Chapter 46
forty-six
The Outreach Center hummed 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 honor guards.
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. The corruption 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. ”
The applause started again, louder this time, hands clapping and boots stomping on the wooden floor.
River let out a piercing whistle that made several people jump, and X shouted, “You tell ‘em, baby girl!”
It made her smile. X and Grandma Ava would get along like two peas in a snazzy pod.
“I cannot promise to fix everything,” she said when the noise died down. “But I can promise this: I will never stop fighting. I will never forget those we’ve lost. And I will never, ever let another woman’s disappearance be dismissed as ‘just another runaway.’”
She stepped back from the podium, suddenly light-headed from the release of tension, from the enormity of what she’d just done. The crowd surged to its feet, the applause now a physical force that seemed to press against her skin.
Greta was there first, somehow across the space between them in an instant, her strong fingers wrapping around Naomi’s hand and squeezing.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For still caring about Alice.”
Naomi squeezed her hand back. “I’ve never stopped.”
Then Ava pushed through, her small frame somehow commanding space despite the crush of bodies. Her arms wrapped around Naomi in an embrace that smelled of sage and fry bread and home.
“My brave girl,” she whispered fiercely against Naomi’s ear. “Mary Rose would be so proud. I am so proud.”
Naomi closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her, letting herself believe, just for a moment, that she could actually do this. That she could change the system that had failed so many. That she could speak for the silenced, fight for the forgotten.
When she opened her eyes again, she searched the room for the one person whose opinion mattered most. Owen hadn’t moved from his position by the exit, his tall frame still as a sentinel while chaos swirled around him.
But his eyes—those ice-gray eyes that missed nothing—were fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch, even from across the room.
“Bold move, Lefthand,” Marshal Brandt said, appearing at her elbow with a rare smile. “Goodwin won’t know what hit him.”
“You really think I have a chance?” she asked, dragging her attention back from Owen’s steady gaze.
“I think Hank Goodwin’s worst nightmare is a competent woman who speaks for the people his department has systematically ignored,” Brandt replied. “And if the turnout in this room is any indication, you’ve got a fighting chance.”
The crowd pressed in, hands reaching to shake hers, voices overlapping as people offered congratulations and support.
Naomi felt herself smiling, nodding, thanking them, but it all blurred together in a rush of adrenaline.
She hadn’t realized how terrified she’d been until the words were out, until she’d publicly thrown her hat into the ring against the most powerful man in the county.
What had she done?
She caught sight of Eddie Padilla making his way toward her, his weathered face solemn but determined. When he reached her, he didn’t speak, just pulled her into a tight hug that smelled of motor oil and grief.
“Leelee would’ve loved this,” he said when he finally released her. “You fighting for her, for all of them.” His voice caught. “Carina and I, we’re behind you all the way.”
“Thank you,” she managed, throat tight. “That means more than you know.”
As Eddie moved away, Naomi felt a familiar tingle at the base of her neck. She turned, already knowing who she’d find. Owen hadn’t joined the crush around her. He remained apart, watching, his face unreadable to most – but not to her. She saw the pride there, the fierce protectiveness, the concern.
She excused herself from a conversation with one of the tribal council members and made her way toward him, accepting handshakes and shoulder squeezes as she moved through the crowd.
When she finally reached him, the noise seemed to recede, as if they existed in their own pocket of quiet despite the chaos surrounding them.
“So,” she said, suddenly shy. “That happened.”
“It did.” His voice was low, meant only for her. “All fury and no sense.”
The familiar phrase, once an accusation, now carried something like affection. She bit her lip, uncertainty flooding back.
“Is this the right thing?” she asked, searching his face. “Taking on Goodwin, stepping into the spotlight like this? After everything with Julius, with the trafficking ring—”
“It is,” he said without hesitation. “You’re going to win, and you’re going to change things for the better.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can.” His lips quirked in that almost-smile she’d come to treasure. “I’ve seen you in action, remember? If you can change me for the better, Goodwin doesn’t stand a chance.”
A laugh bubbled up, surprising her with its lightness. “You’re biased.”
“Extremely. But I’m also right.”
Before she could respond, he cupped the back of her neck and leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that silenced every doubt in her head.
“People are watching,” she murmured, though she couldn’t bring herself to care.
“Let them,” he replied, his thumb brushing the curve of her jaw. “They should know where I stand. With you. Always.”
The simple declaration warmed her from the inside out. Owen Booker, the man who’d spent years in shadows, who valued anonymity above all else, was publicly declaring his allegiance. To her. In front of half the county.
For years, she’d chased ghosts—her cousin’s, her community’s, her own. Now one had chosen to stand beside her.
She straightened, squared her shoulders, and took his hand.
Tomorrow, the fight would begin, but tonight, she was going home with the man she loved.