Page 4 of Not This Place

“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.

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