9. Huxley
9
HUXLEY
Despite my earlier resolve to leave after handing over Savannah’s purse, I stayed. Even now, I’m still hesitant to part from her. It’s irrational, this vigilance that urges me to stay by her side. I crave the sight of her brown eyes like an obsession. There’s a depth in them that knots my stomach, a steady force. The sublime curve of her lips feels hauntingly intimate. It’s as if I had known their touch, had memorized the warmth and the kisses long-forsaken.
A pang of fear strikes me, the kind that hasn’t gripped me in years. No one has ever burrowed so deeply into my life in such a brief span. Not since Valentina.
I swallow. The mention of that name still makes me bleed, but it’s as if a small rift has opened between her memory and my present reality. It seems nearly impossible, yet I cannot deny it. Savannah has initiated this profound shift within me. She came to me like redemption, seeking refuge in my embrace. Now, she’s the source of a longing I can’t ignore.
And so, I decide to risk abandoning the status quo and venture into the uncharted territory that is Savannah Mitchell.
I exit the hospital and head to Savannah’s house to pick up her father. The address she provided is a few suburbs away. It’s a distraction I need, an action to take.
As I pull into the street, it’s like stepping into a snapshot of a family feud. A man, young and filled with rage, stands on the lawn. The object of his ire is barricaded behind the cracked-open door, a sixty-something man I deduce to be Savannah’s father.
“You don’t know anything about Savannah and me!” The younger man’s voice carries across the distance. “If it weren’t for your idiotic interference, we would’ve still been together. And you would’ve still had your farm because I would’ve fought for you! You hear that, Al? I fight for my family, but you’d chosen to be my enemy.”
He remains animated while his words hang like an unanswered challenge as the door slams shut. Only to be violently thrown open again. Savannah’s father emerges, his hands gripping a rifle like a warrior of old defending his homestead. “Get off my property!”
The younger man’s shoulders sag for a moment. “Damn, Al! You haven’t changed a bit, always hiding behind that ancient stick!”
The threat crackles between them. “Get out! Run, or I’ll turn you into a scarecrow and beat the shit out of your twig-stuffed insides!” Savannah’s father’s face twists with anger, the rifle an extension of his wrath.
In response, the younger man raises his hands in mock surrender, his movements slow and deliberate. He retreats to his car, the sound of his BMW engine purring to life as he leaves. I watch the car disappear around the corner, wondering what bitter history I’ve stumbled into.
I gather a breath, leaving my car. The air is charged with the aftermath of the encounter. I’m here on Savannah’s behalf, yet I feel like an intruder about to enter a minefield of past grudges.
So, Savannah wasn’t kidding when she said her dad might ‘kill me.’ And to be honest, I don’t think being a Red Mark agent would even matter to him. My only hope lies in Savannah having reached her dad and somehow convinced him that I’m nothing like the prick he just threatened.
As I approach the front gate, I hear dogs barking from the back. At the top of the driveway, two border collies jump on top of one another behind another set of gates. Without a doubt, they’re alerting the old man that he has a visitor.
“I said, fuck off!” a voice booms from within, accompanied by the cocking of a rifle.
“Mr. Mitchell. It’s Huxley Cometti,” I announce as the door creaks open, the man aiming his rifle at me. I stay put, calmly stating, “Savannah sent me.”
The old man changes his expression as if realizing he already knows me. “I’ve taught myself to be wary of men in suits.” He puts away his rifle and studies me some more. “I apologize. I’ve been bothered by an unwanted visitor.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mitchell,” I greet him, and we shake hands.
“Call me Al,” he insists.
“Was that man causing trouble for you? I can have a word or two with him,” I suggest.
“Well, young man, I appreciate your concern, but this finger is still as sharp as ever.” He reveals his trigger finger.
“No doubt. Though I’m pretty sure Savannah would rather you not get arrested for murder,” I mention cautiously.
“Murder, my ass!” he hisses.
“Food for thought, I guess,” I comment. “Are you ready?”
“I’ll let you take me on three conditions,” Al declares, like he’s setting up a chessboard for a game he’s bound to win. “ One, don’t ask me about that asshole who just vandalized my lawn. Two, don’t treat me like I’m some kind of cripple. And three, take me to her!”
I respond with a thoughtful hum, playing along. “The first two are easy, but your daughter’s going to kill me if I don’t bring you to Dr. Palmer.”
“Would you prefer I do the honors instead?”
I chuckle and shake my head, now seeing where Savannah gets her formidable spirit. “Deal,” I concede.
“Wait here,” Al says, hobbling to fetch something from behind the door. He returns, brandishing a crutch and a bag.
I reach out to take the bag from him, and he hands it over with a nod. “For her.”
“Roger that.” I grasp the bag, the heft of clothes, and maybe some toiletries inside.
Then, in a move that catches me off guard, Al shifts his weight onto his good leg and swiftly removes his prosthetic. Balancing on the crutch, he extends the artificial limb toward me. “Do with it as you see fit,” he says gruffly. “Let’s go.”
I escort him to my car, juggling the unexpected responsibility of his prosthetic, marveling at how he managed to get around on it.
Now, despite his reliance on just one leg, Al moves with surprising agility. He slides into the passenger seat of my car, his actions smooth, evidence of his tenacity.
“Is my daughter really okay?” Al’s voice pulls me from my assessment. “I mean, she told me about the accident, but she tends to downplay things.”
As we pull onto the road, I reassure him, “She’s fine. Really, her heart rate was a bit low. They’re keeping her for observation, nothing more.”
Al leans in, scrutinizing every turn I make. “You’re taking me straight to her, right? No detours? ”
I meet his sharp gaze with a smile. “I promised your daughter I’d stay on your good side, so yes, sir, your wish is my command.”
A small smile forms on his stern facade. Then he leans back. “You know, as a rancher myself, I know a ranch hand.” He scrutinizes my hands as if they hold stories of their own.
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Al’s observation is astute. “I worked at my family ranch full-time after my dad passed away. Mom was up to her shoulders, especially since my little brother was only a toddler. I stayed until I got the ranch back on its feet, and Mom and my brother didn’t need me as much. These days, my brother is in charge.”
“Where’s this ranch of yours?” he asks.
“Out west. Seeley Lake.” I let a hint of pride seep through.
“Beautiful area. We used to own a ranch up in Lakefall Valley.” His voice holds a wistful note.
“You did?” No wonder his daughter handles horses well. But curiosity piques my interest, wondering what could have pulled him away from such a setting.
“A hell of a gem,” he reminisces. “The valley’s sprinkled with a few ranches, but none as secluded as the old Mitchell spread.”
“I’ve never been up to that part. Sounds like heaven on earth.”
He turns his head, looking out the car window, perhaps hiding a flicker of emotion.
After a moment, he turns back to me. “Savannah, she’s born and bred for ranching. Got it from her mother,” Al says with a deep, affectionate growl in his voice.
He chortles. “But don’t think it all came naturally. Her mother, my wife, was a city girl from Chile, fresher than spring rain when it came to country life when she first landed here in Big Sky Country. ”
I nod in understanding the way fellow ranchers do while acknowledging the familiar tale of grit transforming the greenest newcomer into a seasoned hand.
Al’s gaze drifts ahead as he continues. “My Savannah, she could ride before she could walk, I swear. Got a way with horses that puts the wind to shame.”
I feel a smile radiate through me, touching even the organs that know no joy. Only now do I realize the parallels between Savannah and aspects of my own past are uncanny. She’s threading her way into my thoughts, into a space reserved for dreams I didn’t know I was allowed to have.
“I’ll ask her about that when I see her next,” I say.
Al looks at me, his expression silently hinting at something on his mind. But all I hear is an exhale as we pull into the hospital parking lot.
We enter the lobby, my heart keeping an anxious tempo. When we reach Savannah’s room, the door is already open, revealing her surprised face.
“Hux?” she says, her voice a mix of confusion and relief. Then, her eyes flare with indignation. “Dad! What are you doing here?” Her glare swings to me. “Hux! I thought I could trust you! And what happened to—” She shifts her gaze to Al’s amputated leg, sans the prosthetic.
I stand mute, caught between two forces of nature. Whatever I say, either Al or Savannah will kill me.
“ Saltamontes …” Al crosses the room in quick strides as if his crutch is giving him superhuman abilities. But I know it’s his daughter who’s powering him.
“Dad, you’ve got to go!” she insists, but there’s a softness in her voice reserved just for him.
“The doctor is always late anyway,” he quips, holding her close.
Saltamontes . The word is alien to me, a reminder of how rusty my Spanish is. The translation flickers across my phone screen. Grasshopper. An odd term of endearment, but its whimsy draws a reluctant smile from me amid the tension simmering between the father and daughter.
Then, a heavy silence crashes down.
I lift my gaze just in time to catch Savannah and Al locked in a battle of stares. Savannah’s frame trembles, each breath laced with emotion, while Al, face bearing the marks of agony, turns away. He makes his way toward the door, tagged by the sound of his crutch striking the ground. “Come on, let’s go,” he mutters, his voice gruff.
“Hold on,” I interject, unable to mask my frustration as I shoot a sharp look at the old man’s retreating figure. I understand respect and rules, but leaving Savannah in such a state isn’t an option. My hand finds its way to her shoulder. “Hey, talk to me,” I whisper close.
Her hand briefly clasps mine, a spark of warmth in the cold standoff, but then she pushes my hand away as gracefully as she can manage. “Go on, before he changes his mind,” she insists with a weary smile. “Please, go.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?” I reassure her, brushing the top of her hand, which now lies limp on her lap.
I walk back to the car with Al, the weight of the moment sinking in. “What did you say to her?” I demand, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
He exhales deeply, the fight gone from his posture as he faces forward. “Someday, if you have a daughter—which I hope you do because it’s the best thing in the world—you will understand.”
The day’s events bear down on me like a barrage of punches. But as we drive away, a strange sense of purpose settles in my chest. Despite the challenges and confrontations, I’m exactly where I need to be.