Page 9 of Her Redeemed Protector

“They’ve ditched me to chase squirrels. Apparently, that’s more thrilling than watching me lurking around the house,” he says, handing me a thermos brimming with coffee.

I accept it with a shake of my head, chuckling.Classic Dad!

He adds, “I left the kitchen door open, so they’ll know if I need them,” then pauses, appraising my face. “Hey, I’ll be all right, don’t worry about me.”

I wave at him. “See you later, Dad. I’ll give you a call before the appointment.”

He rolls his eyes, clearly dreading the thought. Yet, he softens as he says, “Drive carefully,Saltamontes.”

It’s rare for him to use that nickname these days. It’s the Spanish term for grasshopper, a nod to my childhood fascination and my mother’s heritage.Saltameans hopper, andmontesmeans mountain or hill. So, literally, it translates to hill-hopper.

Sliding behind the wheel, I reach for my phone, hoping to play some music for the drive, only to find the battery flatfrom forgetting to charge it. Sighing, I plug it, then pull onto the road.

With my phone barely clinging to one bar, I receive a call from an unknown number, though my gut insists I know the caller.

“Savannah, please, don’t hang up?—”

And that’s exactly what I do. I’ve got no time for that backstabbing son of a bitch.

His name is Fabian Gill, a past chapter in my life, my last brush with love. Our relationship wasn’t as fleeting as my folks predicted, but complexities had their way. It wasn’t that he moved on with someone wealthier. We remained friends for years, and I even babysat his daughter. What truly severed our ties was his betrayal. While the big corporation was the dragon that came after the Mitchells’ land, Fabian was the one giving fire to its breath.

I don’t know how he still has the audacity to call me. He’s been doing so ever since he found out I moved to Helena. Protesting his innocence, persuading me to meet up.

As I exit the city, the serenity of the drive takes over. Maybe I don’t need music after all. The beauty of nature, ever awe-inspiring, is something one could never grow tired of.

The sight of the Missouri River emerges when I reach the eastern side of Helena National Forest. Under the mid-morning sun, the water’s surface is dotted with flashes of light that dance like tiny stars against the slow-moving currents. From this point, the Johnsons’ farm is just a short drive down a quaint country road, beautifully framed by conifer trees on either side.

I pass through the gate and park near the front of the house. With no time to spare, I make my way directly to the stable, bypassing several other outbuildings along the way.

The door groans slightly as I push it open. Inside, the horses shift restlessly, their eyes wide and nostrils flared with apprehension. A low, anxious whinny from the back of the stable draws my attention.

I reach for the rifle propped against the wall and proceed with caution, suspecting a cougar or another predator might be agitating the horses.

Nearing the far side, I spot the back door of the barn slightly open. My gaze shifts to the last stall in the row, which should be empty—but it isn’t. There, a small figure is curled up in the corner. The tension in my body subsides a bit when I see it’s a girl, not a predator. She’s hunched over, trembling, her face buried in her knees.

I lower the rifle and crouch to her level. As she looks up, my heart aches at the sight of her fear. Her panting and the sweat glistening on her brow suggest she has been running, likely seeking refuge here.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Don’t be afraid. My name is Savannah. What’s your name?”

She responds with deft hand movements, signing her message. So she can hear me, but she cannot vocalize. Having worked with hearing-impaired students at Disability Services, I decipher her words. “I’m Bethany. I ran away from my dad. He was angry with me.”

“Where’s your mom?” I ask.

She signs back, “At home, but she’s afraid of him. Please, help me. I think he knows I’m here.” The memory of whatever she’s endured is visible in her eyes.

I nod, trying to keep my own anxiety in check. I need to get help, but my damn phone is in my truck, parked a good distance away.

As I’m figuring out a plan, I hear heavy footstepsapproaching. My chest constricts as a growl echoes from a distance. “Bethany, sweetheart. I know you’re here.”

There’s a pause, suggesting he’s assessing the situation from afar. Then he continues, “I’m not mad. Come to Daddy.”

3

HUXLEY

Jack and I divided our efforts to investigate several potential sites along the Missouri River. Based on Mrs. Anderson’s information, each location is widely spaced apart. Aided by the local sheriff and his men, we quickly discover that some of the addresses aren’t straightforward to find. One of the properties has even been demolished.

Hours have passed with no actionable intel. As I drive to the last location on our list, I catch up with Jack over the phone.

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