CHAPTER ONE

Rachel Blackwood's boots crunched the gravel as she neared the dilapidated trailer. She’d left her badge and gun, and now wore a long jacket, her white hat tilted back, the brim casting her shoulders in shadow.

She could feel them watching as she drew near the trailer parked on the off-grid commune’s claimed land.

A sea of wary eyes followed her every step, their stares sharp enough to slice through the stifling Texas heat. Her presence unsettled the off-grid community like a hawk gliding over a field of nervous rabbits. They peered from behind their own trailers, or from where they stood near a couple of the beehives lining the row of trees.

The hum of bees lingered on the air, and

she noticed the neat lines of honey hives, a trellis of jasmine vines blooming around them. A couple of young children dashed between the rows, their laughter bright and untroubled amidst the silent tension, their bare feet kicking up small clouds of dust.

Rachel studied their faces, but none were a match for the men she was searching for. She turned her attention to the area beyond the hives where an aquaponic setup sat. The pungent smell of fish wafted over. Her piercing eyes picked up on the silhouettes of tilapia moving through the clear water of several large tanks, and she noticed a woman bending over one such tank, net in hand.

Patches of vegetables grew in verdant splendor to one side, fed by the water from the fish tanks. Rachel saw tomatoes ripening on their vines, spears of asparagus breaking through the soil, and clusters of Swiss chard with their deep green leaves and rainbow-colored stalks.

She spotted another group in a corner working on a makeshift wind turbine. An old car’s alternator, some PVC pipes... they'd made do with what they had.

She catalogued this all rapidly, accustomed to studying the terrain before completing a hunt.

Her gaze drifted back to the trailer.

The trailer, rusted and weather-beaten, sat like a stubborn relic in the clearing, windows obscured by dust. Rachel felt it all - the invisible barriers, the silent judgments, the unspoken challenges.

A bead of sweat traced the line of her jaw, but she didn't wipe it away. Her gaze remained steady, fixed on the metal door that stood between her and what she came for.

The brothers, John Red Bear and Joseph White Cloud, had lived on her parents’ reservation. They’d been involved, according to SHeriff Dawes, in the deaths of her parents.

The only problem—the two had gone off grid. It had taken Rachel nearly three weeks to find their trail. But as a big game hunter by trade, now working for the Rangers, Rachel had a penchant for tracking hard-to-find predators.

But there was no guarantee they were here. Even as her gaze scanned the place, she spotted nothing.

She noted a couple of olive-skinned types among the commune, but mostly they were white. Another obstacle?

With her olive-tinged face, thanks to her half-native heritage, Rachel kept a wary eye out for any unanticipated obstacles beyond her control.

Without warning, the door to the trailer banged open with an aggression that rattled the flimsy walls. The sudden noise caused a ripple of muted gasps among the onlookers. From within the shadowed interior emerged a figure framed in the doorway, hands on hips, her greasy hair clinging to the sides of her face. Irritation etched deep lines into her forehead, her mouth set in a hard line. In her eyes, there was a storm raging, ready to unleash at the slightest provocation.

The woman in question had to be middle-aged, though hard living had aged her prematurely. Deep crevices lined her wind-worn face, her skin tanned to a leathery texture from years of exposure to the unforgiving Texan sun. Her sagging cheeks were streaked with dirt and perspiration, making her look as rugged and tough as the terrain around them. Despite the wear and tear, there was an unyielding strength in her stance, a fierceness in her gaze that dared anyone to challenge her.

Her teeth also suggested she didn’t much trust dentists.

The woman's clothes hung loose on her skinny frame; a faded denim jacket over a threadbare green flannel shirt, worn-out jeans with patches of different blues. Work boots caked with desert sand completed the ensemble. From the front pocket of her jacket protruded a pair of gardening gloves, one thumb sticking out like a flag claiming territory, indicating she had been hard at work before Rachel’s arrival.

Rachel studied those eyes and found similarities to those of her Aunt Sarah — both carried the same hardened world-weariness that came from decades of adversity.

“You the guest Eliza told us was comin?” the woman said, spitting off to the side and adjusting the gardening gloves where they protruded.

Rachel nodded once. She wasn’t one to use words where gestures were sufficient. in her opnion, most people talked too much. Though even as she thought this, she thought of her partner, Ethan Morgan. He was a bit of a chatterbox. But she liked his kind of prattle. Maybe just because she liked him.

“What’s your name, then?” said the older woman in a heavy, southern drawl.

"Rachel Blackwood," she said, her own voice betraying no weakness, no hesitation.

The woman leaned forward, squinting, assessing Rachel with a predator's focus. The community watching from their various locations held its collective breath.

A standoffish silence settled, the woman's distrust hung in the air like the dust around them. Rachel knew the look well enough—the wary squint, the stiff posture. It was the universal sign of someone who'd had one too many run-ins with a badge.

Which was why Rachel had left hers at the bottom of the mountain in her waiting vehicle. Eliza, Ethan's sister, had been strictly informed not to mention the law enforcement angle.

Eliza, who Rachel had never met but who loved her brother, had once lived in this commune for a few years. They trusted Eliza, and Eliza trusted Ethan.

Rachel's eyes flicked past the woman's shoulder, scanning the faces peering from behind curtains, from the steps of neighboring trailers. She catalogued features, matched them against mental images of John Red Bear and Joseph White Cloud. A nose too straight. Cheekbones too low. Not them.

A momentary silence hung between them, thick as the humidity in the Texas air. The woman shifted her weight from one foot to the other on the creaking steps of the trailer. She appraised Rachel with a skeptical eye before breaking into a grudging nod. She took a sip from a mason jar, which exuded a strong, cleaning-fluid smell.

"Eliza says you're okay," the woman grunted, the corners of her mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Says you helped her out once."

Rachel nodded, a single, crisp movement.

"Helped her when she needed it," Rachel confirmed. Her voice was steady, betraying none of the tension she felt under the watchful eyes of the community.

The matriarch studied Rachel for a long beat, perhaps weighing Eliza's word against her own judgment. Finally, she stepped back, the door to the trailer groaning slightly as it remained agape behind her.

"Suppose you want to stay awhile," she said flatly. "What can you bring to our table?"

Rachel resisted the urge to scan the bystanders again. Instead, she kept her focus on the matriarch. "I'm a hunter," she stated plainly. No need to embellish. Her credentials would speak for themselves, and survival skills were currency here.

"Is that so?" The woman's tone was dubious but intrigued.

"It is." Rachel's reply was firm. She'd tracked more than just deer in her time.

A chuckle rumbled from the shadowed porch across the way. A pudgy man leaned against a wooden post, his arms crossed over a stained tank top that strained against his belly. Sunlight glinted off the shotgun cradled in his arms. Eyes, small and calculating, fixed on Rachel.

"Best shot around these parts," the matriarch declared, her voice carrying through the still air as she jerked her chin toward the man. "Name's Carl."

Rachel's gaze held steady on Carl, acknowledging him with a nod. The heat bore down on her shoulders, a heavy blanket of tension settling over the scene.

"Good to know," she said, the words clipped. Her mind ticked over the next move, gauging the situation. Here was an opportunity—a test of skill, perhaps a way in. The cover story had been that Rachel wanted to join the commune.

She needed information. Needed to find Joseph and John.

"Care to prove that title of yours?" Carl called out from where he stood on the other trailer’s porch, his voice was a challenge wrapped in mockery, his eyes never leaving Rachel.

The corners of Rachel's mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile. "Let's see what you've got."

"Shootout then," the matriarch announced. Approval laced her tone, the prospect of entertainment breaking through the day's monotony.

"Fine by me." Rachel's response came swift, no hesitation. She knew this game—knew it well. Not just hunting, but proving oneself. Gaining trust through shared skill, through the unspoken language of ability that transcended words. Allowing her to peel back layers, ask questions, get closer to what she came for.

"High time," Carl said, the snicker gone. Now, there was only anticipation. A test. A spectacle. And for Rachel, a door cracking open.

Dust kicked up beneath restless feet as the off-gridders emerged from the shade of their trailers. Doors creaked and slammed, hinges protesting, while eyes—narrowed by suspicion or widened by curiosity—focused on the clearing where Rachel stood. The community slowly turned out, the spectacle of a shootout drawing them like moths to a flame.

"Line up!" the matriarch bellowed, her voice slicing through the murmurs of the crowd. A hush fell. They obeyed, forming an uneven semicircle around Rachel and Carl. The sun bore down unforgivingly, casting stark shadows that segmented the dirt into patches of light and dark.

A table materialized, two rifles laid across its weathered surface. The wood was scarred, testament to countless challenges settled here in this very manner. The matriarch’s hand hovered over the firearms before grasping one and offering it to Rachel with a nod that might have been respect or might have been challenge.

"Your tool," she said, the words flat but loaded.

Rachel approached, her boots thudding softly against the ground. She accepted the rifle, fingers closing around the worn grip. Weight familiar yet foreign—a weapon much like her own but not hers. She brought it to her shoulder, sighting along the barrel. Her eye caught a discrepancy, subtle but there. The sight was off, tampered.

"Problem?" Carl asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"None." Rachel's voice was a murmur, barely audible over the collective breath of the onlookers. She adjusted the sight with deft fingers, a minute twist to bring it true. No complaint passed her lips. To reveal weakness was not her way. Not here, not anywhere.

Carl hefted his rifle, a counterpart to Rachel's, the stock nestled against his round cheek. He squinted down the sight, a pantomime of concentration, the image of confidence for the crowd.

Rachel stepped to her mark, rifle cradled in the crook of her arm. Her pulse thrummed in her veins, a steady drumbeat that matched the cadence of whispers rippling through the spectators. She waited, calm. Poised.

"Ready!" the matriarch called out, her voice carrying the finality of a judge's gavel.

The off-gridders leaned forward, their collective attention a tangible force pressing against Rachel's back. This was more than a mere contest; it was a ritual, a rite of passage played out under the unforgiving Texas sky.

A shot cracked the stillness. Carl's first round punched through the center of his target, a perfect bullseye. A hundred yards down range, a scarecrow made of straw… And maybe it was just her imagination, but it looked as if it were wearing an old, faded police uniform. Murmurs undulated through the crowd like ripples on a pond.

"Nice shot," Rachel said, her voice steady, devoid of sarcasm.

"Your turn," he replied, the corner of his mouth hitched in a confident grin.

Rachel shouldered her rifle, the butt firm against her shoulder. Her eye narrowed, locking onto the target. She exhaled slowly, the world shrinking to a single point in her vision. The rifle's report shattered the silence. Her shot mirrored Carl's—center mass.

Applause was a soft patter in the background. Rachel reloaded.

Carl's second shot. His confidence wavered, a hair's breadth off-center. Still, impressive.

"Consistent," she noted, acknowledging his skill.

"Let's see yours then," Carl challenged, passing the baton of pressure back to her.

Another breath, another narrowing of the world. Rachel's second trigger pull was a dance she knew well. The bullet tore through the same hole as the first. No deviation. Precision incarnate.

"Damn," someone muttered from among the trailers.

The final round. The moment stretched, taut as a wire.

Carl fired. A fraction off once more. Good, but not quite his best.

"Last one, Ranger," he called out, a glimmer of respect shining through the bravado.

Rachel nodded, silent. She raised her rifle. Her heartbeat was a metronome in her chest. This shot would count in more ways than one.

She aimed. Not at the center this time. A conscious decision. Her finger tensed on the trigger. The rifle kicked. The bullet struck just outside the cluster of holes, an intentional miss.

A collective gasp rose from the audience.

"Close," Carl said, his tone softer now. There was a flicker of camaraderie in his eyes.

"Could've been better," Rachel conceded with a shrug, her pride tucked away.

She handed the rifle back to its owner. The pudgy man took it, examining the barrel, then met her gaze. She had not sought to overshadow him completely, and that spoke volumes.

"Good shooting," he admitted, nodding.

"Thanks," she said, meaning it. Respect was currency here. And perhaps, just perhaps, she had earned some.

The matriarch caught her eye. A frown creased her brow. Something unspoken passed between them.

The dust settled around the makeshift firing range, particles dancing in the late afternoon sun. Rachel felt the weight of the rifle's stock against her shoulder diminish as she handed it back. Calloused fingers grazed hers—a silent acknowledgment.

"Where'd you get to be such a crack shot?" The pudgy man's voice cut through the quiet that had befallen the crowd. His stance was wide, arms akimbo, the previous sneer now replaced with a quizzical brow.

"Practice," Rachel replied curtly. The word hung between them, an offering stripped of embellishment.

"Must've been one hell of a teacher." He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge on his temple.

"Learned from a few folks over the years," she said. Her eyes scanned the horizon, a narrow focus on nothing in particular. "John Red Bear. Joseph White Cloud."

"Never heard of 'em." His response came quick, without hesitation or the telltale twitch of deceit.

"Local marksmen. Good teachers." Rachel kept her voice even, though inside questions turned like gears. She noted the lack of recognition, the absence of a flicker in his eyes.

"Must be good if they taught you to shoot like that and still keep humble about it." A chuckle escaped him, a sound that bounced off the trailers and brought curious faces peeking out once more.

"Maybe." Rachel allowed herself a nod, her own curiosity gnawing at her. The matriarch's frown from earlier etched itself into her thoughts. They knew more than they let on. She was certain of it. But for now, she'd let the illusion of camaraderie linger just a little while longer.

The sun cast long shadows across the dust-ridden ground. Rachel's gaze flicked to the matriarch, caught the downturn of her mouth, the subtle crease between aging brows. A silent conversation hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths.

"Something wrong?" Rachel's voice cut through the tension, sharp and precise.

“You know the brothers?”

“Joseph and John?” Rachel nodded. “Do you?”

The matriarch didn’t reply. But just shrugged, turning on her heel.

Rachel tried to call after the woman. She knew those names. Knew the brothers. Did she know about Rachel’s mother?

But before she could call out, Rachel's pocket buzzed. Ethan. The call vibrated against her thigh twice before she fished out the phone, thumbed the accept button. "Blackwood."

"Rae, we've got a case," Ethan's voice crackled over the line, urgency threading through each syllable.

"Copy that." She kept her response clipped, aware of the many ears straining to catch fragments of her conversation.

"Need you back at the station. Now." No room for questions.

"Understood." She ended the call, slipped the phone back into her pocket. The tightness in her chest loosened.

A nod to the matriarch, a formal tilt of the head. "I appreciate the hospitality." Rachel turned on her heel, strides eating up the distance to her vehicle. The off-gridders' stares clung to her like burrs on denim.

She wanted to turn back around. To demand the matriarch reveal what she knew. But Rachel had played it slow this far, and she

wouldn't get anywhere by rushing now. As she neared her vehicle, the sun glinted off its windows, harsh against her eyes. She reached for the handle, pausing to glance back over her shoulder at the off-grid commune.

The matriarch was watching her, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Rachel met her gaze, held it for a moment longer before sliding into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life under her touch, familiarity oozing from its steady rumble. She spared the commune one last look before pulling away, leaving a trail of dust in her wake.

Her thoughts whirled as the landscape sped by, but she kept calculating as she went. The matriarch knew something—Rachel was sure of it. The name recognition had been there, faint but unmistakable. And then, evasion. It wasn't much to go on, but it was enough.

Her grip tightened on the steering wheel as she navigated the dirt roads back towards civilization. She replayed the encounter again and again in her head - every look, every word exchanged. John Red Bear and Joseph White Cloud – those names meant something to the matriarch, even if she wouldn't admit it.

She reached for her phone again and punched in Ethan's number. He picked up after one ring - always reliable Ethan Morgan.

“En route. You got coffees?”

“Nah. We’re meeting on the coast,” he called back. “We can get some there.”

“Roger.”

Behind her, the community returned to its secrets, to the silence that shielded them from the world outside. But Rachel carried a piece of that silence with her now, a frown etched in memory, a promise of answers yet to come.

But for now… other predators needed hunting.