Page 8 of Her Redeemed Protector

“Thank you,” I reply, composing myself. “I’ll keep that in mind. Helena has been… a lot to adjust to, but it’s been good.”

Mrs. T seems to sense my unease and shifts the conversation. “By the way,” she says as if whispering a secret, “my neighbor has been asking about you. He’s a farmer, a real hard worker, and quite single.”

“Oh, Mrs. T!” I laugh, shaking my head. “Now you’re starting to sound like my mother.”

Romance hasn’t been on my radar for a long time. Maybe I’ve set the bar so high that I overlook men who might be worth falling for. Or perhaps they set the bar too low themselves. At the end of the day, my focus has been on handling those I’ve had to stand up to.

“Hey, life isn’t just about work,” she retorts with a wink. “You’re still young. You should enjoy yourself, have a little fun.”

She’s right, of course. It’s been so long since I’ve truly taken a day off to enjoy myself, the kind of fun others seem to speak of so fondly. During the quieter days on the ranch, I turn to volunteering at a center where children with disabilities engage with animals, learning and growing with help from my four-legged partners.

“I appreciate the thought, but please, don’t get his hopes up,” I reply, maintaining my smile. “Have a good day, Mrs. T.”

After a peaceful hour on the road, the semi-rural scenery gives way to familiar suburbia. I make a brief stop at my house to check on Dad before heading to my next job. Ranger and Ruby’s barks carry from the backyard. I usually leave them outside, but I let them in this morning to keep my father company. It’s odd that they’re back out now.

As I insert the key into the front door, the sound of uneven thumps reverberates from within.

Oh, Dad!

I push the door open.

“Be careful!” I sprint up the stairs, my voice echoing down the hallway. I catch him as he’s about to descend, his ill-fitting prosthetic clunking awkwardly. I grab his arm, guiding him back to the safety of the landing. “Sit down, please.” The impression of the shooting at the ranch that cost him his leg is still fresh. The wound had turned septic in the chaos.

“I’m fine, Savannah!” he barks, trying to shake off my help.

I hold firm, adjusting the prosthetic that seems to battle against him. “This is exactly why you’re seeing Dr. Palmer this afternoon,” I assert, my tone matching his stubbornness.

“I’d be better off on crutches,” he retorts with a scowl. Losing his leg has cut deeper than the flesh. It stripped him of his life on the ranch.

“Dad, it’s been tough on both of us. But we agreed to leave Lakefall. Work with me here,” I remind him, steering clear of the bitter truth that he was the one who had insisted on leaving. Not me. If it had been up to me, I’d still be fighting.

I bite my lips, restraining myself from blurting out what’s really on my mind now.

I wish Mom were here.

The assault on our lives by the corporation felt like a modern-day siege—cold, calculated, and unyielding. Their hired guns, hardened as ruthlessly as the fiercest mobs of Calabria, were an overwhelming force against just two souls: a sixty-year-old man with weathered hands and a twenty-six-year-old girl with fire in her heart and dirt under her fingernails.

In some ways, I’m grateful my mother didn’t have to witness the downfall of Mitchell Ranch. Yet, I can’t help but feel that her indomitable spirit would have altered our fate. Her ingenious tenacity might have turned the tide. She always found a way. If she were here, perhaps we wouldn’t be in dire straits now.

At times, I catch myself wishing the floral tribute at ‘the bend’—that familiar curve near the ranch—was for me instead. I wish I had been the one pinned behind the wheel that tragic night, not her.

Dad reluctantly accepts my support as we navigate the staircase. “Damn stairs,” he curses under his breath.

“We’re here now, and this house has two levels. If you hate the stairs that much, we can convert the downstairs guest room into your bedroom,” I suggest, already knowing his answer.

He shakes his head, dismissing the idea just as he had when we first moved.

“Just take it easy for now. Watch some TV or something,” Icoax him as he settles into his armchair. But it’s not long before he’s up again, heading into the kitchen.

“Coffee?” he offers as if nothing can keep him down.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, cutting through my frustration. Despite the friction between us, stirred by the relentless changes in our lives, he remains steadfastly Dad.

“All right,” I concede. “I’ll have it on the go. I’m heading east to the Johnsons’. Their caretaker’s out sick, so I’ve got to feed their horses.”

The Johnsons’ farm sits near the Missouri River. I consider bringing my collies to let them cool off in the water—a perfect remedy for a hot day. But time is tight. I’ll need to head straight home after finishing up at the farm.

“By the way, why are the dogs outside?” I ask.

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