Page 53 of Her Redeemed Protector

I cut him off. “You’re not a wolf, nor are you a sheep. You’re something in between.”

As we roll into Melville, Huxley and Chase by the gas station are a welcome sight. I leap out, hugging my man. Our lips meet in a kiss that promises more, but now is not the time.

Fabian’s out of the truck like a shot, desperation written across his face. “I’m coming with you!” He locks eyes with Huxley, then shifts his gaze to Chase.

“No,” Hux states flatly.

“But Kayla’s my daughter! She doesn’t know you like she knows me,” Fabian pleads, searching our faces for some kind of concession.

Hux steps forward. “If you want to see Kayla safe, you’ll stay put and wait for my instructions.”

Even Fabian, who usually has a retort for everything, holds his tongue under Huxley’s unyielding gaze. There’s a weight to Huxley’s authority that even the most defiant can’t seem to lift.

I hand a set of keys to Hux. “These are my dad’s keys. This one’s yours. And here’s Fab’s gate remote, so you can get your own ride back anytime.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he acknowledges. “And here’s your ride.” He gives me Chase’s keys. “He treats his SUV like his baby, but don’t sweat it if you scratch it. Just tell him it was attacked by a wild shopping cart.”

“I heard that!” Chase points his finger playfully at Hux.

The two Red Mark men leave, Fabian and I staring at the truck until the tail lights fade into darkness.

“They’re experts at this, Fab. Remember, that’s exactly why you begged me to get Hux involved?”

He shuts his eyes, nodding, a silent admission. When he opens them again, he avoids my stare, the cracks in his façade becoming more evident by the second.

My gaze drifts to the diner nearby, realizing none of us has eaten all day. And right now, I do feel sorry for him.

“Come on, let’s grab a bite,” I suggest, a peace offering of sorts.

He doesn’t protest, only follows. As we walk, my hand clenches around my phone. When Huxley calls, I’ll be ready for whatever comes next.

20

HUXLEY

The gears of Al Mitchell’s truck grind under my hands, each shift harsh and unyielding, contrasting sharply with the smooth transitions of Chase’s SUV and even the more familiar rattle of my brother’s truck back at Seeley Lake. This old beast growls with reluctant power, its dashboard lit by the faint glow of twilight that seeps through the dust-streaked windshield.

I maneuver the truck, feeling like I was thirteen and wrestling with the steering wheel of my old man’s ancient Ford during a stormy spring flood. The tires had kicked up wild arcs of water as the riverbanks swelled and blurred into the road. Since Dad wasn’t around, Mom became my driving instructor back then. She would give me a pat on the back when I managed not to stall. That was the first time I felt the thrill of taming something so raw and relentless, a thrill that now, years later, courses through me as I steer Al’s truck closer to Lakefall Valley.

We cruise through the neighborhood at a pace mimicking the tired return of farmers at day’s end. As we round a curve beside a narrow creek, we come upon a house nestled between thickets of wild shrubbery. A familiar pickup isparked casually under a sprawling oak in the front yard, its presence as unremarkable as the chirping crickets that fill the air.

“Looks like the same vehicle that popped up on that CCTV,” Chase notes, referencing the grainy footage we had scrutinized back in Bozeman—a nondescript vehicle weaving through the streets near Fabian’s home.

We drive past without a second glance from any curious onlookers, then stop discreetly a few yards beyond the bend. With the sun disappearing below the horizon, darkness cloaks our movements as we exit the vehicle and tread softly. We find refuge behind a thick wall of bushes, then peer through the green hue of night vision binoculars. What we typically call NODs, or Night Observation Devices. The scene before us gradually comes into focus.

Not long after, the thief kid emerges stealthily from the back door of the creek house. He’s met by a figure whose presence sends tension through the air. The man’s features remain a blur, his hair concealed under a beanie, his frame obscured by heavy layers that make him appear more imposing. The silhouette could belong to the deputy of Blackwater, but it’s a half-guess at best.

“What are the odds these are our culprits? One hefty, one slight—just like the dirt prints,” Chase murmurs.

The kid parts ways with the shadowy figure, clutching a package likely filled with food under one arm and a blanket draped over the other.

We move silently back to Al’s truck. I toss the keys to Chase, who steers it in the opposite direction. I know there’s a bridge further down this road that crosses the creek and loops back toward the direction the kid headed.

“It could be food and a blanket for little Kayla,” I speculatealoud, trying to piece together the fragments of our case. The girl could be holed up wherever this kid was going.

As we round the bend from another approach, the kid comes back into view, his gait unhurried, unsuspecting of our watchful eyes. He’s heading toward another modest house, almost swallowed by the surrounding pines. Then, something catches my eye—a flicker of yellow light. Subtle at first, it grows steadily, casting a glow against the twilight. The kid’s startled reaction confirms our suspicions. This has to be his destination.

“Jesus, someone’s in the attic!” My breath catches as the yellow light bursts into a voracious fire, clawing its way up the wooden siding with terrifying speed. We press the gas, edging closer to get a better look.

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