“When do you want to speak with Sheriff Goodwin?” she asked, turning her attention back to the marshal.
“Now, if you’re up for it.” Brandt checked his watch. “I have a meeting with him at noon.”
Naomi glanced at Owen, whose face had settled into the carefully blank mask she recognized from their early days. She wanted to reach for him again, to smooth away the tension around his eyes, but she knew better than to push him further in front of others.
“I’m up for it,” she said instead, rising to her feet. Her ribs protested the sudden movement, but she ignored the twinge. “Let me change first.”
As much as she loved wearing Owen’s clothes, it wasn’t appropriate for a meeting with the sheriff.
Brandt nodded and stood as well. “I’ll wait in the car.”
As soon as the marshal stepped outside, Owen was on his feet, his hand catching hers. “This is a mistake.”
“It’s an opportunity,” she corrected gently. “One I’ve been fighting for since Mary Rose disappeared.”
“Goodwin is corrupt as hell, and if he’s connected to these disappearances?—”
“Then that’s exactly why I need to go.” She placed her palm against his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath her fingers.
His hand covered hers, pressing it tighter against his chest. “Promise me you won’t take any unnecessary risks.”
“I promise.”
He studied her face for a long moment, as if memorizing her features. Then he leaned down and kissed her, hard and fast.
Walker cleared his throat behind them. “I’ll give you two a minute,” he muttered and slipped out the door.
Once alone, Owen broke the kiss, but his arms stayed around her, holding her with careful pressure that respected her healing ribs.
“I don’t trust him,” he murmured against her hair.
“Brandt or Goodwin?”
“Either. Both.” His chest expanded on a deep breath. “But I trust you. Just... keep your eyes open. And if anything feels wrong—anything at all—you hit that button and I’ll move the mountains to get to you if I have to.”
She absolutely believed he would and could rip the Bitterroots apart with his bare hands if necessary.
“I know. I’ll be careful.” She stood on her toes to kiss him. “Don’t worry too much while I’m gone, okay?”
thirty-six
Naomi’s fingerstraced the outline of the fox pendant as Marshal Brandt’s SUV wound through the streets of Solace. She hadn’t wanted to leave Owen behind—his face when she’d told him she was going alone had been a study in controlled panic—but bringing him to the sheriff’s office would only escalate tensions. And God knew, there would be enough of those without Owen “Ghost” Booker glowering in the corner, silently cataloguing all the ways Hank Goodwin could die before hitting the ground.
“You sure about this?” Brandt asked, his eyes never leaving the road. “We could meet somewhere neutral. Nessie’s?”
“Sheriff Goodwin isn’t welcome at Nessie’s anymore.” Naomi let the fox pendant drop back against her skin. The weight of it had become familiar in just a day. “Better to face him on his own territory. Let him feel like he has the upper hand.”
Brandt’s mouth quirked slightly. “Sun Tzu. ‘Appear weak when you are strong.’”
“I was thinking more ‘let the bastard get comfortable before you flip the table,’” Naomi replied, “but sure, Sun Tzu works too.”
The government-issue SUV felt sterile compared to Owen’s truck—no lingering scent of cigars or leather, no well-worn seats molded to the shape of a single body. Just clean upholstery and new car smell, anonymous as a rental. Brandt himself matched the vehicle—pristine, efficient, giving nothing away. She’d searched for some personal detail during the drive—a wedding band (none), a photo on the dashboard (clean), even a preference in radio stations (he’d left it off). The man was a blank page.
They passed Nessie’s Place, where a group of hikers spilled onto the sidewalk, clutching coffee and pastry bags. The sight of them made her think of Greta. She would be at work at Summit Outfitters across town now, unaware that her sister’s case was being reopened, that the nightmare she’d lived with for years might finally yield answers. Naomi would have to tell her soon. The thought of it—of watching her friend’s face as she shattered and rebuilt her world in real time—made her stomach twist.
The sheriff’s office sat at the far end of Main Street, a squat brick building with a flagpole out front and a row of patrol cars parked in precise diagonal lines. The American flag hung limp in the still morning air, and beneath it, the Montana state flag did the same. No tribal flag, Naomi noted. Not even a token gesture toward the Native population that made up nearly forty percent of the county.
“Ready?” Brandt asked, cutting the engine.
