“Never,” she answered. “I came for you.”
The girls cried then. Relief. Fear unclenching. A sound that struck something deep and maternal inside her.
“You’re so good at this,” the young Chippewa rookie murmured. “Everything you do is for them.”
“Almost,” Bailee said.
She cut their bindings with a pocketknife and wrapped each girl in a blanket from her team’s packs. The youngest collapsed against her shoulder, clutching the fabric like a lifeline. Bailee held her gently, the girl’s fingers gripping her sleeve with desperate strength.
“Trafficking gets the headlines,” she said softly. “But it isn’t the whole story. Most of our women are hurt closer to home. Domestic violence. Addiction. Men who think no one is watching, no one cares. Sometimes it isn’t organized. Sometimes it’s just cruelty with no witness.”
The rookie nodded, jaw tight. “Awareness. Freedom from judgment. Better training. More tribal officers. Maybe even Indigenous detectives. These are real solutions. And attainable.”
Bailee smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Zad, look at you thinking strategically. Be careful, I might put you to work.”
Agent Azaadi Chatan grinned. “Hard work never hurt anyone.”
“We’ll talk back at the office,” she said.
Behind her, her agents cleared the room, calling in extraction vehicles, photographing evidence, securing the men who believed this warehouse would be the end of these girls’ stories.
Not tonight. Not while Bailee Thunderhawk walked this earth. Not while the ancestors watched.
She rose with the girl in her arms, stepping out into the cool night air. The wind swept across the lot, brushing her face with the soft breath of desert sage. It felt like a blessing. A reminder.
This was her calling. Not the CIA. Not federal politics. Not even the battlefield she and Bear had once walked together. This. Right here. Saving Native daughters who were never supposed to be forgotten.
A siren grew in the distance as the transport unit approached. The girls tightened around her, but she held them, steady and sure.
“You’re going home,” Bailee murmured. “I promise you.”
The oldest girl whispered, voice trembling, “How did you find us?”
Bailee looked out at the horizon, the lights of San Diego glowing like a promise. “We never gave up. We followed every lead, we used our resources and contacts.” She smiled. “I listened,” she said softly. “To the ground. To the wind. To the women who came before us. They always guide me.”
At that moment, standing beneath the open night sky with survivors clinging to her, Bailee felt the truth settle in her bones.
She was now facing the right way. She had been chosen to be fire, and she would burn a path through every shadow until the last girl was safe.
Sleeping Wind, Bear’s Residence, Bonita, California
The morning was quiet, just the two of them on his porch, steam curling from their coffee cups into the crisp air. Bear reached down to the side of his chair, pulled out a thick envelope, and held it across the space between them.
Bailee frowned, took it, and slid her thumb under the flap. Inside lay a sheet of parchment, heavy stock, the kind meant for framing. At the top, bold and undeniable, was the seal of the United States Congress. Her name blazed through the text. The Thunderhawk Bill.
The paper shook in her hands. She rose with a soft sound filled with love, with affection, with a connection so deep, Bear had to take his own shuddering breath.
Crossing the space, she lowered herself onto his lap, his body primed for her, eagerly folding her into his embrace. The document slipped between them as her arms locked around his neck, her mouth pressed to the warm hollow of his throat. She broke. Tears streamed hot and unrelenting, soaking into his skin as the weight of it, the magnitude of it, finally crashed through. It was fitting her mouth should be there. She had opened him up, supported and encouraged him so that his voice was strong and true, not bottled up and useless.
His arms banded around her, steady and sure. His voice rumbled against her ear, low and certain. “You did this, Bailee. You’re helping to heal more than your own nation. You’re healing all of us, every Native soul. Medicine woman, yes. My love, most definitely. You healed me, gave me peace.”
He drew back just enough to tip her chin up, his dark eyes steady on hers. “Now, you’ll be my wife.”
She lifted her head, her tears slipping down her cheeks, but there was mischief there, twinkling in the white-blue heat of those compelling eyes. “Is that so, handsome? You got anything to back that up?”
“With you? Of course. I wouldn’t dare come to you without a tribute.” He pulled out a large box, offering it to her.
She opened it and her breath caught. “Dakota. These are…” More tears slipped down her face, and in the shine he saw his future. She sent her fingertips over the pair of wide sterling silver-over-gold medicine wheel bands, inlaid with red and black pipestone, white alabaster, and yellow sandstone. “I love that they match.” Hers had a drop of turquoise centered in the middle, representing her heart. Etched on each side were eagle wings.
