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The tapestry of discord wove against the backdrop of the arid landscape. Dust whirled like restless spirits between the two factions—Native police and local cops—each side mirroring the other's stubborn stance through clenched jaws and squared shoulders.
"Jurisdiction is ours," a Native officer's voice rose above the rest, barbed and unyielding.
"Look at the map, the line is clear!" retorted a local cop, arms flailing with each syllable, his face a shade of red that rivaled the sun.
Her steps were measured as she moved towards the epicenter of the burgeoning conflict.
"Deputy Dawes," Rachel called out, her voice steady despite the quickening beat of her heart. She approached a young man she recognized. This wasn't the same Dawes she'd spoken to on the phone. That had been the sheriff. Rather, this was Dawes' son, Kai. Where Kai's father disliked Rachel, Kai outright loathed her. A lot of the younger generation didn't take kindly to Rachel.
Still, she nodded politely at him as she drew closer. The reservation cops bristled, but the local PD also tensed. Be it the feathers in her cap, her darker features, or perhaps her Ranger uniform--everyone had something they distrusted.
She didn't look away. Kai Dawes was a lower ranking member on the force. He was in his mid-twenties and had been busted back a rank or two on more than one occasion. Excessive force, public intoxication--but his father had never outright fired the boy from the force.
Wherever the wind blew, the six other native officers would follow Dawes' lead.
So she addressed him.
"I got the call," she said simply. "This is a Ranger case now, working in tandem with the reservation PD.
Her words ebbed into the tension, but did not break it. She was close enough now to see the lines of strain etched into the faces around her, to smell the sweat mixed with dust.
"Blackwood," a whispered epithet curled from the lips of a reservation cop; the 'sellout' hung silent but heavy in the air between them.
Her breath hitched, a microsecond of disdain stinging sharper than expected. Ethan's hand brushed against her elbow, a subtle signal of solidarity.
"Let's focus on why we're here," she persevered, her tone clipped.
The dust swirled like specters rising from the cracked earth, each particle a silent witness to the standoff. Rachel's gaze cut through the haze, latching onto the stoic faces of the reservation officers. She could feel the residue of the word 'sellout' clinging to her skin.
She moved, her feet displacing the dirt beneath her boots, the sound lost in the cacophony of raised voices and clashing egos. The reservation stretched out before her, a tapestry of ancestral land and modern turmoil, a place where her blood ran as deeply as the rivers but now seemed dammed at every turn.
"Blackwood," a deep voice boomed, slicing through the tension.
Kai was glaring at her, but the word came from by one of the brown reservation cruisers.
Sheriff Dawes stepped forward, his presence commanding silence. The lines on his face told of years under the unforgiving sun, and his eyes held the hardness of the desert stone. He was the law here, his authority woven into the very fabric of the reservation.
Rachel met his gaze, her own unwavering. "We need to secure the scene, Sheriff."
"Secure the scene," he said slowly, eyeing her. There was something cold in his gaze. He'd been the one to call. He'd asked her here, but now that she'd stepped foot back on his land, he seemed to be having second thoughts.
Her jaw tensed, muscles rigid against the churn of emotions within. In the crossfire of glares, the thread of her resolve wove tighter. Her voice, when it came, was a blade—sharp, clean.
"Crime doesn't respect lines drawn on a map. You wanted the Rangers, well this is what you've got."
Ethan shifted beside her, a silent bulwark amid the brewing storm. The air crackled with more than just the dry heat, and the standoff between the lawmen promised to spark into something far less contained.
"You called them?" Kai asked, turning towards his father, his eyes wide in horror.
Kai's features were thinner and paler than his old man's.
No one could mistake Kai for anything other than his father's son, though. His eyes held the same intensity, burning with an unwavering anger that had been carved into their family lineage. But where Sheriff Dawes carried the weight of years on his weathered face, Kai wore his youth like a cloak, draped over his lean frame.
His jet-black hair hung in unruly waves around his face, framing sharp cheekbones and a square jawline. A thin scar traced its way across his left cheek, a remnant of some long-forgotten battle fought and won. And there was something about the way he stood, shoulders back and chest out, that declared a loud confidence.
Kai was every bit a product of the reservation; it coursed through his veins like a river of stories told by generations past.
"Let's work together on this," Rachel suggested, her words pointed shards meant to pierce the veil of animosity.
