She leaned forward until her forehead rested against his. “I love your stubborn silences and your rare smiles and the way you look at me like I’m precious when you think I won’t notice. I love how you make me feel safe without making me feel small. I love that you see the darkness in the world and still choose, every day, to stand against it.”
Her hands came up to cradle his face, mirroring his hold on her. “I don’t need promises of forever. I just need you to try. Tostay. To fight for this as hard as you’ve fought for everything else that matters.”
Something broke open inside him—a dam that had held back years of denied emotion, of forced detachment, of calculated isolation. In its wake rushed something warm and bright and terrifying in its intensity. He surged forward, closing the last distance between them, and captured her lips with his.
The kiss was desperation and tenderness, apology and promise, all the words he couldn’t say poured into the press of his mouth against hers. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer despite the awkward angle of his kneeling position. He tasted the salt of her tears, the coffee she must have had earlier, the essence that was uniquely Naomi.
When they finally broke apart, both breathless, she smiled against his lips. “Is that a yes, then? You’re willing to try?”
“Yes,” he murmured, the single syllable heavy with commitment. “For you. With you. Yes.”
He moved to kiss her again, to seal the promise with action rather than words, but she pulled back slightly, her expression shifting to something more serious.
“But if you’re going to be in my life,” she said, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “there’s one other thing you should know...”
forty-six
The Outreach Centerhummed with anticipation, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder in the main meeting room that suddenly felt two sizes too small. Naomi gripped the edges of the podium, her palms damp against the smooth wood as she surveyed the sea of faces. Three weeks of planning, of late-night strategy sessions with Greta and careful conversations with tribal elders, had led to this moment. Her stomach twisted with a familiar mix of determination and dread as Marshal Brandt finished his introduction and stepped aside, leaving her alone in the spotlight.
The crowd before her represented every facet of Solace—tribal members in their finest regalia, ranchers in weathered denim and flannel, townsfolk in casual winter wear, all packed tight beneath the fluorescent lights. Ava sat in the front row, her silver braids adorned with vibrant ribbons, her chin raised with fierce pride. Beside her, Greta leaned forward in her chair, one hand absently scratching Atlas’s ear, her pale green eyes never leaving Naomi’s face.
The Valor Ridge guys clustered near the back wall—Walker standing straight-backed and solemn, Boone with his arms crossed over his chest, River and X flanking them like honorguards. And Owen, her Owen, stationed near the exit as always, scanning for threats even as his eyes periodically returned to her, steady and sure.
“Thank you all for coming,” Naomi began, her voice steadier than she felt. The microphone carried her words to the far corners of the room, where people stood three deep. “We gather today to speak about things Solace has been silent on for too long.”
She paused, drawing a breath that filled her lungs with the scent of cedar smoke and coffee and winter coats drying in the heat. How many times had she stood in this very building, frustrated by bureaucracy and silence? How many times had she left, fury burning in her throat, determined to make someone—anyone—listen?
“Eleven years ago, my cousin Mary Rose Charlo disappeared,” she continued, the familiar ache of loss pressing against her ribs. “Many of you knew her. Knew her smile, her laugh, her kindness. What you didn’t know was that she was the first. The first of many young women who would vanish from our community, their disappearances dismissed, their families left without answers.”
Faces in the crowd shifted, some dropping their gaze to study the scuffed floorboards, others nodding in grim recognition. This wasn’t news to them. They’d lived it, felt the ripples of each disappearance, the growing unease as daughters and sisters and friends went missing.
“I spent years screaming into the void,” Naomi said, her fingers tightening on the podium. “Begging for investigations that never happened, resources that never materialized, justice that never came. I thought the system was broken. I was wrong. The system was working exactly as designed—to protect those in power, to silence those without it, to erase those deemed expendable.”
Her gaze swept to Ava, who nodded once, permission and encouragement in that single movement. Naomi’s shoulders straightened.
“We now know that Julius Charlo—my own flesh and blood—was responsible for Mary Rose’s death. We know he killed Leelee Padilla and others. But what you might not know is that he didn’t act alone. He was part of a larger network that trafficked women across county and state lines, that bought and sold them like cattle, that disposed of them when they became inconvenient.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, part shock, part confirmation of long-held suspicions. Naomi waited for it to subside, gathering her strength for what came next.
“Alice Dougherty,” she said, and saw Greta flinch, her hand stilling on Atlas’s head. “Chelsea Quequesah.” She motioned to the front row, where Angel and Tariah sat. “Angel McClure and Tariah Clairmonth. These are just a few of the names we know. How many more exist that we don’t know? How many Jane Does lie in unmarked graves? How many families still wait by the phone, hoping for news that will never come?”
She unfolded a piece of paper, her hands no longer shaking. “I have here a list compiled by the FBI’s Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women task force. Hundreds of women and girls from Bravlin, Ravalli, and Missoula counties who vanished without a trace in the past fifteen years. Hundreds of sisters, daughters, mothers, aunts, friends. Hundreds of lives that mattered.”
The room had gone utterly still, the weight of those numbers settling heavy on every shoulder. In the back, Owen’s gaze never wavered from her face, lending her strength when her voice threatened to break.
“Julius is in custody, awaiting trial. Mitch Deveraux is dead. But the network they served continues to operate. Thecorruption that protected them still exists. The system that failed these women remains unchanged.”
She paused and searched out Owen in the sea of faces. He stood at the back, arms crossed over his chest, his gray eyes steady on her, burning with something that went beyond pride. She drew strength from that gaze, from the unwavering belief she saw there, and squared her shoulders.
“That’s why, today, I am announcing my candidacy for Sheriff of Bravlin County.”
The room erupted—gasps, murmurs, and then a wave of applause starting from the Valor Ridge men and spreading outward. Ava slapped her knee and let out a war whoop that cut through the noise, her face alight with fierce joy.
“For too long, Sheriff Hank Goodwin has controlled the narrative in this county,” she continued when the noise settled enough for her to be heard. “For too long, he has decided which cases deserve attention and which can be swept under the rug. For too long, he has been the gatekeeper of justice, dispensing it to those who look like him, who vote like him, who benefit him.”
She leaned into the microphone. “I am not naive. I know what I’m up against. I know the Goodwin family has deep roots and deeper pockets. I know there are those who will say I’m too young, too female, too Native, too much of an outsider despite being born on this land.”
Her eyes found Owen’s again and held. “But I also know this—every woman who disappears is someone’s Mary Rose. Someone’s Leelee. Someone’s Alice. And they deserve a sheriff who will move heaven and earth to find them. Who will not rest until justice is served. Who will speak for those who cannot speak for themselves.”
