” “You,” Elena said, wiping tears from her eyes. “You were always impossible.” The laughter vanished almost as quickly as it had come. “Why didn't you tell anyone?” Isabela asked softly. “Tell whom? Ortega owns our debt, controls the court and employs the men who enforce the law.” “Not anymore.” “You cannot fight him alone.” Isabela stepped closer. “Then perhaps I won't.” Elena knew where Ortega kept correspondence that proved the scheme extended beyond the Vargas family, Mateo knew which ranchers had lost land, and Isabela's father—once confronted with the evidence—became so furious that Isabela briefly wondered whether La Sombra Roja might have competition. They moved quickly. Copies of Ortega's accounts appeared beneath church doors and on tavern tables; ranchers discovered documents proving their debts fraudulent; witnesses who had been terrified to speak realized that twenty frightened people standing together were considerably harder to silence than one frightened person standing alone. Ortega responded as powerful cowards often do when they discover that fear has stopped working. He took Elena. Isabela found her in an abandoned storehouse beyond the pueblo, Ortega waiting with three armed men. “You have caused me considerable trouble,” he told the masked woman entering through the doorway. “You've caused considerably more.” “Drop the pistol.” Isabela looked at Elena. Elena gave the smallest shake of her head. Isabela dropped it. Ortega smiled. Then Elena drove her heel into the foot of the man holding her and threw herself aside. Isabela's second pistol appeared from beneath her cape. Ortega's smile disappeared. “You really should stop assuming,” she said, “that women will do what you tell them.” The fight lasted less than a minute. One pistol shot shattered a lantern beside Ortega's men, another knocked a weapon from a guard's hand, Elena swung a wooden stool with considerably more enthusiasm than technique, and when Ortega attempted to escape through the rear door he discovered half the pueblo waiting outside—including Isabela's father, Mateo and several ranchers carrying the documents that would finally destroy him. Ortega stared at them. “You cannot do this! I am the law!” From the darkness behind him came La Sombra Roja's voice. “No. You merely convinced everyone that you were.” By sunrise, Ortega was under guard, his ledgers were on their way to authorities beyond his influence, and the Vargas family's property—along with several others—would eventually be restored. But Isabela had one final matter to settle. She found Elena overlooking the Vargas ranch as morning light spread across the hills. “You could have been killed,” Elena said. “So could you.” “I wasn't wearing red leather and challenging armed men.” “You hit one with a stool.” “He deserved it.” “He did.” They laughed, and then silence settled between them. “Elena,” Isabela said, suddenly finding this conversation more frightening than Ortega's pistols, “there is something I learned while I was away.” Elena turned toward her. “I don't want Don Alejandro. I don't want any Alejandro.” A tiny smile appeared on Elena's lips. “That is fortunate.” “Why?” “Because I would hate him.” Isabela swallowed. “Why?” Elena stepped closer. “You really did learn nothing at that school.” And kissed her. Later that afternoon, Isabela's father found Don Alejandro's marriage proposal unopened beside his breakfast plate. On top of it lay a red scarf. He stared at the scarf for a very long time. Then he looked through the window, where Isabela and Elena were walking together beneath the trees, their hands brushing whenever they thought nobody was watching. The old ranchero slowly smiled. “Languages,” he muttered. “She said she learned languages.” That night, far beyond Rancho Montoya, a rider in red galloped beneath the moon, one black cape streaming behind her, because Ortega had not invented cruelty, corruption had not vanished with his arrest, and there were still women whose voices powerful men believed nobody would hear. On the gate of another frightened woman's home, before disappearing again into the darkness, La Sombra Roja tied a crimson scarf. This time everyone knew what it meant.