Page 98 of Her Redeemed Protector

“No more bad guys?”

“No. No more. You’ll be safe with me and Savannah.”

Before I can click the buckle, he frees himself and leaps from his seat, throwing his arms around me in the biggest hug he can muster. “Thank you, Papa Huxley,” he whispers, full of sincerity.

I reciprocate his embrace—bigger, fiercer—kissing the crown of his head, trying fucking hard not to cry in front of everyone. But they don’t know a thing. Rodolfo’s hug isn’t merely a gesture of appreciation. It’s a connection, an affirmation that after years of grief, anger, and ‘angry wishes,’ today I’ve done something right.

And he called mePapa…

As I bid farewell to the country, the word ignites a sense of both loss and rediscovery. I pause, allowing my thoughts to drift back to Operation Jaguar Strike, perhaps for one last time.

“You’re welcome, champ,” I say, lifting him up and settlinghim on his seat as the flight attendants are preparing for departure.

I exhale a relieved breath. Here’s Rodolfo now, perched on the brink of a new beginning in a new land. No matter where life takes us, I will always strive to be the best father I can be for him.

38

SAVANNAH

Despite the destressing rituals of the evening, a long soak in lavender-scented bathwater and my father’s roast beef, my sleep was far from satisfactory. Yet, I choose to be gentle with myself. It’s natural to feel restless, especially after receiving such life-changing news about my pregnancy. Besides, I miss the father of my baby, and that troublesome car issue lingers in my mind.

This morning, however, the crisp air seems to sweep away some of the heaviness in my heart as I turn the ignition key. Overnight, Huxley’s latest message confirms that both he and Rodolfo are safe, and they’re en route to America. To us, his forever home.

Before he departed, I’d asked Huxley about Rodolfo’s favorite meal, hoping to plan a warm, hearty welcome with Dad. The anticipation of Rodolfo’s visit has stirred an unusual mix of excitement and anxiety in my father. His usual demeanor is strict, but something tells me Rodolfo might bring out his gentler side. That wouldn’t be a bad thing as long as he supports me when it’s time to lay down the rules.

I glance at Misty in the trailer behind me as we make ourway to the riding school. I’ve double-checked the gear I packed, particularly the special saddle. Although I won’t be riding due to my pregnancy, Misty will be more than just a ride for someone else today. She will be part of something far more meaningful, a task that goes beyond the routine lessons.

As we approach the halfway mark to our destination, the abrupt appearance of a roadblock sign slashes through my plans.Road Closed,it declares in bold, unforgiving letters.

A detour today of all days? The tight schedule I’m on doesn’t afford this kind of setback.

Muttering under my breath, I turn onto the detour, a narrow, winding path bordered by towering pine trees. The road is so constricted that every turn requires my full attention, especially with Misty’s trailer in tow. I reach for my phone, hoping to give the riding school a heads-up about my delay, but the screen barely shows any signal.

“Typical!” I curse as I fail to connect.

I drive on, the tires crunching over the gravel road as the trailer sways behind me. Misty starts to stir, and I know she’s had enough. I kill the engine and step out, the sudden quiet almost deafening in the stillness of the forest. I open the trailer door and guide Misty out. She steps down, her hooves kicking up a small cloud of dust, her large eyes fixed on me with a questioning look.

“What’s up, girl?” I murmur, patting her neck. “Feeling a bit cramped, huh? Let’s take a breather.”

I tie her to a nearby tree. She nuzzles my hand briefly before lowering her head to graze on the sparse grass. I stretch my legs, the tension from the rough ride slowly easing out of my muscles.

I walk back to the trailer, checking for anything that might have caused Misty to feel jumpy. I pick up a wrench and tighten the bolts on the door. Perhaps the earlier rattling,caused by the uneven ground, had gotten on her nerves. I slide the wrench behind my belt as I check the outside of the trailer. But I return to Misty first, who is now munching on the grass.

“You okay, girl?” I ask, stroking her neck. She seems calm now. “You’re going to meet my new student soon. He’ll love you, don’t worry.” The boy used to be an avid rider, but his passion for horses now fights against the haunting memories of his accident.

As I talk to Misty, something on the ground catches my eye. A few yards behind us lies a long, rusty nail. I must have narrowly missed it. I walk over and frown. It’s not something that would just be lying here by chance.

Misty shuffles nervously, sensing a change before I do. The sudden crunch of gravel behind me sends a jolt of adrenaline through my body. I turn sharply to find myself face to face with two men, large, imposing figures who seem to have materialized from the forest.

Realization dawns on me. It’s a trap. The remote detour, the nail on the path—it was all too convenient. Out here, surrounded by the wilderness, my cries for help would be lost in the expanse.

Pulling the wrench from my belt, I react on instinct. I swing it with all my might, the tool connecting with a sickening thud against the nose of the nearest attacker. He staggers back, blood spurting from his nose, but his partner lunges at me, and I brace myself for the fight of my life.

Misty’s panicked neighs fill the air as she rears up, her instincts to flee or fight mirroring my own. I dodge an outstretched arm, feeling the brush of fingertips against my jacket as I move. My mind races. No weapon but the wrench, and my body already feeling the strain of exertion and fear.

I’m surrounded. Two more men have appeared. Just like the first two, they materialized seemingly from nowhere. Myrifle lies uselessly inside my truck, agonizingly beyond my grasp.

I could fight, keep swinging, keep dodging, but then it hits me, a more profound terror chilling me to the core. I’m not alone in this. My hands instinctively cradle my abdomen. The realization that I’m pregnant, carrying a life that relies entirely on my choices, stalls my next blow. I can’t risk a fall, can’t risk a blow that might harm more than just me.

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