Page 82 of Her Redeemed Protector

He knows about Valentina, but like everyone else, he doesn’t know everything. To him and the others, it’s just the story of how she was tragically murdered in Colombia. The grimmest details remain unspoken.

“I thought I had it figured out in my head. I know Sav isn’t Valentina. I don’t want her to be. But, man, I’m far from okay.”

“What did you tell her?”

I rub my face, feeling exhausted just thinking about it. “I kept saying I wanted her, not Valentina. But I couldn’t say what was really going on in my head.” I sink back into the couch, lost in thought about what I could’ve said differently. “Sav was my dream, Jack. Now, she’s so much more than that. Even when she’s not by my side, she’s still the reality I can’t part with. I want her, not Valentina, but?—”

Jack nods, a light of understanding in his eyes. “You’reprojecting, man. PTSD is a beast. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it.”

His words toss me like a shirt in a washing machine. PTSD? I hadn’t considered that I might be dealing with that. “It’s not that, Jack. I just don’t know how to love the woman I want to love.”

Jack pauses, his next words measured. “Have you talked to her about this? Like, really talked?”

I shake my head as a sense of failure tugs at me. “I wanted to. I had every intention. But then she raised her voice, and something inside me just snapped. Suddenly, her face was all a blur. I couldn’t even recognize her. I was more scared of losing her than trying to understand her, and I don’t even know how to start explaining that to her.”

Jack leans back, his tone earnest. “Comet, you’re like a brother to me. We all have our demons. Remember Ava and me? We nearly split before we even really got started.”

I recall the turmoil. Jack had his own secrets, then. It seems a common thread among us.

He continues, “I tried to be open, yet I was concealing things. And she knew. It wasn’t until I admitted that something was tearing me apart that we began to find our way.”

I nod slowly, fearing that it might be too late for me.

He adds, “Women understand, Hux. They really do. We are more than our pasts. If they love us, they’ll accept us, baggage and all.”

My head throbs with the weight of his words, but Jack is right.

How do I begin again?

32

SAVANNAH

Since the days at Starfire, smelling the grass and being surrounded by horses used to remind me of Huxley. Today, it highlights his absence, something that grinds me into useless sands in the wind. As I walk through Mrs. T’s farm, I throw myself into the work with a ferocity that inters my fragmented heart. I’m here to tend to the horses, majestic creatures whose strength somehow mirrors my resolve to keep going.

The farm settles into a hush as the afternoon wanes. I exhale deeply, finding a rough sort of satisfaction in stacking the bales of hay neatly in the barn. The day’s physical labor intertwines with the emotional effort it takes to keep myself composed. It’s in these quiet moments when the distractions fade that the dam I’ve carefully constructed against my emotions begins to crack.

“Leave those for the morning, Savannah,” Mrs. T calls from across the barn.

I hoist another bale onto the pile, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Ah, that’s okay, Mrs. T. I’ve still got some pent-up energy to burn off.” My muscles tense and relax with each movement.

“Goodness, Savannah. If you were my daughter, I’d surely have a hard time with you,” she responds, amused and frustrated at the same time.

Mrs. T wipes her hands on her jeans and strides over with that determined look I know all too well—her insistence. “You’ve done more than enough today. Why don’t you take tomorrow off? I’ll have my neighbor handle the rest,” she says, perhaps reminding me about the ‘single farmer neighbor’ she previously mentioned had taken an interest in me.

Reluctantly, I finish up. As I gather my tools, Mrs. T remarks, “Someone’s here to see you.” Her expression shifts, twinkly and expectant, as if to say, ‘Finally!’

It must be a man, then. It seems her mention of the neighbor wasn’t an attempt at matchmaking after all.

Clad in soiled overalls, with the scent of sweat and barn lingering, I’m hardly prepared to meet anyone, especially not Huxley. He’s seen me dirty before, even in our first encounter. Yet, it’s been ages since I last saw him, and I wish I were in something more presentable. The flicker of hope that it might be him tangles with my lingering resentment.

But as I brace myself, turning toward the barn door, it’s the last person I want to see who steps into the dimming light—Fabian Gill.

His arrival feels as unwelcome as a storm cloud on harvest day. It’s almost as if he’s been shadowing me, lurking at the edges of the life I’ve tried to rebuild. And those eyes, do they carry a hint of hope? Does he think seeing me alone, without Huxley, might mean I’m available?

I don’t need a post-breakup getaway or an old flame reignited. All I yearn for is peace, maybe even solitude. But Fabian, haunted by his own troubles, clearly has other plans, ones that don’t include allowing me to move on.

“Savannah, please. I really need to talk to you.” Fabian’svoice lacks its usual forcefulness, replaced now by a surprising tone of desperation.

---