Page 7 of Her Redeemed Protector

Mrs. Anderson quickly goes to Bethany’s room and returns with a plush elephant. “When she’s scared, she holds on to Mono. If she sees you with this, she might warm up to you.”

“Thank you,” I say, gesturing to Jack that it’s time to go.

We step out of the house, the weight of our new lead pressing down on us. But I can’t help but feel a bit lighter with Mono in my hand. Jack glances at the plush toy, a look of mild exasperation on his face.

I can’t resist. I move Mono’s head like it’s my puppet, earning a dramatic eye roll from Jack. He always says I’m a kid trapped in a man’s body.

“Just because you’re all dark and broody doesn’t mean I have to be,” I quip.

“Let’s go,” he mutters as we head toward our vehicles.

Being young at heart is my secret weapon. This work demands empathy—a quality that can’t come from indifference.

Many conflate our mission with that of standard law enforcement. What sets Red Mark apart is not our physical prowess or sharp wits. We are the architects of calm amid a storm of terror for these kids. Every move we make, every word we utter, is meticulously crafted to earn the trust of the children we’re sworn to protect. We dive into the minutiae, unearthing details deemed inconsequential by others yet pivotal to forging a bond with our young charges.

“All right, let’s head east,” I say to Jack, pulling my door shut. The drive toward the Missouri River will take a couple of familiar hours. Mono the elephant stares at me from the passenger seat. “We’ll find her,” I murmur.

2

SAVANNAH MITCHELL

Life in the capital, Helena, moves at a different pace. But my rancher blood keeps me attuned to the valley’s rhythm—the rhythm of home I’ve sorely missed. The Mitchell Ranch, a hidden gem nestled between the Snowy and Crazy Mountains in Central Montana, was a place where each season draped the land in its unique splendor. Yet, nothing rivals the riot of colors that burst forth each year as the valley shook off winter’s frosty grip.

This first week of summer heralds a grim anniversary. It’s been a full year since my father and I were stripped of our land, preyed upon by investors with pockets deep enough to exploit struggling ranchers like us. Greed and betrayal knocked us down. Resistance met with gunfire ensured we never got back on our feet again.

So we moved on.

This morning, I’m toiling at an urban farm just outside the city limits. The sky is clear, hinting at the sweltering day ahead. I take a deep breath, enjoying the cool air while it lasts. It’s different from the crisp mornings I once knew, where refreshing breezes and expansive vistas welcomed me at everyturn. Now, my days spent doing casual farm work and various odd jobs during the week are mere whispers of that former life.

The scent of hay and leather fills the air, blending with the soft nickers of horses as I gear them up.

“Hold on,” I steady a restless one, tightening the saddle strap. “You can’t wait to hit the trails, huh?”

Just then, the ranch owner, a spry lady in her sixties, strides into the stable.

“Mrs. T,” I begin, turning to her with a smile. “All the supplies are packed, and the horses are prepped and ready to go.”

She and her husband, seasoned riders who could easily manage their gear, often take daily rides across their property. Despite their expertise, they appreciate my assistance and don’t mind me handling the more strenuous tasks when I’m available.

Brushing off my hands, I continue, “I’ve also taken care of feeding the cows and mended a few loose strands on the back fence.”

“Thank you, Savannah,” Mrs. T says with a warm nod, handing me an envelope with my payment.

“Much appreciated,” I reply, adding, “I’ve cleaned the stalls as well.”

“You’re a star!” she exclaims.

“By the way, where are your dogs today?”

My two collies, Ranger and Ruby, usually accompany me on jobs. “They’re with Dad at home today,” I explain.

Although we had to part with most of our animals when we left the ranch, I was fortunate to keep my two dogs and my mare, Misty, though she’s not with me this morning either. I’ve loaned the mare to a family for their cross-country trek, and their youngest daughter is riding her.Misty, bred by my father, comes from a line of pedigree horses. She’s gentle with all humans, big or small. Back when we ran Mitchell Ranch, it often functioned as the unofficial daycare of Lakefall Valley, with me acting as the chief caretaker. Children from neighboring ranches and their city relatives would come to ride, groom, and play with Misty. She’d let the little ones climb all over her without a fuss.

Sadly, those times are gone forever. The sting of that loss was even sharper, knowing that the man I once trusted was instrumental in our downfall.

“Look, Savannah,” Mrs. T says, her tone cautious. “I know this farm isn’t quite like your old ranch. But just so you know—you, your dad, and your animals are always welcome here.”

My gaze wanders to the landscape spread beyond the stable door, suppressing the burn in my throat that rises whenever I dwell on the injustice. Truthfully, I still harbor a desperate hope of reclaiming my family’s heritage one last time—defying the schemer behind it all.

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