CHAPTER ONE

Rachel Blackwood crouched low on a sturdy branch, the rough bark pressing against her palms. Her breath steady, she pressed her eye to the scope, the world narrowing down to the small rectangle of Aunt Sarah's farm below. The air was still, and Rachel tensed, noticing the slight changes in zephyr patterns and how it affected her line of sight of the surveillance target.

But she stood motionless, having chosen a sturdy branch for her vantage point.

The cool metal of the scope pressed against her forehead, and she peered through the glass.

The farmhouse sat silent, paint flaking from the wooden siding. A single wind chime hung motionless by the porch, its absence of sound unsettling. Rachel scanned the yard, searching for movement—anything that could break the eerie calm.

Nothing. No sign of Aunt Sarah. No Sheriff Dawes.

Seven days.

She glanced at the whittled gouges in the bark at her side. Seven days. Her aunt had been missing for seven days. Dawes was gone, too.

Her jaw clenched. The stillness felt wrong, unnatural. Rachel adjusted her position, the tree creaking softly beneath her weight. She zoomed in on the farmhouse windows, searching for any flicker of movement inside.

Empty. All of them.

Rachel's thoughts raced. "Where are you, Aunt Sarah?" she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "What are you hiding?"

The barn door hung slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible. Rachel shifted her focus, scrutinizing the gap. No movement. There hadn’t been in days.

She lowered the scope, blinking to refocus her eyes. The sun beat down, sweat beading on her forehead. Rachel wiped it away with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of dirt across her brow.

"Dammit," she whispered. "What game are you playing?"

The sheriff's absence gnawed at her. His deputies' hostility at the station replayed in her mind. Something was off. Very off. She'd visited over the last three days, but none of the reservation deputies had given her the time of day.

Dawes’ son had always been hostile to her, and his open disdain had only increased. They were all hiding something.

Rachel raised the scope again, methodically sweeping the property. The chicken coop stood empty, its gate swinging lazily in the breeze. The vegetable garden lay untended, weeds sprouting between the rows.

No tracks. No signs of a struggle. Just... nothing.

Her fingers tightened on the scope. The silence pressed in, oppressive.

Rachel's mind drifted back to her search of the cabin three days ago. The floorboards had creaked under her boots as she'd moved through the rooms, methodically opening drawers and cupboards. Each empty space had fueled her growing frustration.

"Come on, Aunt Sarah," she'd muttered, rifling through a stack of old newspapers. "Give me something. Anything."

The living room had yielded nothing but dust and memories. Family photos on the mantle, Rachel's parents smiling, frozen in time. She'd paused, studying their faces. "What happened to you?" she'd whispered, her voice tight.

In the kitchen, she'd pulled open cabinets with increasing urgency. Plates. Glasses. Canned goods. Nothing out of place. Nothing missing that shouldn't be.

Rachel had stood in the center of the room, fists clenched at her sides. Her eyes had landed on the basement door.

The stairs had groaned as she'd descended. The air grew cooler, mustier. Rachel's flashlight beam cut through the gloom, revealing shelves of preserves and old farming equipment.

And then she'd seen it. The chain.

Bolted to the far wall, it hung limply. Empty. Rachel had approached slowly, her heart pounding. She'd run her fingers along the cold metal links, a chill racing down her spine.

But the basement, like the rest of the house, had offered no answers. Only more questions.

It had been her second search of the house. The first had been even more alarming.

She remembered arriving that night, her posture tense. Her shoulders set and her eyes narrowed. At the time, she’d arrived at the cabin looking for something other than the woman who’d raised her. Aunt Sarah… the murderer of her parents?

That’s what she’d learned. She needed to speak to Dawes. To Sarah.

Needed to find out what really had happened all those years ago. But Sarah had been missing. And something else was missing—the money from the heist. The heist Rachel’s own mother was purportedly involved in.

Rachel had stood on the porch, pounding on the door with a clenched fist, and her temper had only increased as she’d received no response.

She’d broken the door.

And she’d found an empty cabin. Her aunt was nowhere to be seen.

And so Rachel went straight to the gun rack by the door. She’d learned a long time ago where Aunt Sarah was concerned, the guns told the real story.

Rachel's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the gun rack on the wall. Empty. The polished wood gleamed, barene. She ran her fingers along the dust-free slots, her jaw clenching.

"All of them. Gone," she muttered, her mind racing. Sarah's prized hunting rifles, the old revolver she kept for protection - vanished.

Rachel yanked open the pantry door. Canned goods lined the shelves, but gaps stood out like missing teeth. Boxes of ammunition were conspicuously absent. Her aunt's favorite cast-iron cooking pot was missing from its usual hook.

"Prepared for a long trip, Aunt Sarah?" Rachel's voice was low, tinged with a mix of suspicion and disbelief.

The missing items painted a disturbing picture. Sarah hadn't just left; she'd fled. And she'd taken provisions for an extended absence.

Rachel's fists clenched at her sides. The implications were clear, but she refused to jump to conclusions. She needed more information.

Twenty minutes later, Rachel strode into the reservation’s Sheriff's station, her badge prominently displayed. "I need to speak with Sheriff Dawes," she’d announced, her tone brooking no argument.

A man named Deputy Miller had stepped forward, his face a mask of false concern. "I'm sorry, Ranger Blackwood. The sheriff isn't available."

"When will he be back?" Rachel pressed, her eyes scanning the room for any signs of the Sheriff's presence.

"Can't say," Miller replied, shifting uncomfortably. "Department business. You understand."

Rachel's patience wore thin. "This is official Texas Ranger business, Deputy. I need to speak with Dawes now."

The atmosphere in the station grew tense. Other deputies began to gather, forming a subtle barrier between Rachel and the inner offices.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Miller said, his tone hardening. "If you have any questions, you can direct them to me."

Rachel took a step forward, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Where is he, Miller? And where's my aunt?"

Miller's hand twitched towards his holster. "I think it's time for you to leave, Ranger Blackwood. This is the reservation. Our home. Not yours.”

The yours had been emphasized with venom. That had always been the case with reservation law enforcement. They’d resented that she’d never joined them. She’d left the reservation, because she’d felt the best way to help her people was from the outside. From the actual institutions that held power beyond the reservation. But she’d given up trying to explain herself to her people.

As a native woman in the Texas Rangers, she knew what it was like to stand against the current, to resist the stream always pushing you down, trying to drown you. She knew about fighting tooth and nail, about clawing your way up from the dirt and earning respect from those who would just as soon see you fail.

But right now, she didn't have time for this territorial pissing contest. Sheriff Dawes was missing. Her aunt was missing. And the two occurrences happening at the same time could not be a coincidence.

She'd refused to leave at first, but then Rachel felt strong hands gripping her arms. Two deputies began forcibly escorting her towards the exit.

The door slammed behind her as she was unceremoniously shoved onto the sidewalk. Rachel stumbled, regaining her balance as anger and frustration coursed through her veins.

She stared at the closed door, her mind racing. The deputies' actions only confirmed her suspicions. Dawes was helping Aunt Sarah. The two of them were in hiding. Hiding from their own actions… Hiding from her. Rachel scowled. She knew that Aunt Sarah had been involved in the heist her mother had spearheaded. Knew that, according to some, Sarah had been involved in her own mother’s death.

Was it true?

Time would tell.

Rachel straightened her jacket, her resolve hardening. If they wouldn't give her answers, she'd find them herself.

And so she’d set up surveillance. Aunt Sarah’s house had a game camera out front, and Rachel had set up her hunter’s perch in the tallest oak on the property.

And so she stood, stoic and quiet, staring down the barrel of her rifle towards the farmhouse below. The days had melded into one another. Sunrises and sunsets marked by the unyielding vigilance of her gaze. Climbing down the tree only for necessities. Her meals were a monotonous routine of canned beans and jerky. Sleep came in fitful, brief episodes, her senses always alert, always waiting for a sign.

The empty cabin stood defiant under her scrutiny, revealing no secrets. The dusty path leading to it remained undisturbed. Daily rounds of the property turned up nothing new, the tire tracks she'd discovered earlier had been intentionally muddled and were now fading under the kiss of wind and weather, washed out by an unseasonal drizzle that had lasted half the day.

Her fury at this stonewalling was a simmering presence at the back of her mind, kept in check by her disciplined focus. Aunt Sarah may have been like a mother to her, but if she’d really murdered Rachel's parents... Rachel would make sure she faced justice.

She rolled her neck, shifting uncomfortably, one hand braced against the rough bark of the tree.

The shrill ring of her phone shattered the silence. Rachel jolted, nearly losing her balance on the branch. Her hand flew to her holster instinctively before she realized the source of the noise.

"Shit," she muttered, fumbling for the device. The screen lit up with Ethan's name. Rachel's finger hovered over the decline button. She couldn't afford distractions. Not now.

The phone fell silent. Rachel exhaled, refocusing on the farmhouse. Seconds later, it buzzed again. A text message.

"Not now, Ethan."

She typed quickly, her jaw clenched. The reply came instantly.

"Emergency. Murder case. Rattlesnake involved. Need you ASAP."

Rachel's brow furrowed. Another buzz.

"On the reservation. It's bad, Rae."

Her partner's urgency was palpable even through text. Rachel's mind raced. A murder with a rattlesnake? That was unusual.

The phone rang again. Rachel hung up again.

Rattlesnake… She frowned. A murder case with a snake? On a reservation? Pieces clicked slowly into place. Her mind moved towards her aunt again. Aunt Sarah had always been fascinated with snakes. In fact, as a child, Rachel had witnessed her aunt capture the creatures on more than one occasion. She knew how to extract venom, how to handle them without getting bitten. And she had more than one rattlesnake skin hung up as a trophy inside her cabin.

Rachel's eyes flickered back to the cabin. Her anger flared again, hotter than before. Was this another one of her aunt's games? Or was she just reading too much into it? Either way, she couldn't ignore Ethan's plea.

She pictured her partner and his shaggy hair and puppy dog eyes. It had been a week since she’d seen him. Ethan had the same personality as a golden retriever, and the two of them had grown close… Closer than partners over the course of their time together on different cases. He was one of the only people in her life she trusted, and after this experience with Aunt Sarah, she craved a friendly face. She didn't know who to trust in her own family, no less the rest of the world. Her usual self-reliance teetered, shaky and uncertain.

For a moment she considered ignoring Ethan's plea, but she reluctantly pushed off from her perch. Swiftly, she collected her things and shimmied down the tree. She slung her rifle over her shoulder and turned back one last time to glance up at the farmhouse.

Her eyes lingered on the darkened windows, etching the image into her mind. The haunting emptiness of the cabin left an almost palpable chill creeping down her spine. She knew she was leaving behind something significant, like a vital piece of a puzzle, still out of reach and hidden under layers of deceit and secrets.

But the clues she'd found so far didn't form a clear picture. The chain, the guns, Sarah's missing cooking pot - these were not answers but question marks punctuating an already convoluted situation.

Rachel paused at the foot of the tree, pulling out a small digital game camera from her pack. With experienced hands, she rigged it up to a thick branch that offered a clear view of the cabin's front door. A parting move against Sarah's castle of solitude.

With one last look at Aunt Sarah's cabin, Rachel navigated through the shadows with practiced ease till she reached her vehicle. Her keys jangled loudly in the still night air.

She hitched her bag over her shoulder, adjusting her white hat to shield her eyes from the rising sun. She cast a final glance back at the cabin before climbing into the driver's seat.

"Damn you," Rachel muttered under her breath as she turned on the engine.