13. Savannah
13
SAVANNAH
I yank the blinds open, letting in a flood of sunlight. It’s not just a new day or the fact that I have real clothes to wear. It’s the thought of seeing Huxley again that makes me feel like I’m transforming from a sluggish worm to a butterfly ready to take off. Twenty hours in this room is more than enough.
My reflection in the mirror nods back at me, donned in a fresh pair of jeans and a breezy linen top, courtesy of my father’s thoughtful packing.
I’m about to do my makeup when the insistent buzz of my phone interrupts me. An unfamiliar number, but this time, it’s a landline. I answer, ready to unleash hell on Fabian. “Didn’t I say?—”
“Savannah?”
I gulp at the soft, angelic voice. “Kayla?”
While I cherished her company when things were still amicable between her father and me, I always maintained boundaries. It was never my intention to replace her mother. I was merely her babysitter, or as I preferred to think of it, her guardian angel.
“Did you receive my messages?” Kayla murmurs .
Oh God! Some of those missed calls must’ve been from her—maybe using her father’s phone. I didn’t bother checking my messages, assuming they were just the usual manipulative lines Fabian came up with to lure me into responding.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she drawls. “Mommy lives here in Helena now. Dad stays in Bozeman. This week, I’m with Mommy.”
So Fabian and Juliet are separated? When a husband and wife live in different cities, divorce often looms—if it hasn’t already. It’s bad news all around. My heart aches for Kayla, knowing she’s never really bonded with her mother. Then there’s the other side—my side. A divorce means Fab is free, and for him, that freedom equates to an open season on me.
Then it hits me. Juliet had struggled with alcohol. Maybe things are better now, but I need to be certain. “Kayla, sweetie, where’s your mom?”
“She’s downstairs.” Her tone is timid. She doesn’t have to tell me what Juliet is doing.
“Kayla, have you called your dad?”
“No. Mommy will scold me, and then Dad will yell at her, and they will fight. Please come.”
I exhale in distress. “Tell me where you are.” She whispers the address. “I’m on my way, Kayla. Are you in your room?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Stay there and lock the door. Call your dad. I promise everything will be okay.”
Rushing, I hail a cab outside the hospital. Adult business can wait. When a child is in danger, nothing else matters. I don’t care if I have to confront the last man or woman I want to face right now.
I arrive at the address. All I have with me is my phone, so I pay the driver electronically, deciding that my belongings at the hospital can wait. Right now, Kayla is my only priority .
I walk up to the door and press the bell, my mind racing with worry. Moments later, the door swings open to reveal Juliet Gill, drunk as a skunk. Her eyes are glassy, and she sways slightly, gripping the doorframe for support.
“What the…” she slurs as she sees me.
“Where is Kayla?” I push past her.
Juliet feebly steps back, trying to stop me. “Get out of here!”
“You’re drunk, Juliet!”
Suddenly, Kayla bursts out of the house from the side. “Savannah!” she cries, joining me on the porch.
I step back onto the lawn, pulling Kayla behind me, my body a shield between her and Juliet.
Juliet’s voice follows us like a whip. “Come back here, Kayla!” She lunges forward, her arm outstretched to grab the girl.
“Not a step!” I shout, my voice unwavering.
Juliet halts, her eyes narrowing as she weighs her options. I fought the Blackwater Brutes, and I fought those corporate guards who beat me black and blue. I lost in the end, but against this woman, with a child caught in her wrath, I won’t back down. My muscles tense, ready for whatever she throws at me next.
Juliet’s face twists in a snarl, and she takes a menacing step forward, but I stand my ground, my eyes locked onto hers.
Kayla clings to my leg, her small hands trembling. I glance down at her, giving a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, Kayla. I’ve got you,” I murmur, never taking my eyes off Juliet.
Juliet’s lips curl into a sneer. “You think you can protect her from me?” she spits, her voice dripping with contempt.
“I know I can,” I reply. “And I will.”
Then Fabian arrives, shouting at Juliet to back off.
Kayla’s face shows immense relief, and she runs to him without hesitation. Despite everything, one thing is certain. Fabian loves his daughter, and she adores him. That’s why she hates seeing him fight with her mother. In her own way, she’s protecting him.
I step back as a heated exchange erupts between Fabian and Juliet. Their voices rise and fall, sharp words cutting through the air like knives. In the midst of their argument, Juliet turns her venom on me. “This isn’t over, Savannah! Do you hear me?”
Fabian, his face a mask of frustration, knows better than to prolong this confrontation. Without another word, he heads to his car, holding Kayla firmly against his chest.
“Savannah…” Fabian’s voice trails off when he finally acknowledges me
“Fab.”
Fabian’s gaze sweeps over my face. I can’t even imagine what I look like right now—no foundation, no powder. I probably resemble Frankenstein’s monster fresh out of bed.
In the background, Juliet slams the door shut after hurling another round of slurs.
“You okay, Kayla?” I ask her, rubbing her arm.
She nods, sobbing. “I called Dad like you said.”
“Good job, sweetie,” I praise her. Then I urge Fabian, “Go, keep her safe.” It’s difficult to restrain myself from pulling Kayla into a hug and pouring out to Fabian all the reasons he should keep her away from her mother. But Kayla doesn’t need any more conflict right now. Besides, from the regret shadowing his face, I believe he understands.
“Do you need a ride?” Fabian’s concern for me is evident in his eyes.
“No. Go on!” I insist.
As Fabian helps Kayla into the car, I turn away, walking to the main road. I pull out my phone and call for a cab, my thoughts already shifting to the hospital.
Upon arriving back at the hospital, it seems that none of the staff notices that I’ve been missing. As I step into the corridor to my room, I hear a voice—unusually agitated but unmistakably Huxley’s.
“What do you mean you don’t know where she is?”
“She’s probably left, sir,” a nurse answers him.
“But her things are here!” Huxley’s frustration radiates through the corridor.
Just then, I turn up, catching sight of his face. I’ve never seen anyone get so worried about me like that. Except my dad.
“There you are,” he breathes, striding toward me. “Where have you been?”
I manage a tired smile, feeling the weight of the past hours finally lift. “Had a little detour,” I say. “But I’m here now.”
Hux pulls me into a hug, a spontaneous gesture intended to shed his worries. Yet for me, it serves a deeper purpose. The warmth of his embrace soothes my weary body, and a flutter of something like longing stirs within me. How is it possible that I miss him already?
“Where were you?” he repeats, seeing through my upbeat tone. That characteristic vein on his neck bulges prominently.
Standing this close, I’m struck by how broad and tall he really is. Yet, it’s clear to me that it’s not merely his physical presence that has instilled such a sense of security in me.
“I just needed some fresh air, so I went for a walk. But I got a bit too far,” I explain, hoping to justify my disheveled appearance. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm anyone.” I glance at the nurse, who wisely decides to leave us alone .
Hux hugs me again, though I can tell he’s still not entirely convinced. He’s asked twice, and he knows I’m not about to reveal the full truth. For now, it’s enough that I’m back.
Then, the flowers on the bed catch my attention.
His lips stretch into a broad grin as he presents them to me. “I know, these tulips and lilies are beautiful. But hold your blushing. These aren’t from me. They come with regards from Sam and Mark, my bosses.”
My spirits falter for a heartbeat, but they don’t crash. The fact that Huxley is here is what prompts my smile. And the thoughtfulness of Sam and Mark, sending flowers to express their care even though I haven’t met them in person, reinforces the amiability I’ve started to associate with Red Mark.
“Oh, how kind of them,” I say, taking the bouquet in my hands, my gaze dancing over the vibrant petals. “Thank them for me, please,” I reply, tipping toward gratitude.
“Of course,” he says, his eyes roaming across the hospital room, a silent judgment on the pale walls and fluorescent lights. “Ready to leave this place?”
I nod, making a firm decision to put what happened at Juliet’s place behind me. If anything, it should push Fabian to focus on his daughter rather than pestering me with whatever he had in mind.
Huxley hoists my bag over his shoulder and then extends a hand to steady me. Not that I need it, but I accept his gentlemanly gesture. The man before me is remarkable—my very own ‘Hugs’ who has shepherded me through a disaster I never saw coming.
Then, as we leave the room, I pull away from his grasp. “I’m fine,” I murmur with a smile. I’m still embarrassed by my overeager hug right after the accident, and now his care feels like an overwhelming tide, one I’m not accustomed to allowing myself to be swept into .
“You’re just like your father,” he comments.
“And what did he do?” I inquire.
“At the prosthetist’s yesterday, he wouldn’t let anyone help him.”
I laugh. That’s Dad, all right.
“Stubborn to the core,” he adds, his voice tinged with respect. “But he’s a good man.”
Huxley’s simple words nudge me to see Dad in a different light. I really shouldn’t blame him for our decision to leave Lakefall Valley behind. He simply wanted to keep his daughter safe.
Yet, like father, like daughter, it’s not my style to be dependent. But with Huxley, I find myself willing to make an exception. He is ‘Hugs,’ after all.
So, I reach out, slipping my hand into his, letting it rest upon his arm.
“Your truck’s over at the shop,” he casually mentions as we head toward the exit. “Should have it back by tomorrow, latest.”
“Really? You handled that for me?” I’m genuinely surprised by his thoughtfulness.
“Least I could do.” He flashes a brief smile.
“Thanks, Hux.”
Something in his gaze pins me to the spot, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “I picked up something else too. Your dad calls you Grasshopper.”
My stomach does a little flip, that childhood nickname pulling at a string of memories. “Oh, you caught that? You speak Spanish?”
He scratches the back of his neck, his grin turning sheepish. “Uh, nope. Had to Google it. Saltamontes ?”
The way he pronounces it cracks me up. It’s just too charming, him trying like that .
We both burst into laughter. “I’m sorry. Languages aren’t my forte. My family comes from Italy, and I can barely handle Italian.”
As our laughter fades, I shake my head with a smile. “Please, don’t call me Saltamontes .”
He leans in a bit, curious. “Did I butcher it?”
“A bit, but it’s more that. The nickname’s taken,” I tease.
He chuckles, mostly at himself. “So, is ‘Sav’ okay instead?”
Others have tried to shorten my name before, even Fabian, but it never felt right, always insisting on Savannah. Yet when Huxley says it, the way he shapes the syllable, ‘Sav’ feels just right, almost like he’s meant to say it.
“Yes, you can call me Sav.” I grant him the liberty, already craving the next time my name will grace his lips.
The drive to my home is a silent journey, with Huxley steering and me submerged in contemplation. Have the past day’s intimate exchanges been merely fleeting, the byproduct of his nurturing nature, or could it be the start of something enduring?
As we pull up, the familiar aroma of brewing coffee wafts out, mingling with the sight of my father letting Ranger and Ruby indoors, an unusual treat for them. They seem to sense the exception, bounding straight for Huxley. The man I know as composed and steadfast melts into a boy among them, laughter ringing out as he becomes part of their playful fray.
Seizing a quiet moment, I draw my father aside. Without a word, I fling my arms around him, wrapping him in a tight embrace, the kind that says everything.
“You’re all right, Saltamontes ?” he murmurs, planting a peck on my lobe lovingly.
It feels like forever since I’ve felt this close to him. Perhaps it’s time to release the grip of my angry wish. The wish for Mom to be here, fighting beside us for what was ours, and for Dad to see reason and return to Lakefall Valley. Apart from regret and ego, I know there’s no point in clinging to a farfetched dream. In reality, losing the ranch is not our fault. His life, his happiness, and mine shouldn’t be crushed under the weight of what can’t be changed.
It’ll take time to let go of that dream, but I can start now.
Sniffling discreetly, I ease back enough to look at him. Masking what’s been through my mind, I say, “Hux mentioned you’re pleased with what Dr. Palmer did for you.”
Dad pauses, lifting a finger as if to say, ‘Watch this.’
I move closer to Hux, leaning slightly against him for support, as Dad starts to show off his new prosthetic leg. He breaks into a somewhat clumsy tap dance, his old showman’s charm shining through despite the awkward moves. He seems to have finally met his match in this piece of modern engineering. Lightweight and perfectly fitting, it seems ready to keep pace with his stamina.
At that moment, the urge to kiss Huxley is almost irresistible. I could easily tiptoe up and find his lips. But I hold back, straightening up as I announce, “I’m gonna grab a hair tie from my room.” My hair tumbles around my shoulders, slightly unruly.
From the corner of my eye, I spot Huxley observing the sway of my hair. It’s often said men find long hair feminine. Yet, I can’t help but ponder what truly goes through his mind as he watches mine.
“I’ll serve that coffee and set out the biscuits,” I tell them, jovially warning Dad, “Don’t you dare. It’s my turn this time.”
As I dash upstairs, I hear Dad approaching Huxley, and I pause to watch from the hallway. Dad’s voice blares, stern and commanding, “What the hell have you done to her?” It sounds almost like he’s ready to reach for the rifle in the nearby cabinet .
Before Huxley can react, Dad’s tone shifts as he breaks into a hearty laugh, something I haven’t seen in ages. He claps Hux on the shoulder with a rugged rancher’s approval. “Thank you, son.”
My heart swells at their exchange, warmed by Dad’s gruff affection and the easy camaraderie forming between them. As I slip into my room, I hear their laughter drifting up the stairs. Tying up my hair, I stand there for a moment, absorbed in the scene unfolding below, and a wish rises within me. That these moments could last forever.
Later, as we settle onto the couch with our coffee cups, cradling the steamy goodness in our hands, I find myself smiling at Hux. It feels like the perfect time to uncover, just a little, the life of this man whose kindness has become so familiar in such a short time. Despite feeling close to him, there’s so much more to learn about where he comes from and all that has shaped him.
I start, “So, Hux, what did you do before you joined Red Mark?”
His reply is nonchalant yet revealing. “I was a SEAL.”
I can’t mask my astonishment. “A SEAL?” The word conjures images of valor and strength, and a shiver courses through me. I envision him as the embodiment of dedication and resilience, a protector of our nation. SEALs are the epitome of grit, and while I understand there’s depth beyond the uniform, I can’t help but be awed by the thought of Huxley in the throes of duty.
Bless my innocence.
Hux explains his training in San Diego, and the image ignites my carnal desires. I envision how his power could manifest if, right now, we both headed upstairs and slipped into my bedroom. My senses run wild, conjuring daydreams of intimate scenes filled with the touch of his strong hands .
Hux finishes his story, unveiling another facet of his life. “I told your father I used to work at our family ranch. Well, I still do, whenever I can find the time. Though it’s been a while since I could.”
“Wait, what? You own a ranch?” The words spill out before I can stop them. But… wasn’t he afraid of horses? I recall the stunned look on his face when he saw the stallion at the Johnsons’ and was hesitant to approach. Surely, a rancher must love horses.
“I spent every waking hour at the ranch, pouring everything I had into helping mom keep it above water after dad passed. My brother was only a toddler, so it hit us hard. But when something’s in your blood, you just keep pushing forward.” His voice holds a hint of nostalgia. Then, a glimmer of humor lightens his expression. “I suppose the animals played their part, too, especially our horses.” He grins, directing it at me.
There’s my answer. How does this man keep ticking every box of my ideal partner without even trying?
He continues, “Once we steadied ourselves, I joined the Navy to afford college. Plans changed, and I ended up becoming a SEAL instead.”
My father interjects, “How old are you, son?”
“Twenty-eight,” Huxley responds.
“You must’ve been very young when your father passed,” Dad probes.
“I was twelve.”
I can’t help but marvel at the strength it must have taken for someone so young to shoulder such responsibility. The more I learn about Huxley, the more I recognize his fortitude, both in spirit and stature. How fortunate am I to have crossed paths with him ?
Dad breathes out, respect all over his face. “You became a man on that ranch, huh?” He nods at Hux.
“Pretty much.” The corners of his mouth turn up wryly.
“A ranch always has her way,” my dad muses. “Just like how it groomed our Savannah into a better rancher than I am. You know, she was born?—”
“Dad, please! Too much information,” I protest.
“No, no, I want to know,” Hux smirks eagerly.
“She was born under the Montana sky, quite literally. In the path between our house and the stables.”
I cover my face, embarrassed, and I hear Hux chuckle.
Dad continues. “Her ma used to say it was the breeze that filled her lungs that day.”
“That’s quite a story,” Hux complements.
I tilt my head, glancing at him, absorbing the amusement radiating out of his smile.
Dad then asks Hux, “Cometti. That’s Italian, isn’t it?”
My father’s right in pointing that out. While Hux may be relatively fair for an Italian, his thick dark mane, generously tidy facial hair, and captivating brown eyes are undeniable evidence of his heritage.
He nods. “My great-grandfather made his way to Chicago first. Then, my grandfather moved west, ended up in Montana, and got a job at a ranch. Took over when the old owner hung up his hat. These days, my younger brother’s at the helm. I taught him everything before I left.”
“And where might this slice of heaven be?” I ask, unable to mask my eagerness.
“Seeley Lake. We call it Starfire.”
In my mind, I see the night skies of Montana, filled with countless stars, and I can almost feel the fiery sunrises kissing my face as each day begins. In that fleeting moment, I daydream about riding across lush fields, either on Misty’s back or perched on his sturdy shoulders.
“Starfire, huh?” my dad says, as if imagining with me.
Huxley chuckles, his eyes lighting up. “I know. It doesn’t sound very ranchy. My grandfather struggled to come up with a name that tied in with our family. The name Cometti originated from a region called Como.”
“Oh, Lake Como, right?” my dad jumps in.
“Exactly! The word means deep.”
Deep. Huxley isn’t just a name. There’s a depth to him, something in his very DNA that pulls me in, an ancestral force that could make me surrender in the blink of an eye.
“But for my grandfather, trying to find a name that meant ‘deep’ was a dead end,” Hux continues. “Since a lot of his friends called him Comet, just like my pals do, he thought Starfire sounded like a comet.”
“It’s fitting,” my father nods in support.
“I’d love to see it,” I say too quickly, and my father’s expression tightens just slightly. Maybe it’s the suddenness of my request, or perhaps it’s the echo of a life he’s left behind.
“Of course,” Huxley says warmly. “I’ll show you around someday. Mom and my brother would welcome you.”
I’m swept away by visions of crisp, clean air, the scent of hay and earth, and the constant pattern of dawn and dusk that holds the promise of simple, unspoiled beauty.
The moment breaks when Hux’s phone buzzes. He rises, and as he does, a certain hesitation creeps into his movements. “I’ve got to go.” The words seem to carry a weight he didn’t intend.
I fight the impulse to question the call, perhaps to stay with us, with me, just a while longer. Instead, I muster a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Of course. Don’t let us keep you,” I reply. Yet, beneath that facade, my heart is staging a silent rebellion, wishing he’d defy time and reason and stay.
His steps pull with them the warmth he’d brought into the room, leaving a cool absence. Our conversation replays in my mind as if it’ll help me keep his words close. It’s strange how quickly one can miss a presence, how swiftly a person can become a part of your world.
As the door closes behind him, I realize I’m already counting the minutes until I see him again.