Earning Her Trust (Valor Ridge #2)

Chapter 1

one

Don’t let me down.

Owen “Ghost” Booker almost talked himself out of coming here tonight. Spent the better part of an hour sitting in his truck, engine running, telling himself this was a mistake. Getting involved meant exposure. Questions. The kind of scrutiny he’d spent three years at Valor Ridge avoiding.

But Naomi Lefthand’s words from their brief meeting at Nessie’s Place yesterday kept echoing in his head.

Don’t let me down.

When was the last time someone had expected anything from him beyond competence and silence? When was the last time he’d cared enough about disappointing someone to show up?

The only person he could think of was Walker Nash, but even that was more out of obligation than anything else.

This? This was different.

Naomi had blown into a bakery with all the fury of a hurricane, a stack of missing persons flyers in hand, full of justified anger at the failures of a system that had allowed the disappearance of a twenty-two-year-old Indigenous girl to go unnoticed.

And he’d lost his goddamn mind.

He didn’t get involved in shit like this.

Yes, he agreed that the rash of disappearances, especially of young Native American girls, was disproportionate to the population size of the area.

Yes, he thought they were all connected and had been quietly investigating on his own time.

He’d seen the patterns when no one else seemed to care.

But he’d kept that information to himself, like everything else.

Until now.

In a moment of what could only be described as temporary insanity, he’d confessed his suspicions. She’d insisted he show up to her tribe’s council meeting, and in another moment of insanity, he’d agreed.

What the hell had he been thinking?

He’d never been the kind of man to be dazzled by a pretty woman. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, and it had cost him eight years of his life. He had no intention of making that mistake again.

But there was something about Naomi that pulled at him in a way he couldn’t explain or dismiss.

It wasn’t just her beauty, although she was striking with her warm, burnished-bronze skin, long black hair, and a body built of soft curves over steel—hips made to catch a man’s hands, strong shoulders that held the weight of her world.

And those eyes… those intense dark eyes that seemed to see right through his carefully constructed walls.

Yes, she was undeniably beautiful, but it was the fierce determination radiating from her like heat from a flame that caught and held his attention. The way she spoke about the missing girls, as if they were family. The barely contained rage at a system that had failed them.

And the idea of failing Naomi like that made his skin crawl.

So here he was, killing the engine, stepping out into the chilled dusk. He instantly scanned the parking lot for threats.

Old habits. They’d probably bury him before those died.

The Bravlin County Tribal Outreach Center, colloquially known as just The Outreach, was established to bridge the gap between the local Native community and county resources, but Ghost knew better.

He’d read the files, the budget allocations, the carefully worded reports that painted a picture of bureaucratic indifference dressed up as outreach.

The modest brick building, two blocks off Main Street, was usually quiet and unassuming, but tonight its small parking lot was packed, with cars spilling out to park along both sides of the street.

Voices carried through the open windows into the cool, early fall air.

Ghost slid through a side entrance, avoiding the crowded main doors.

The meeting room was already packed with tribal elders, community advocates, town busybodies, and concerned parents.

He knew all of their names, their routines, their debts and secrets—every file-worthy detail—but he’d never met any of them in person.

He’d built his life in Solace on intel and distance.

Reports over relationships.

Safer that way.

Cleaner.

He noted that of all of Solace’s community leaders, Leeland Goodwin wasn’t here.

Not a surprise. Although the mayor talked big about how much he cared, he showed little concern for the growing number of missing women in his town.

His brother, Sheriff Hank Goodwin, was likewise absent.

Also not a surprise. Hank was useless as a sheriff and vile as a human being.

At least a hundred people had turned out, more than Ghost had expected for a Tuesday night in Solace. They’d set up extra folding chairs along the walls, but those were filled too, forcing latecomers to stand at the back.

Fine by him.

He found a spot near the corner, where the shadow of an overhead projector gave him a sliver of darkness. Perfect vantage point—he could see everyone, and almost no one would notice him.

Three exits.

Eighty-two people.

Eight potential threats based on body language alone.

He recognized Naomi’s grandmother, Ava Charlo, sitting near the front. She was hard to miss in her sequined vest, which shone like a disco ball whenever she moved. Her grandson, Julius—Naomi’s cousin—sat beside her to the right in his Game Warden uniform, and to her left sat the Padilla family.

And there was Naomi.

She stood at the front of the room, arms folded across her chest, chin lifted as if daring anyone to dismiss her as “just another angry woman.” The overhead light turned her black hair blue at the edges, her tight braids pulled back as if she were expecting a physical fight.

She wore a white T-shirt and a canvas jacket over dark jeans, with scuffed, practical boots.

Ghost caught a flash of the MMIW pin on her collar.

No other jewelry, no makeup. He liked that about her.

She had no notes, no PowerPoint, just a stack of missing person flyers in one hand and that fierce look in her eyes.

She didn’t see him. Not at first.

Good.

He exhaled and hugged the wall just inside the door. Two tribal officers lingered by the coffee table, talking in low voices.

“Little Rabbit’s got herself worked up again,” one of the officers said, low enough that no one else could hear.

Ghost recognized him as Mitch Deveraux, a tribal officer who’d been with the department for fifteen years.

Mediocre record, three excessive force complaints, and a gambling habit that had put him underwater twice.

“Always running from shadows,” the second officer agreed with a chuckle.

Charlie Whiteclaw. Younger, squeaky clean record, but Ghost had seen him drinking on duty more than once.

“Just like when we were kids. Remember when she thought she saw someone following her home from school? Had the whole res looking for a stalker that didn’t exist.”

“FBI training didn’t fix what’s broken in her head,” Deveraux muttered. “She’s been jumpy since her cousin went missing. Now she’s seeing patterns that aren’t there, stirring up trouble.”

As the officers wandered away, Ghost realized his fingers had curled into fists at his side and forced himself to relax. It wasn’t any of his concern what others thought of Naomi.

At the back, a pair of county officials leaned on the snack table, already bored.

“Let’s hope this doesn’t drag on all night,” one muttered. “The Goodwins are already pissed we’re entertaining this stuff, and the tribe doesn’t need trouble with them.”

Did Naomi know how extremely unpopular she was with this crowd?

Yes. Judging by the way she held her head high as she took the stage, she knew, and she was trying desperately to keep her nerves from showing.

Ava winked at Naomi as she passed. “You tell them all how it is, my Little Rabbit.”

Naomi’s shoulders relaxed fractionally, and she faced the room, turning her back to the council members, who sat at a long table on the stage, their expressions ranging from polite interest to barely concealed impatience.

She pinned every person with that same unblinking stare she’d given Ghost yesterday.

She didn’t bother with introductions or small talk. Just lifted the flyer.

“This is Leila Padilla,” she said. No microphone needed—the room was dead quiet and her voice carried.

“Known as Leelee by her family and friends. Twenty-two years old. Works at the casino with many of you to put herself through cosmetology school. She’s been missing four days.

Despite the family’s pleas, no BOLOs have been issued by either tribal police or the county sheriff.

There have been no search parties. No press coverage. Why?”

The silence was uncomfortable.

“Most of you know her family.” She nodded toward Carina and Eddie Padilla in the front row beside Ava. Leelee’s mother was barely holding it together while her husband comforted her. Beside them, Eddie’s younger brother, Sampson, looked like he wanted to put his fist through a wall.

“They’re a good family,” Naomi continued.

“Solid community members. Carina grew up here. Eddie and Sampson have lived here for years and have put money back into our community with Padilla Auto. The Padillas have raised their daughters alongside your children. So why have all of you already written Leelee off as another runaway?”

A murmur went through the crowd, gaining momentum the longer it went on.

The moderator banged a gavel on the battered wooden table. “Let’s come to order, please.”

The voices faded, but the attitude didn’t.

A few men in the back row folded their arms, and a woman to his right whispered something to her friend, who nodded vigorously.

A few council members shuffled papers, pretending to study documents.

One of them—Daniel Bigcrane, if Ghost's memory served—kept checking his phone.

Naomi was losing them.

Ghost had seen enough interrogations to recognize the signs. She was coming at this too directly, and they were shutting down. The facts wouldn't matter if they'd already decided not to listen.