Page 14 of Zorro

“Yeah,” Bear murmured, a knot catching in his throat. “Exactly.”

That was the last afternoon.

The sun had been low, the dust golden, her laughter chasing the barn swallows across the beams like wind come alive. She’d braided a strand of Skúya’s mane and said it was his war braid. Then she'd made one in her own hair to match.

He’d helped her down from the fencepost. Hugged her too fast. Too distracted. He’d been days away from shipping off to Coronado. BUD/S on the horizon, a dream bigger than himself finally within reach.

Then she was gone.

No note. No sign. No reason. Just gone.

The brush, her brush, now hung on a nail in the tack room. Its bristles a little bent from her “exfoliation.”

Back in the present, his hand moved again, slower now. Cha?té Skúya breathed deep, as if remembering too.

Bear swallowed hard.

“Miss you, littlest bird,” he murmured.

He didn’t believe in ghosts. Not really. But sometimes, when the sky was heavy and the land too quiet, he swore he could still hear her whisper.

It’s like music…only slower.

He closed his eyes, a lump forming in his throat. Her memory was soft around the edges, a little girl with bright blue eyes, dark hair in two braids, a strong chin like his mom, and the soft weight of his great-great-grandfather’s warrior heart.

That ghost still whispered in the dark places. Not loud. Just…missing. Fifteen when she vanished. A teenager with a sweet tart grin and too many secrets tucked into the hem of her jean jacket. She’d been gone before he’d even finished BUD/S. No one ever found her. No one ever really looked.

Bear didn’t say her name much. Not even to his parents. It still made his mother’s hands tremble.

He stroked Skúya’s shoulder once, the horse leaning into him slightly, sensing the weight without needing words.

There were too many names on that list now. Native women taken, forgotten, dismissed. Stolen. Not enough answers. Not enough justice. Missing and Murdered Indigeous Women and Girls. MMIWG was an acronym the rest of the world could afford to forget but not him. Not his people.

Maybe that’s why he’d bonded with Flint so fast. Animals didn’t forget. They didn’t lie, either. Maybe that’s why he’d stayed in the Teams even when the missions got heavy and the cost got steeper. Sometimes all a man had was what he could protect, and the ones he could still save.

Bear exhaled and leaned his forehead gently to Skúya’s, their breath mingling in the quiet space between. “You’re a good boy,” he said softly.

The next morning, he did his chores, then headed toward the barn. He would ride over to Zorro’s mostly for the quiet of the early afternoon, and the rapt, smiling faces of Zorro’s adorable nieces, Camila or Cami as she was called, and that little firecracker, Sofia, Fifi for short. The barbecue would be underway. Flint would get as much attention as the horse. The kids would beg for rides before the carne asada came off the grill.

Bear smiled faintly, the wind lifting Skúya’s mane as he led the gelding out of the barn, then mounted him, reining the big Paint onto the trail that would lead him to his battle brother’s house.

Claire Martinez always gave him the same welcome, quiet hug, two firm pats on the back, and a fierce, knowing look like she saw something in him she approved of but wouldn’t speak aloud. He respected that.

There was something in Zorro’s family that reminded him of home, even if they couldn’t have been more different. Maybe it was the way they laughed with their whole bodies. Or how his mother treated every teammate like they belonged.

Maybe it was just the way Zorro looked at them, bringing a lump to Bear’s throat.

Bear unlatched the stall and stepped into the sunlight, the scent of cut grass and smoke drifting on the breeze. Flint padded across the yard toward him, alert but at ease, his shadow stretching long beside him.

He gave a short whistle and Flint’s ears perked.

“Come on,” Bear said. “Let’s go break bread with the people who make this life worth fighting for.”

The scent of garlic, lime, and mesquite hung thick in the air, curling up from the smoker like a promise. Sweat trickled down the back of Zorro’s neck as he flipped another flank of marinated carne asada with the focus of a man determined to keep his hands busy. The grill hissed. The music pulsed low and warm, tried and true old-school Santana, his dad’s favorite. It was loud enough to fill the backyard but soft enough not to drown out the kids’ laughter or the rise and fall of conversation.

This was his house. His domain. Today, it was filled with people who didn’t just have his back in battle but who had dragged him through the kind of hell that left scars on souls, not skin.

“Smells like you’re trying to channel abuela, little brother. She was one of a kind, and so are you.”