Page 99 of Her Redeemed Protector

With a heavy heart, I let the wrench fall from my trembling fingers, hands rising in surrender. The fear for my unborn child eclipses my instinct to fight. “Please,” I whisper. “Take the truck, the trailer, my money, all of it. I won’t say a word. Just don’t hurt me.”

The men advance with cold precision, their rough hands seizing my arms. Hope flickers briefly when I spot a car rounding the bend, only to shatter as I recognize the ominous vehicle I’ve seen lurking too often. Not a savior but a harbinger of further danger.

As the car draws closer, a sharp, excruciating pain erupts behind my temple, sending the world spinning into chaos. My knees buckle under the sudden assault, and as I start to collapse, the last sliver of consciousness allows me a glimpse of the driver.

Juliet.

Her eyes meet mine, a chilling resolve in her gaze. But darkness claims me before I can piece together the truth.

39

HUXLEY

Rodolfo is deep in slumber as we pull into Helena, his dreams shielding him from his first true glimpse of ‘America’ beyond the confines of the D.C. airport during our layover.

As I steer toward the Mitchell residence, I attempt to reach Savannah on the phone, but only silence greets me. It’s not unexpected. She’s probably knee-deep in preparing for Rodolfo’s welcome. My mouth waters at the thought of Al’s empanadas—deep-fried, Colombian style, just the way I told Sav that Rodolfo loves them.

“We’re here, pal,” I say, nudging Rodolfo awake.

Blinking against the sudden light, he takes in the sight around him with a slow, impressed whistle. It’s an average-sized house, but to him, it must look expansive, especially the lawn. He trails behind me as we approach the front door, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, too groggy to feel the nerves or indulge in his usual antics.

As the door swings open, I brace for the warm, inviting scent of empanadas. But it’s absent. The atmosphere that greets us is as tense as a stretched wire.

Al’s expression is strained, a visible tension creasing hisfeatures as he struggles to muster a warm welcome for Rodolfo. He wraps his arms around the boy in a grandfatherly embrace, a protective shield against the unease. Then he lets Ranger and Ruby approach, unleashing their slobbery greetings and making Rodolfo squeal in disbelief.

The old man and the boy exchange brief pleasantries in Spanish, apparently recounting bits of Rodolfo’s long journey, though the boy is too weary to contribute much, stifling yawns and leaning against the doorway.

“Where isMama Saltamontes?” he asks through a yawn.

“You’ll meet her soon,” Al assures him, his gaze darting anxiously toward me.

What?

What’s happening to her? Is she sick? Did she have an accident? Was it something to do with Fabian fucking Gill?

Al puts his arm around Rodolfo, guiding him to the guest bedroom upstairs. “Why don’t you rest a bit more? Later, I’ll make some dinner.”

The guest room’s been turned into something fit for a young one. Nothing fancy, just cozy and welcoming. Al and I show him around, tension humming between us, but thankfully, Rodolfo’s too tuckered out to take any note of it. The moment he hits the mattress, he crashes. Al spreads the covers over his small frame, and we pad outside.

I shut Rodolfo’s door behind me. “Where’s Savannah?” I press Al.

“She was supposed to be at the riding school today, but she didn’t show,” Al explains, his usual steady composure frayed with worry.

So she’s missing? I can’t decide if this is worse or better than the scenarios I’d imagined before. Actually, nothing is better or worse. If Savannah isn’t by my side, it’s a bad scenario.

Al adds, “I went there myself, drove the surrounding areas too. Didn’t find anything, and my calls went to voicemail.”

My pulse kicks up a notch, pounding fiercely against my ribs. “Where’s this school?”

“Out east, near Big Timber.”

I make a beeline for Savannah’s room, eyes scanning for any clue that might suggest something’s wrong. My thoughts whirl, inevitably snagging on her ex.

“You called Fabian yet?” I manage, striving for calm.

“More than called. I was this close to wringing his neck, but he swore up and down he hadn’t seen her today. He’s an unbearable son of a bitch, but he was speaking straight, for once.”

Knowing Al, he’d get the truth out of a stone. And I reckon Fabian wouldn’t dare cross him with a lie.

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