A suspicious death on a Kohala Mountain ranch draws ranger Makalani Pahukula into a tangled family tree in an emotional and suspenseful adventure by the bestselling author of the Lily Wong series.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and and the first two chapters from Hawai’i Rage by Tori Eldridge, which releases on May 19th 2026.
Makalani Pahukula, interpretive ranger for Pu‘ukoholā Heiau National Historic Site, craves some rejuvenating hard work on Hawai‘i Island. When cousin-in-law Rosie offers Makalani a chance to help at the Hiapo family ranch, it’s the perfect opportunity. But something else weighs on Rosie’s mind. Her father recently died in a gruesome accident―trapped and cornered in a pit by an aggressive bull.
The wrong place at the wrong time? Rosie suspects something more sinister.
Not long into her work, Makalani’s suspicions rise too. The Hiapos aren’t as close as Makalani thought. All family members―the grandfather, the widow, the adversarial brothers co-running the ranch, the sister who wants anything but a paniolo life for her son, and the cowgirl who becomes Makalani’s friend―are hiding secrets from one another. And from Makalani.
When more dangerous accidents occur, Makalani has no choice but to follow the clues that lead her into the dark history of Hiapo Ranch and draw out the culprit before someone else dies.
CHAPTER ONE
Ranger Makalani Pahukula gunned the utility quad and landed hard on the shelf of Palihae Gulch. Dirt sprayed from high-side tires as the sport three-wheeler ahead of her crested another mound and tipped, but didn’t slow. The father was determined to reach his trapped son. If he
wasn’t careful, Makalani would have two people to save instead of one.
She sped ahead of him, cut down the slope, and forced him to turn. His tires dropped to the ground. Back in control, he followed her along the bank of the ravine.
Makalani’s wavy brown hair trailed behind her like a cape. She hadn’t felt this alive in months, certainly not since returning to Oregon and what she’d believed to be her dream job as a law enforcement ranger at Crater Lake National Park. But the echo of Hawaiʻi had beckoned her home. She had yearned to hear Tūtū chant in the kalo patch as morning sunbeams kissed her face. She craved the feel of the mud between her toes as she dipped her hands into water fed by Anahola Stream. Although protecting the Oregon forests filled her with purpose, caring for her ancestral land nurtured her soul.
Mālama i ka ʻāina, mālama ka ʻāina iā kākou.
Care for the land, the land cares for us.
She accelerated up the next rise of dried grass and colorless terrain.
“How much farther?” she yelled when the father’s three-wheeler pulled alongside.
“I can’t tell,” he yelled back. “It looks different going uphill.”
When John Tanton had skidded into the Pu‘ukoholā Heiau National Historic Site’s management resources station, he was frantic and too dehydrated to speak. After chugging half a bottle of water, he had pointed toward the mountains and said, “The ground ate my son.” More water and a tank of gas later, Makalani had pieced together the events.
Mr. Tanton had taken his ten-year-old son, Corey, off-road to try out his new youth ATV when the ground gave way and the boy fell into a hole. The stone mason at the station suspected the boy had fallen into a lava tube. Rather than wait for first responders to arrive, Makalani had grabbed her gear and hopped on the station’s sole utility quad.
Should she have asked permission first? Definitely. Would it have been granted? Absolutely not.
Seasonal interpretive rangers gave presentations, led tours, and interacted with visitors. They did not jet off on search and rescue missions unless the rare emergency took place within the borders of their seventy-seven-acre property, as happened with the Akoni Pula brush fire that came down the coast. The Pu‘ukoholā rangers had to evacuate all the visitors and personnel from their land and assisted first responders to keep the community safe. Although still potentially dangerous, it didn’t compare to the avalanches, forest fires, and cartel drug busts Makalani had encountered while working her Oregon job.
“No such t’ing as small kine jobs, Makalani,” Tūtū had said over the phone when she had complained. “Only small kine people, and we definitely not dat.”
Makalani pointed at the tread marks up ahead and sped into the lead. After three days of mandatory cultural immersion, she could finally do something more significant than study academic texts, open the visitor center, and raise the Hawaiian and national flags. Although she had applied for a transfer to one of the state’s five national parks, the national historic site on the Big Island was the only opening she could find.
Mr. Tanton veered away with a shout and drove down a shallow dip toward a giant hole.
“Wait,” she yelled. If Corey had jumped his ATV off a berm and landed in the dip, the impact could have caused a sinkhole. “This area is compromised. You have to back up.”
He ignored her warning and jumped off his seat. “Corey, it’s Dad. Are you okay?”
“Please, Mr. Tanton. Get back on your vehicle and drive it up here.”
“But my son.”
“I’ll help him, I promise. But if you cause another cave-in, you’ll make my job harder to do.”
He stared into the gaping wound in the earth, then glared back at her.
“Let me help your son.” When he hesitated, she added, “Everything will be fine.”
But as the father did as she asked, she wondered if she had lied. Mauna Kea to the east had not erupted in 4,600 years. Elder Kohala to the north hadn’t erupted in 120,000. None of the transcripts or historical documents she had read for her job had said anything about people falling into lava tubes in South Kohala. The only account she had heard was of a rancher in Ka‘u who had broken through the ceiling of a lava tube and fallen thirty feet with her horse.
If Corey had broken through the top of a fissure instead of a tube, he could be trapped a hundred feet underground.
Hurt. Buried. Trapped.
Makalani jumped off the quad, anchored the wheels with rocks, and brought out the climbing ropes, harness, and carabiner clips she kept with her gear. Having secured one end of the rope to the rear bar, she stepped into the harness and cinched the straps of her backpack into a snug fit. Choosing her footing carefully, she eased down the slope toward the hole. She lay on her belly and army crawled toward the edge. The depth of the cavern swallowed the meager sunlight from above.
“Corey? My name is Makalani Pahukula. I’m a ranger. Can you hear me?”
She pulled a headlamp from the side pocket of her pack, put it on, and shone the light into the hole. Twenty-five, possibly thirty feet below, she saw the electric-green fenders of a youth ATV. She couldn’t see the boy.
“Is he okay?” Mr. Tanton yelled.
Makalani peered into the cavern, searching for some sign that Corey had survived, but it was too dark and obstructed by rocks and roots. She wouldn’t be able to answer him truthfully until she planted her boots on the ground.
“I’m going down. Keep a lookout for first responders. When they arrive, warn them the ground’s unstable.”
She dropped the loop of remaining rope over a smooth rock that wouldn’t chafe it. Then she lowered herself, hand by hand, into the damp, stagnant air. She dangled a moment to take in a sight no human other than Corey—assuming he hadn’t been knocked unconscious—had ever seen. This lava tube was ancient, as if Madame Pele herself had coursed through the earth in a fiery rage.
I can do this. Focus on the details. Ignore everything else.
The cavern was roughly two car lengths across and deep. Stalactites hung from the ceiling where drips of lava had hardened into shiny spikes. Long shrub roots broke through the rock and descended several feet into the space.
Aside from lavasicles and roots, the ceiling swirled with glossy remnants of pāhoehoe lava. Unlike the more common ‘a‘ā lava that burned hot and moved quickly in chunky avalanches across the land, pāhoehoe flowed like a river and dried in smooth, ropy patterns when the magma on top crusted and met the cooler air. Kept hot by the insulation, pāhoehoe continued toflow in a channel under the surface, hardening along the sides and bottom into what would eventually form a tube.
Makalani rotated her headlamp. Corey had fallen into a cavernous bulge that entered on one side and forked into two smaller tubes.
She climbed farther down the rope, watching above her as the ceiling
of the cavern expanded and tons of rock and earth closed her in.
So much rock.
Dirt floated like snow flurries onto her face. She wiped it away and took a steadying breath.
Sweat beaded on her forehead.
Somewhere in the darkness below, a boy was trapped, possibly injured and definitely—hopefully—afraid.
Move, Makalani. Move!
She breathed in through her nose and exhaled slowly through pursed lips to calm her nerves and oxygenate her blood.
Unlike mines and other man-made tunnels, lava tubes and caverns were not airtight. Roots broke through the rock. Water seeped. Streams flowed. Insects and animals burrowed. Microbial mats flourished above geothermal vents. And with the cave-in, fresh air would circulate from above.
She took a deep breath.
See? More than enough air.
She uncoiled her ankle from the rope and continued her descent until her feet touched rock and the sky tightened into a discouraging disk. Just out of reach, Corey’s ATV had pummeled nose down, crunching the frame and scattering shards of electric-green fenders on the rocky floor. She stepped out of her harness and swept her headlamp in a full circle, stopping when she found a crumpled figure in white riding gear, his electric-green helmet cracked and askew.
She hurried to his side. “Corey, can you hear me?”
His breath and pulse were weak.
“My name is Makalani. I’m a ranger.”
He moaned in pain.
“Where do you hurt?”
When he didn’t answer, she gently removed the broken outer shell of his helmet. The padded interior frame was intact. Blood had caked on his cheekbone where the rim of the helmet had hit. No blood flowed from his ears or his nose.
He moaned louder, then rasped in pain.
Although iron-rich dirt dusted his white armored jacket and pants, she didn’t see any punctures or tears. She unzipped his jacket. No sign of blood. She raised his T-shirt and frowned. His abdomen was distended and bruised, indicative of internal bleeding from the impact.
She stretched him on his back, tucked a Mylar blanket around him for warmth, and rolled her jacket around the broken helmet to elevate his legs. To avoid aggravating whatever damage he suffered internally, she didn’t offer him water. The boy needed immediate medical attention. There was nothing else she could do.
She shouted up to the sky. “Mr. Tanton, can you hear me? Any sign of help?”
“Not yet. Is Corey okay? Can I see him? I’m coming down.”
“No. Stay on the rise. The ground could collapse again if you come into the bowl.”
She looked from the dangling rope and harness to Corey. He needed to be moved more carefully than her simple harness would allow, not to mention the likelihood of knocking him against the lava if she tried to pull him out. Corey needed to be evacuated on a medevac litter. But even if a search and rescue helicopter arrived in time and lowered a medevac litter from directly above, the wind and natural movements of the chopper would still make Corey swing.
She stared up at the jagged outcroppings of lava as the all-too-familiar icy dread of failure crept toward her heart.
They won’t be able to save him.
She had to find another way to carry him out.
CHAPTER T WO
Larry Hiapo loosened his reins so his mare could stretch her neck down to taste the kikuyu grass around his favorite wiliwili tree. He and ‘Opihi hadn’t ventured this way up the mountain since he passed the daily ranch operations to his sons. It felt good to be alone on the upland plateau, big sky overhead, and the ‘ōhi‘a lehua forest embracing the highest end of his ranch like a hug. Trees buffered most of the wind except for the trade winds coming up over the ravine.
Maikaʻi kēia, he thought. This is good.
Fine rain sprayed into his face. Although tourists and many other locals preferred Kona’s dry heat or Hilo’s humid warmth, Larry enjoyed his crisp Kohala Mountain air. The high plateau was cold compared to the temperate lower plains and arid steppe down to the west coast. To Larry’s great fortune, Hiapo Ranch cut through them all, from the highest ridge down to the sea.
He rubbed his horse’s neck, then looked up from under the brim of his hat at the overcast sky. A rainbow emerged above the sea cliffs below. Since it did not touch the land, his people called this kind of rainbow ala moku, meaning broken path.
Larry loved the poetically specific names that described a thing’s purpose or how it looked or felt upon the skin. Some Hawaiian words drew context from a legend, an area, or a beloved person who had lived or died nearby. Was it a rain that roared with laughter, or one that pierced the eyes? Did it fall in Mānoa Valley on O‘ahu, or on the Hilo side of Hawai‘I when the nehu fish ran up the streams? Or was it the fine spray that had now dissipated into a rainbow-hued mist? ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i had a bounty of beautiful words and expression for a language with so few sounds.
He gazed over his ‘āina nui—his abundant land—that went back four generations of Hawaiian cowboys to the first paniolo days. Then and now, his family had cared for the ranch that, in turn, cared for them.
He asked his mare to walk on. When they had crossed the tree-lined plateau and descended into the next pasture, he encouraged her to trot. Although he would have loved to linger on this beautiful day, he was on a mission: One of his nine breeding bulls had drifted from the herd.
He could have let his younger cowboy son, Louie, or another paniolo track down the animal. It wasn’t Larry’s job. Not anymore. But as he told his eldest son, Kenneth, who ran the business end of the ranch, he was still young and only semiretired.
“I give you boys freedom to take care of the ‘āina, but I still handle the reins.”
Kenneth’s jaw had tightened; he didn’t appreciate the reminder that he wasn’t in charge. “Maybe so. But this is an older bull—like you—out there all by himself. He’s going to feel isolated, maybe even scared. He could give you trouble. What then?”
Larry hadn’t liked Kenneth’s tone or the way his eldest son went on about age. “Then I rope um, old-school style, like I did before you could walk. Besides, I remember this pipi laho. He stay plenny calm when he was young, how feisty could he be now?”
Kenneth had snorted as if Larry had been describing himself. Snorted! How could he have raised a son with such disrespect?
“You got something to say? Spit it out.”
Kenneth had backed up like a skittish horse. What a disappointment. At least Louie would have held his ground.
But Kenneth hadn’t given up. “You’re not the only paniolo on the ranch. Why not let Louie and Malu gather this bull? They’re young and strong. It’s their job, not yours.”
“Because I stay sixty-seven, not ninety-seven like your grandfather. I still get plenny cowboy years left.”
Instead of persisting, Kenneth had only shrugged. “Whatever you say, Dad. You’re the boss.”
Larry had walked away smiling, but the satisfaction in his son’s smirk had stuck in his mind.
Why he act so smug when I won the fight?
Larry urged ‘Opihi into a lope. It didn’t matter what any of them thought. He would lead this bull like a puppy back to the ranch and show all the young paniolo how it was done. He might even tighten the reins on ranch business to remind his headstrong sons who was actually in charge. Unlike his father, Larry wouldn’t truly retire until he was dead.
Once below the tree line, his ranch land widened into rolling green plains to include the property his grandfather, Lucky, had purchased from the Reeds, another ranching family from back in the day. Only an old man and his son remained, living behind a barrier of eucalyptus trees on the highest portion of the property their ancestor had chosen to keep.
Larry slowed ‘Opihi to a walk as they drew closer to the gulch. The jagged fissure provided a short but natural border along the upper south side of Hiapo Ranch, then widened and flattened at the mouth. Rainwater collected in the gulch and spread into the pasture for days after a storm. A sturdy woven-wire fence continued the boundary begun by the gulch, keeping Hiapo cattle on their side of the neighbor’s easement down to the road. Although cattle could wander up the shallow mouth of the gulch, they didn’t usually make the effort for the patches of grass and pooled rain when they had lush pastures and troughs of water so easy to reach.
So why was a distressed animal bellowing somewhere below?
“Eh, girl. You think that’s our bull?”
‘Opihi turned her head and gave him the eye.
“Yeah, me too.” He guided her down the side of the gulch, but when she shook her bridle, he loosened the reins and trusted her to pick the best way down. “Okay, okay. No get testy with me. Just be careful, alright? I no like break my neck.”
In horse years, ‘Opihi was the same age as him. If he were being honest with himself, they both should have stayed home.
The bull bellowed again beyond the jagged rocks at the edge of the gulch, sounding frustrated and afraid.
As they progressed downhill, the sight lines increased, revealing a scramble of hoof tracks on the ground between rocks. It was as if the animal had banked up the sides, spun in the middle, then bolted away from the rocky opening and down the grassy hill. It didn’t make sense. Cattle were lazy but smart. They avoided danger and stayed on the easiest terrain, following the paniolo’s call to the next pasture for fresh supplies of water and grass. When droughts dried up the rain and the cisterns were bare, ranchers trucked in barrels of water to replenish the troughs. Breeding bulls lived the cushiest lives of all.
The bellowing continued.
Larry guided ‘Opihi around the rocks, then brought her to a stop. The damn fool bull had fallen into a pit.
He spat in the dirt. “I should have filled it in.”
He hadn’t thought about the ancient bullock pit in decades, not since he discovered it as a young man before marriage, kids, and taking over the ranch. It had been dug more than two centuries ago to catch the cattle King Kamehameha I had allowed to breed wild and out of control. The wet slopes of Waimea offered shady forests with vines and ferns to augment the grass. When the horned menaces tired of that, they ventured into the coastal villages and fields. This pit would have been well placed for the hunters to catch the wild cattle as they drove them out of their forest home through the gulch.
“Is that what happened to you?” Larry asked as the bull turned for another lap. “Auwē, what I do now, ‘Opihi? That laho covers forty-plus cows.”
Charolais were among the largest and heaviest breeds. This one was as pure as they could get, 100 percent, not just the 31/32 Charolais blood in their genetics the USA allowed. As a result, his coat was a creamy white, with no hint of Red Angus or Black Angus to dull the sheen. Or it would have been if the agitated beast wasn’t covered in grime.
The bull raced up and down the length of the rectangular pit and slammed the side of his creamy-white head against a dirt wall. Time and proximity to the water-dumping gulch had eroded the sides and raised the level of the bull’s enclosure with silt. Even so, the man-made pit was too deep and slanted for the heavy animal to escape. His hooves had already churned the upland slope where he had most likely slipped after bolting out of the gulch.
“We gotta do something.” He rubbed his horse’s neck. “Whatchu think, girl?”
‘Opihi snuffled in assent.
Larry nodded. It would seal his retirement if he went home for help. Louie—or was it Malu?—had practically goaded him into chasing this bull.
Practically, or had?
Larry couldn’t remember when or why he had insisted on doing this alone, only that it had become a matter of pride.
“We may be old, but I’m still paniolo, and you still one of the best
cow horses we get.”
With that pronouncement, Larry unfastened the rawhide lariat from his saddle. He had made this kaula ‘ili from cow hides he had cured, cut, and braided himself. Holding the coils in his left hand along with the reins, he extended the loop with his right. It had been many years since he and ‘Opihi had roped a cow. Longer for a bull. Longer still for one as agitated as this. Domesticated bulls were not prone to aggression unless startled, threatened, or otherwise afraid. This one had scared himself into a frenzy and needed to be calmed.
‘Opihi shifted nervously.
“Easy, girl.”
He twirled the kaula ‘ili loop overhead and tossed it while the bull pawed at the dirt. The loop settled loosely over the short, rounded-down horns, tips cut to lessen the damage they could cause. When the bull tossed his dirt-stained head, Larry tugged the loop tight around the neck. Rather than initiate a battle of wills, Larry gave the animal time to calm before he began the patient give-and-take that would eventually coax the bull up the eroded side of the pit.
‘Opihi shifted nervously on the grass. Neither one of them was still
in their prime.
“Give him time, girl. This laho will calm down when he stops being scared. Noho mālie,” he commanded, but she wouldn’t be still.
A loud crack startled them both.
Gunfire? Backfire?
The bull leaped into the air and landed with a yank.
Larry’s lariat arm seared with pain.
Am I shot?
It all happened so fast, he couldn’t tell what had happened first.
The Charolais jumped and spun, tossing his head to free himself from the loop, but the rope flipped around his eyes and irritated him even more. He lowered his horns and charged the dirt wall beneath Larry and his horse.
The ground shook from the impact.
‘Opihi reared.
Larry leaned forward and loosened the reins so she wouldn’t flip. At the same time, he tried to coil in some of the slack. But as ‘Opihi’s front legs descended, the bull tangled the rawhide in his horns and yanked the tightened lariat. The coil caught in a half hitch around Larry’s wrist. ‘Opihi’s forward momentum did the rest.
As Larry slid off the saddle into the pit, his boot caught in the stirrup and pulled ‘Opihi sideways toward the edge of the dirt slope. For one horrifying moment, Larry stretched in the air from wrist to boot, caught in a tug-of-war between the dangerous bull and the frantic scrambling horse.
He looked behind him at ‘Opihi and saw a man standing far beyond her on the bed of a truck. Larry recognized him immediately.
Why?
Then his boot slipped off his foot, and he slingshotted toward the bull’s curved-down horns.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tori Eldridge is the author of Kaua‘i Storm, the Lily Wong ninja thrillers, and Dance Among the Flames. Born in Honolulu—of Hawaiian, Chinese, and Norwegian descent—Tori graduated from Punahou School with classmate Barack Obama before performing as an actress, singer, and dancer on Broadway, television, and film, and earning a fifth-degree black belt in To-Shin Do ninja martial arts. Her literary works have garnered Anthony, Lefty, and Macavity Award nominations and the 2021 Crimson Scribe for Best Book of the Year. Tori lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband, near her precious mo‘opuna (grandchildren), where she narrated the audiobooks for Hawai‘i Rage and other Ranger Makalani Pahukula mysteries. For more information about Tori, her book club extras, and her reading ‘ohana, visit www.torieldridge.com.
