Page 3 of Not This Place

Cheryl’s heart pounded like a war drum in her chest. With one last look at Jake’s lifeless form, she forced herself to run once more despite knowing she was outmatched on this slick terrain.

The smell of oil became more intense as she moved further away from Jake's body, but she couldn't help but picture those lifeless eyes staring back at her. His face haunted each step she took away from him.

Suddenly, a figure stepped in front of her. He’d circled around.

She ran into him and stumbled to the ground.

The dark, tall figure loomed over her. She pleaded, but the words failed on her lips, and her scream died as she shouted, her voice shaking the air.

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.

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