Page 3 of Her Faithful Protector

“You like that, huh? Maybe one day, you’ll meet him,” I say to Quinton. “His name is Jack. Can you say ‘Jack’?”

“Mo!”

“Not Elmo. Jack.”

“Mo!” He swings the teether over Elmo with a tight grip, like a wizard working his wand to turn the dog into something else. He’s a strong boy, and he holds nothing else harder than that silicone giraffe.

The only contact my baby had with Lieutenant Jack Kelleher was when he was still in my belly. I got to know Jack through Morgan, and that stormy night in Bozeman will forever remain etched in my mind like a painting. And it’s not because I’m a courtroom artist with a supposed photographic memory.

Being a California native, my experience of Montana was eye-opening. Jack, the embodiment of Hightower, offered mehis jacket to protect me from the elements. It draped over me like an overcoat, providing me with a comforting warmth. I’m sure even Quinton appreciated it.

But above all, I will always remember Jack’s greeting. His firm smile matched his commanding physique, yet his gaze held a blend of curiosity, tenderness, and longing—as if he had never encountered anyone quite like me before. His sincerity has left a permanent dent in my heart. Perhaps Jack has also made a lasting impact on my baby.

Quinton continues babbling, trying to wake Elmo up.

“Come on, baby, leave Elmo alone.”

“Mo!”

“Jack is a Marine. Do you know what a Marine does?” I try to distract him with what Jack had told me about military life. As if my baby would understand.

Headlights approach from the opposite direction. It shouldn’t bother me, but my unease grows as the car passes by and promptly makes a U-turn. “No, no, no!”

It could be my nerves on overdrive, but my gut tells me this is trouble. I should’ve remembered, Willem Botha, my fiancé—no, ex-fiancé—isn’t just one person. He’s an institution with plenty of minions, and one of them has compromised my safety, even in the dead of night.

I reach for my phone to call Morgan, but it slips out of my grasp and falls behind the car seat. I keep driving, merging into the highway, only to realize the car is following closely behind. If I stay on this road, they will eventually catch me. I can’t risk leading them to the other car I’ve prepared, where everything I need to survive is stored, and I definitely can’t lead them to Morgan.

The only way to shake them off is by leading my pursuers on a wild goose chase through a city. I’ve been driving since I was fourteen, thanks to my rogue mother, who was a taxidriver. I’ve learned all there is to know about navigating city streets and alleys. Tonight, though, I’ve got to handle it with care.

“Hold on, Quinton,” I call out. But my baby is asleep.

I take the exit to Salt Lake City, stepping on the gas pedal. It’s an unfamiliar place, but I trust my instincts and head into areas with traffic sparse enough to allow me to weave my way through.

My eyes switch rapidly between what’s ahead and what’s behind me. Finally, I gain some distance, and this is when the party begins.

Determined to outmaneuver my chaser, I leave the main road and venture into the labyrinth of alleys, taking whichever path I come across. Elmo barks while Quinton, the usually alert one, doesn’t even stir.

“I believe we’re in the clear, Quinnie-Bear.” My baby has been given numerous nicknames, but this particular one coined by my mom seems to have stuck.

Certain that I’ve lost the pursuing car, I turn back south, heading to where I’ve hidden my other car. Still reeling from the pursuit, I stop about a mile from the destination at a clifftop that probably hasn’t seen a living soul except me.

“Stay, Elmo. Stay,” I try to calm the nervous pup as I unload.

I place Quinton in a portable cradle and leave it on the ground, away from the edge. As I make my way back to the car, ready to release the handbrake, I suddenly realize that the giraffe is missing.

In the darkness, I fumble around and miraculously locate the giraffe teether on the car floor. Quinton won’t be able to survive without it. It’s not just a toy or a gum soother. He genuinely loves that giraffe. As his mother, it brings me a sense of calm knowing he has it.

Wasting no time, I muster the strength and push the car over the cliff. Then I pull out my engagement ring, throwing it into the abyss. The tale of Willem Botha and me has truly crashed and burned.

I put Elmo on a leash and carry Quinton in a front carrier, along with his diaper bag. “You have to walk now,” I tell Elmo. “I can’t carry both of you!”

I search around for my phone, hoping to use its light. Much to my dismay, I recall that my phone had slipped out of my pocket during the drive, and now both it and my car are lying at the bottom of the cliff. I press on, guided by the faint glow of the moon.

With Quinton snug in the cradle and Elmo tugging at the leash, I follow the path, shielding Quinton from the rain. I’ve been here a few times. I’ve memorized the way until it’s like I was born with a map. Elmo seems to know, too.

It’s dark, but it’s peaceful. The only load I’m carrying is an abundance of hope.

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