It would mean going back. Facing Coleman. Reliving everything. It would mean putting themselves in danger again.
They talked about it for days, weighed the risks against the need for closure, for facing down the man who tried to own them. In the end, they went. The courtroom in Santa Fe was packed. Rhett saw faces he recognized.
Hank from Morrison's Saloon. The old woman from Bitter Creek. People who'd been touched by Coleman's operation in one way or another. He saw Gettys, the auctioneer, sitting in shackles next to Vickers.
He saw Coleman himself, looking older and smaller than Rhett remembered, stripped of his badge and authority and reduced to just another criminal in a cage. When it was Ayah's turn to testify, she walked to the stand with her head high and her voice steady. She told her story without embellishment or emotion. Just facts.
Dates. Names. She described the auction. The holding cell at Fort Karns.
The ledger that proved everything. Coleman's lawyer tried to break her down. Suggested she was lying. That she'd gone willingly.
That the whole thing was a misunderstanding. Ayah looked him dead in the eye and said, "I was bought like livestock, kept in chains, sold to a man who would have worked me to death in a mine. If that's a misunderstanding, then your understanding is broken." The courtroom erupted.
The judge had to call for order. When Rhett testified, he kept it simple. Told the truth about buying Ayah's freedom. About finding the ledger.
About the flood in the canyon that had saved their lives. He didn't mention the supernatural parts. Didn't think anyone would believe them anyway. Coleman's lawyer tried to paint him as a criminal.
A troublemaker. A man with a history of violence. Rhett didn't deny it. "Yeah, I've done things I'm not proud of."
"Stolen. Fought. Ran from the law. But I never sold another human being."
"Never pretended evil was legal just because I could make money from it. So if you want to compare my crimes to his, go ahead. See which one the jury thinks is worse." The verdict came down three days later.
Guilty on all counts. Coleman got 20 years. Vickers got 15. Gettys got 10.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. But it was something. Outside the courthouse, reporters swarmed them, asking questions, wanting statements.
Rhett pushed through them, Ayah's hand tight in his, until they reached the edge of the crowd where Brennan was waiting. "You did well in there," the senator said. "Doesn't feel like we did enough," Ayah replied. "You exposed a system that's been operating in shadow for decades."
"You gave voice to people who had none. That's more than most people do in a lifetime." Brennan smiled. "The farm's still yours if you want it. No strings."