Page 50 of Her Redeemed Protector

Then there’s his right-hand man. He’s younger and carrying extra weight that seems to add to his intimidating aura rather than detract from it. His face, though less distinctive than The Hog’s, carries the same menacing air that mirrors the brutality of his superior.

A visceral reaction clenches my gut. These aren’t justminor players. The fact that they’re entangled in Savannah’s life sends a wave of dread through me.

I forward the photos to Chase, who soon begins his own reconnaissance. Within minutes, he’s dredged up news of Savannah—a lone figure against the Goliath, West Sun Corporation.

He reads aloud from his device, his tone imbued with awe and concern. “Your Savannah, she’s been arrested multiple times, always while challenging the major players.”

“Let me see,” I request, moving to stand beside him.

Chase hesitates, then partially covers his phone with his hand. “Just a sec, I’ll find a better one for you.”

I’m skeptical. “What’s going on, Chase?” I ask, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach.

He sighs, reluctantly turning the screen toward me.

Jesus Christ!

It’s a photo of Savannah, her face marred by bruises and swelling. The caption explains she was beaten by guards at West Sun for trespassing on the owner’s property. Knowing Savannah, her fight to protect her land was as fierce as her love for it—no way she’d roll over without baring her teeth. But seeing this… If I had been there, heaven help anyone who tried to stop me from intervening!

“Sorry, man.” Chase’s eyes are flinty as he takes over the phone, then continues searching.

“Anything else?”

He shakes his head. “On the Blackwater Brutes and the mysterious death of that billionaire. Dead ends, all of them. If they still exist, they must be operating deep in the shadows, off the media’s radar.”

Not long after, both our phones beep. Cora-Lee Rancic, Red Mark’s queen of tech, has pored over the security footagefrom Fabian’s place. We both lean over the grainy images she sent.

“There,” I jab a finger at the fleeting glimpse of a vehicle darting in and out of the frame, lost to the shroud of dawn.

Chase squints, his features hardening into a mask of focus. “Masters of the night? They weren’t exactly ninjas about it,” he growls.

“They must’ve stashed their ride out back, beyond the reach of the cameras,” I speculate, flipping the gold pin they left behind. It’s the thinnest of threads, but it’s all we’ve got. And every hunter knows you follow the trail, no matter how faint. “Let’s go,” I signal to Chase.

The drive to Lakefall Valley is like threading a needle with a road—a line of asphalt piercing Montana’s heart. Along the way, we pause at various shops and diners, inquiring if anyone has spotted the two men from Blackwater Brutes.

At the final outpost before the highway, an old-timer, his cap perched on his head like an afterthought, nods at the faces displayed on my phone. It’s the nudge we need, and we punch the gas with a fresh hunger.

The edges of Lakefall Valley rise to meet us. I thought I knew Montana, but the beauty of this place grips me, unexpected and visceral. The mountains rise around us, and the valley cradles the spreading lakes. Here, these lakes are more than mere bodies of water. They are the soul of the landscape, a network of jewels set on this God-created land.

The breathtaking valley is more than a scene. It’s a story of stillness and struggle, the same quiet that Savannah spilled her sweat and spirit to protect.

But nostalgia is a luxury I can’t afford. Not now. I slam on the gas and head for the coordinates Savannah gave us for Blackwater’s headquarters. The desolation is clear. A buildingabandoned, surrounded by neighbors whose lips are sealed tighter than the boarded-up windows.

After scouting the area and passing several ‘Farm For Sale’ signs, we gradually make our way into the heart of town.

Chase breaks the silence first, nodding buoyantly toward the local bakery. “Can you smell it?” The scent of freshly baked goods wafts through the air, rich and inviting, nearly pulling us off our course.

But there’s another place we need to be. If you really want to tap into the pulse of a town, to hear its secrets and gather its stories, you head to the local bar.

With this intent, we push open the bar doors, and immediately, the atmosphere shifts. Our city attire, sharply different from the regulars’ worn jeans and flannel shirts, draws stares as if we’re an unexpected disruption in their daily routine.

Finding a spot at the counter, I feign an interest in land, probing. “Seemed like those ‘For Sale’ signs were missing something. Names, maybe?”

The bartender, a gruff middle-aged man who seems to have spent his whole life in this town, gives me a scrutinizing gaze. “All roads lead back to the suits in Bozeman,” he sneers.

I let a knowing look flicker over my face.

“What’s your angle?” he bites out. “Some fancy resort? Casino?”

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