2. Savannah Mitchell
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 every turn. 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.
“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,” I coax 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.
“They’ve ditched me to chase squirrels. Apparently, that’s more thrilling than watching me lurking around the house,” he says, handing me a thermos brimming with coffee.
I accept it with a shake of my head, chuckling. Classic Dad!
He adds, “I left the kitchen door open, so they’ll know if I need them,” then pauses, appraising my face. “Hey, I’ll be all right, don’t worry about me.”
I wave at him. “See you later, Dad. I’ll give you a call before the appointment.”
He rolls his eyes, clearly dreading the thought. Yet, he softens as he says, “Drive carefully, Saltamontes .”
It’s rare for him to use that nickname these days. It’s the Spanish term for grasshopper, a nod to my childhood fascination and my mother’s heritage. Salta means hopper, and montes means mountain or hill. So, literally, it translates to hill-hopper.
Sliding behind the wheel, I reach for my phone, hoping to play some music for the drive, only to find the battery flat from forgetting to charge it. Sighing, I plug it, then pull onto the road.
With my phone barely clinging to one bar, I receive a call from an unknown number, though my gut insists I know the caller.
“Savannah, please, don’t hang up?—”
And that’s exactly what I do. I’ve got no time for that backstabbing son of a bitch.
His name is Fabian Gill, a past chapter in my life, my last brush with love. Our relationship wasn’t as fleeting as my folks predicted, but complexities had their way. It wasn’t that he moved on with someone wealthier. We remained friends for years, and I even babysat his daughter. What truly severed our ties was his betrayal. While the big corporation was the dragon that came after the Mitchells’ land, Fabian was the one giving fire to its breath.
I don’t know how he still has the audacity to call me. He’s been doing so ever since he found out I moved to Helena. Protesting his innocence, persuading me to meet up.
As I exit the city, the serenity of the drive takes over. Maybe I don’t need music after all. The beauty of nature, ever awe-inspiring, is something one could never grow tired of.
The sight of the Missouri River emerges when I reach the eastern side of Helena National Forest. Under the mid-morning sun, the water’s surface is dotted with flashes of light that dance like tiny stars against the slow-moving currents. From this point, the Johnsons’ farm is just a short drive down a quaint country road, beautifully framed by conifer trees on either side.
I pass through the gate and park near the front of the house. With no time to spare, I make my way directly to the stable, bypassing several other outbuildings along the way .
The door groans slightly as I push it open. Inside, the horses shift restlessly, their eyes wide and nostrils flared with apprehension. A low, anxious whinny from the back of the stable draws my attention.
I reach for the rifle propped against the wall and proceed with caution, suspecting a cougar or another predator might be agitating the horses.
Nearing the far side, I spot the back door of the barn slightly open. My gaze shifts to the last stall in the row, which should be empty—but it isn’t. There, a small figure is curled up in the corner. The tension in my body subsides a bit when I see it’s a girl, not a predator. She’s hunched over, trembling, her face buried in her knees.
I lower the rifle and crouch to her level. As she looks up, my heart aches at the sight of her fear. Her panting and the sweat glistening on her brow suggest she has been running, likely seeking refuge here.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Don’t be afraid. My name is Savannah. What’s your name?”
She responds with deft hand movements, signing her message. So she can hear me, but she cannot vocalize. Having worked with hearing-impaired students at Disability Services, I decipher her words. “I’m Bethany. I ran away from my dad. He was angry with me.”
“Where’s your mom?” I ask.
She signs back, “At home, but she’s afraid of him. Please, help me. I think he knows I’m here.” The memory of whatever she’s endured is visible in her eyes.
I nod, trying to keep my own anxiety in check. I need to get help, but my damn phone is in my truck, parked a good distance away.
As I’m figuring out a plan, I hear heavy footsteps approaching. My chest constricts as a growl echoes from a distance. “Bethany, sweetheart. I know you’re here.”
There’s a pause, suggesting he’s assessing the situation from afar. Then he continues, “I’m not mad. Come to Daddy.”