5. Huxley
5
HUXLEY
The overgrown path gradually gives way to open fields, and we finally reach the outskirts of the farm. My instincts surge, sensing that Bethany is close by.
“Hux!” Jack points at the driveway.
A girl dashes toward a white truck, her legs moving in a frantic, uneven rhythm. It’s Bethany!
Relief floods through me, only to be replaced by a sinking dread as we spot a familiar blue truck parked just a few yards away. We move faster than the spread of a wildfire. Yet, as we draw closer to her, we slow down.
“Bethany?” I call calmly, my hands raised slightly. Beyond her wariness, I can see the exhaustion etched on her face. Behind me, I sense Jack scanning the area.
“No sign of Lance Anderson,” he murmurs.
I exhale low, keeping my focus on Bethany. “My name is Hux, and this is my friend Jack. Your mom sent us to find you.”
The way she clutches the truck handle, she looks ready to bolt at any moment. I reach into my bag and retrieve Mono, her plush elephant, holding it out for her to see. Her eyes immediately widen with recognition, but fear still mars her expression.
“We’re here to help you.” I extend the toy to her.
Her grip on the truck handle relaxes as she slowly reaches for Mono. She snatches the toy from my hand and darts to the other side of the truck, hiding.
I hang back a couple of paces, watching as Jack approaches her, greeting her and signing as he does. His posture is relaxed, his steps measured.
Clutching the elephant to her chest, Bethany gradually steps back into view. Jack kneels to her level, his hands moving fluidly as he speaks. For the first time, my partner mesmerizes me. He’s introducing me to her now. Bethany’s eyes, wide with curiosity, study me.
“Hux has been talking to Mono all morning,” Jack jokes aloud, letting me approach her.
I crouch, too, extending my hand. After a brief moment of hesitation, she shakes it as a smile breaks across her face, a precious moment of trust that I treasure during each rescue.
As she begins to sign again, Jack watches her intently. “Hux, she says her father is in the barn,” he relays, “There’s a woman in there too, a kind woman, helping her escape.”
“Stay here with Bethany, and call Zander.”
Jack agrees. “You find Lance and that woman. I’ve got Bethany.” He wraps his jacket around the girl’s small shoulders then reaches for his phone.
With Bethany secure and no immediate danger in sight, my senses begin to tune into stimuli from a greater distance.
Hooves. Soft yet urgent.
I dash toward the origin, Glock poised in hand.
And I freeze, rendered speechless. A woman rides bareback on an enormous horse, without even a lead rope. Lance Anderson curses and swears in frustration, but he’s as powerless as a calf cornered by a seasoned cowboy—or in this case, cowgirl. Her mastery over the horse is nothing short of extraordinary.
“Lance Anderson, on your knees!” I shout, my gun trained on him. As I approach, the woman guides her horse to retreat, letting me handle the man. I pin Anderson to the ground and drag him to a nearby corral, securing him with flexicuffs. He’s staying put until the sheriff arrives.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” I say, looking up at the woman and squinting against the bright sky. “Bethany mentioned you helped her.”
“I’m fine. Where is she?” Her face is obscured by the shadow of her hat.
“She’s with my colleague out front. She’s safe.”
With that, she removes her hat.
I pause, momentarily transfixed as the sunlight washes over her features, accentuating her striking appearance. They say everyone has a doppelg?nger somewhere in the world, but the woman perched atop the towering stallion is more than a mere look-alike. She’s a haunting reflection from my past, her visage eerily familiar, drawing me back to Operation Jaguar Strike.
“Hey, relax, I won’t do to you what I did to that bully,” she quips. Perhaps she notices how stiff I am in my suit, which looks out of place on a farm, and assumes I’m wary of the horse. I choose to let her think so despite horses having been a part of my life during my Starfire days. Right now, I need a moment to gather my thoughts.
The woman’s amusement is evident in the slight curl of her lips at my lack of response. “I’ll take him back to his stall,” she says, her hand stroking the horse’s neck.
As Lance Anderson starts hurling insults at her again, she flips him the finger without even glancing his way before turning her horse around. I can’t help but chuckle at her boldness.
Just then, a couple of deputies arrive, and I nod to them, indicating they should handle Lance Anderson. Feeling the tension of the last few hours lift, I make my way into the barn. Inside, I pause and watch her as she leads the horse into a stall, murmuring praises to the gentle giant. My admiration for her deepens.
I approach her, still keeping my distance, pretending to be wary of the horse. “I’m Huxley Cometti. Thank you for rounding up that man. You were incredible.”
A sweet smile spreads across her face, unraveling me like a thread being pulled from a seam.
“I’m Savannah Mitchell. The owner of this farm hired me to care for their horses in their absence. I discovered Bethany hiding in the barn. When that man tried to take her, I stopped him,” she explains with a firm tone.
“Clearly,” I respond, still in awe of how she managed to neutralize Lance Anderson. Despite his size, nearly three times hers, her ingenuity in leveraging the horse’s power was outstanding. Rarely have I witnessed such a seamless collaboration between human and animal, achieving an outcome that would put the most coveted wranglers to shame.
I step forward and extend my hand. “Thank you for saving Bethany,” I say with genuine gratitude.
She blushes and wipes her hands on her overalls, hesitating to take my hand. “I’m sorry, I’m so filthy.” Her eyes dart from my suit to my freshly polished loafers.
I chuckle. “Hey, I wear a suit for many reasons, but keeping people at bay isn’t one of them. Especially not after what you’ve done.”
Her cheeks remain flushed with a lingering hue of embarrassment. “Who knows what I’ve rolled in,” she jokes, glancing at the barn floor. “Trust me, you won’t want to smell like me.”
Despite the sweat and dirt that mark her as a true cowgirl, the earthy smell of hay mixed with her own natural scent elicits an invigorating response from me, both physically and emotionally. I know I should let this go before my reaction drives me to act impulsively. But I can’t just turn around and leave!
“Try me, Ms. Mitchell,” I encourage, my hand still extended toward hers.
She finally takes my hand, nibbling her lower lip. “All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you suddenly smell like livestock and hard work, you can’t blame me.”
“Blame you? I’d consider it an upgrade,” I tease, giving her hand a friendly shake.
Her grip is rough from work, a trait I find alluring. I’ve never been drawn to the pristine, untouched sort. It’s as if her hands tell stories of hard-earned days, resilience, and strength. Wait… am I already contemplating falling for her? The thought catches me off guard, yet it might not be the reckless impulse I feared. The transition feels gentle, sparking a sensation in my chest like a herd of happy kittens purring.
With glee plastering her face, she says, “Nice to meet you…sorry, what was your name again?”
“Huxley.” The name feels stiff on my tongue, too formal, given the circumstances. “Hux. Call me Hux.”
“Nice to meet you, Hux,” she says as if testing the name on her lips. “Call me Savannah.”
Our close proximity heightens my awareness. When I first saw her out there, everything about her screamed ‘Valentina.’ But as my first impression fades, I begin to see Savannah for who she is—the woman who bravely saved a little girl in such an extraordinary way. Her eyes, a soft shade of brown, radiate warmth and confidence, overcoming any earlier olfactory concerns. Her long hair, secured in a ponytail, catches the dim barn light, giving it an inviting glow. Perhaps it’s the residual awe from her actions, but there’s an undeniable intensity about her that draws me in.
“You sure you’re not hurt?” I ask.
“A few bruises might show up later, but I’m fine,” she assures with a slight shrug.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” I gesture to the door, a hint of amusement still in my voice.
After a string of misguided attempts—trying to rebuild my love life with the wrong people, resorting to desperate measures born of loneliness—it’s refreshing to find myself walking beside someone who, unexpectedly yet effortlessly, buoys me from the depths. The feeling is so liberating that I want to linger by her side. I’m not outright saying I’ll pursue her… or perhaps I might if the opportunity arises. She isn’t wearing a ring.
For the love of God!
Where did my discipline go? When did my mental resilience disappear? Now is not the time to entertain such thoughts.
At the front of the farm, paramedics and deputies are bustling with activity.
Bethany spots Savannah under Jack’s watchful eye and dashes toward her, only to be intercepted by a paramedic. Undeterred, Savannah approaches with a reassuring demeanor. In their exchange, Bethany excitedly shows Savannah Mono. It’s a touching sight, witnessing their fluent and empathetic communication. This woman is a continuous revelation.
Savannah turns to me, her big brown eyes brightening. “She said you brought her that elephant toy? ”
I nod, smiling. “Yes. With her mother’s blessing.”
Bethany then takes a step closer to me. Her exhaustion hasn’t gone away, but she looks calm now. She unties a ribbon with a small bell from Mono’s neck and gives it to me.
“Thank you,” she mouths and signs.
I smile, my heart in pieces. “Thank you, Bethany. I’ll keep it in a safe place.”
Then she signs some more, and Savannah translates, “She gave her bracelet to Jack, so you get the necklace. She talked to her mom, and she said it was okay to give them away.”
I kneel in front of Bethany. “You’re a brave girl.”
That acknowledgment earns me a tight hug from her.
Savannah watches our interaction, her eyes softening and a tender smile spreading across her face. She places a gentle hand over her lips as if deeply moved by what she’s witnessing.
A paramedic gestures that it’s time for him to take care of Bethany. Reluctantly, I let the girl go.
With her lips still curving upward, Savannah says, “I should head back. I’ll let you join your colleagues.”
The thought of her leaving stirs my gut. I answer, “I’m not law enforcement. There’s just one colleague here. Meet Jack Kelleher.” I nod at Jack. “Jack, this is Savannah Mitchell, the ‘kind woman’ Bethany talked about.”
“Hey, nice to meet you,” Jack says, extending his hand. “We owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it,” Savannah replies with a warm smile.
While paramedics work in the background, we observe Bethany being carefully loaded into the ambulance. It departs shortly after, the flashing lights and blaring sirens receding into the distance.
As the paramedics’ hustle dies down, media vehicles pull up, almost seamlessly replacing the commotion. Cameras and reporters eager to capture the drama scan the scene, seeking potential interviewees, and quickly settle on us.
I give a general response, emphasizing the safety of our rescued individual and the perpetrator’s capture. The press can be an ally, but it can also complicate matters unnecessarily. With the operation concluded and Bethany safe, I have no intention of wading into political or jurisdictional discussions. When questions steer into those areas, I defer to Captain Zander, who is currently speaking with the sheriff and is better suited to provide those details.
As reporters persist with more questions, I maintain a polite ‘thank you.’ Only then do I feel Savannah leaning against my back, clearly trying to hide. As microphones edge closer to her, she retreats further. Stepping in, I position myself between the eager reporters and her subtle withdrawal, using a firm hand to keep them at bay and ensure she remains out of the unwanted spotlight.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, still half-hidden behind me, her fingers nervously hovering near the fabric of my jacket while her chest is almost glued to my back.
I turn to face her slowly. “No need to thank me.” The touch of her fingertips and her desperation feels comforting and electrifying, kindling emotions I hadn’t expected.
She smiles shyly, withdrawing her hands and stepping back, putting a small distance between us. “Cameras are the last thing I wanted to face today.”
I wish she hadn’t withdrawn so quickly. But there’s an allure in her cautiousness, something that compels me to honor her boundaries. Respect for her feelings and our recent meeting means I can’t push too hard to keep her close—and I won’t.
“I can already see you’d cancel your own reality show,” I tease .
“Only if it means navigating the paparazzi on horseback,” she returns with a chuckle, her eyes twinkling.
Her wit, like a sunbeam breaking through my clouds, momentarily lifts the tension around us. Damn, if only those reporters had witnessed her skill on top of that stallion.
Just then, the sheriff approaches her, requesting a statement. My instinct is to step forward to protect her.
Savannah touches my arm. “It’s okay, Hux. I’m ready.”
As I let the sheriff usher her to a quiet corner, my composure begins to falter. Our mission to bring a girl home safely is fulfilled, yet the day has swerved. I’m not usually one to be affected by a woman upon first meeting, but Savannah’s striking resemblance to the love I lost has unleashed a torrent of memories, fears, and yearnings within me. Yet, Savannah overrides my convoluted emotions, commanding my attention on her own merits.
They say, wisdom waits where recklessness rushes. Should I heed that advice?