CHAPTER ONE

The air at the range was heavy with cordite and gun smoke. From beneath the brim of her white, wide-brimmed hat, Rachel Blackwood exhaled a steady breath, her finger coaxing the trigger with practiced finesse. The feather tucked into the leather banding on the brim fluttered.

She squeezed.

The crack.

Fifty yards away, another target struck. Bullseye. She cycled the bolt of her rifle without taking her eyes off the scope.

Boots shuffled on gravel behind her. The good ol' boys congregated like cattle at a water trough, their murmurs low and admiring. They knew her by reputation as much as by sight—the woman who could shoot sharper than any man for three counties.

It had started an hour ago when she'd first begun to warm up.

Then, the attention had been for the pretty half-Native girl playing with her boyfriend's guns. At least, that's what they'd likely thought. She'd felt their eyes on her.

But after the first round, clearing the range, the comments became less snarky, less bawdy.

She didn't care. In her line of work, she'd faced far worse from far more.

Now, an hour into her usual routine, a small group of onlookers had gathered. And still, she didn't glance towards them.

"Never seen nothing like it," one murmured, his drawl thick as molasses.

"Quiet," another hissed. "She's lining up again."

A hundred bullseyes.

That was the rule.

If she missed, she had to start again. A hundred bullseyes in a row.

A morning routine she'd established years ago, and one she stuck to religiously.

Rachel settled into her stance, the rifle an extension of her will. Her world narrowed to the crosshairs, the distant figure, the heartbeat steadying in her chest. The onlookers held their collective breath, captivated not just by skill but by the enigma she represented—a lone wolf amidst the pack. An odd outlier with that raven hair of hers, a single feather fluttering in her hat's brim.

"Damn," breathed a third, as another bullseye met its fate. Admiration laced his tone.

Rachel ejected the spent casing, the sound crisp in the stillness. She didn't need their words; every shot was a silent conversation with her past.

The bright-eyed creature in the forest, hunting her as she hunted it. Her mind conjured the memories even as she moved through her routine.

It was difficult, sometimes, when she got into flow state, to know what was memory and what was the present.

The rifle's recoil kissed Rachel Blackwood's shoulder, a familiar peck. Her gaze never wavered from the scope, every exhalation becoming a prelude to precision. Another shot cut through the air, the target in the distance—a mere speck against the vastness—rang out, the center punctured clean.

Inhale. Hold. Squeeze. The rhythm was a silent mantra, each repetition a moment of truth in a world rife with lies. Rachel could feel the pulse of the earth, the distant murmur of conversation behind her fading into nothingness. Only her and the target existed.

Flashback seared through focus, igniting memory: pine scent thick as fog, ground yielding under boots. Her younger self, heart a hammer in her chest, tracking the mountain lion. The beast, a ghost among trees, its tawny coat slipping through shadows like whispers of danger.

A shot rang out in the past, reverberating through time. Missed. Consequence screamed in the echo of that shot not taken, that moment of hesitation. Blood pounding, she had learned then what it meant to falter, to doubt. A lion's roar was a promise—it would not miss.

Back at the range, another bullseye. No room for hesitation here, not now. The targets were lifeless, but each hit banished ghosts, each round fired exorcised demons lurking in her mind. Practice was penance, absolution found in the recoil, the smell of gunpowder, the resounding confirmation of impact.

She would do better. She wouldn't miss when it mattered.

"Nice shooting," someone said, voice cutting through the trance.

"Thanks," Rachel replied without turning, her voice flat, all business. She allowed herself the barest of nods, acknowledging the praise but not dwelling on it.

Another target. Another breath. Another ghost put to rest.

She hesitated now, staring across the range.

She didn't want it to end.

She knew that much. After what her aunt had told her… about her parents' deaths. Her mother's involvement…

Rachel didn't want to dig deeper. She found herself wanting to go back to what she'd first thought. Holding her parents in her mind as the paragons she'd imagined, but these thoughts whisked away like smoke.

Sheriff Dawes. The reservation. Why?

Her gut knotted at the thought. There was a history there—unspoken words, suspicions that curled around her like smoke from a snuffed-out candle. She hadn't felt comfortable setting foot on that land since she was a child, since before the world had taken everything from her.

Why now? What did Dawes want?

It had to be her aunt's doing. Her aunt had said someone had a recording of her mother, so Dawes had reached out.

It was connected, and here she was at the shooting range, avoiding Dawes. Avoiding her aunt.

She turned away.

She'd hit her hundred.

Rachel tucked the gun into its case with meticulous care, feeling the weight of the silent onlookers' stares.

"Taking off already?" one of them called out.

"Work to do," she replied, her voice clipped.

The gravel crunched beneath her boots as she strode away, leaving behind the scent of gunpowder and the echoes of gunfire further down the range mingling with the onlookers' hushed commentary to one another.

Rachel paused as she cross the threshold to the firing range's parking lot, her phone buzzing in her pocket. One glance at the caller ID, and her hand stilled. Dawes.

"Meet me. Reservation. Urgent."

Her thumb hovered, the impulse to delete gnawing at her restraint. But no, this message—it was a shard of glass from a shattered past, a beacon beckoning her towards answers she'd hungered for since childhood.

Dawes knew something, had always known. The same sheriff who'd looked her in the eye and promised justice for her parents, all those years ago. But what was this about? Was it a clue? A confession? Or another dead end?

"Hey! Blackwood!" a voice tried to pierce her focus. One of the onlookers likely trying to score a date in exchange for complimenting her shooting. It had happened before.

She didn't look back. There were no smiles left in her, no room for idle chatter. Instead, Rachel marched to her car, slipped into the front street of the old, beat up truck, the same white color as her hat.

The engine roared to life, a guttural affirmation. She gripped the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. Confront Dawes. Unearth the truth. It was as vital as drawing breath.

She couldn't run. Could she?

She couldn't leave, either. But… but she didn't want to know. At least, a small part of her didn't want to find out how her mother had been involved in all of this. Didn't want to—

Her phone rang now, an intrusive blare that sliced through the cab's stifling silence. Rachel jabbed the answer button, her voice curt. "Blackwood."

Work. Saved by the bell. Work was calling.

"Ranger, it's dispatch." The voice crackled, urgent. "Bad news on the reservation. Heather Sinclair—"

"The real estate agent from those ads?"

"The same one." There was something to the tone on the other side. A gravity that accompanied more than one of the usual ranger dispatch calls… Another murder? She felt a slow shiver crawl up her spine.

"Dead?" Each syllable dropped like lead in the pit of her stomach.

"Affirmative. Body found half an hour ago. It's… messy this time."

"Messy how?"

"They're still photographing. You'll see."

"Coordinates?"

"Sending now."

"En route," she replied, severing the connection. Her gaze flickered to the rearview mirror—a fleeting glance at the woman reflected there: steel-eyed, determined, haunted.

The car lurched forward, tires biting into gravel.

It was a distraction, but a welcome one. She needed time to sort through her confusion still… to process the betrayal. For now, she'd welcome the simplicity of another hunt.