"I was scared. I thought if Morrison knew about it, he'd kill us for certain. But it's all there. dates, times, witnesses, even even what he did to Mama. "Where is it? " Jake asked gently. "Hidden in our old house, in the root cellar behind a loose stone. " Catherine's hands twisted in her lap.
I used to write in it every night to keep myself sane. Jake and Rose exchanged glances. Their old ranch was two days ride in the heart of Morrison's territory. But that journal could be the difference between justice and Morrison walking free. I'll go, Jake said.
Not alone. Rose immediately protested. Your arm is fine. She glared at him. We do this together or not at all.
In the end, they all went. Sheriff Thompson provided two deputies as escort, understanding the journal's importance. The journey was tense. Every rider on the horizon a potential threat. But they reached the abandoned ranch without incident.
The place was a ruin. Morrison had burned the main house, leaving only blackened timbers and memories. The barn still stood, and beside it, the entrance to the root cellar. Catherine led them down into the musty darkness, counting stones along the wall. Here, she whispered, working a stone loose.
Behind it, wrapped in oil cloth, was a leather-bound journal, pages covered with her neat handwriting. Jake lit a lantern and read a few entries. His jaw tightening. The systematic harassment, the escalating threats, the final horrible night. It was all there in painful detail.
This changes everything. One of the deputies breathed. This is evidence of a pattern going back years. They returned to town to find chaos. Morrison's lawyers had been busy spreading rumors that the sisters were fortune hunters who'd seduced and murdered Morrison's foremen for his money.
A mob had gathered outside the courthouse, and not all of them supported the sisters. "Whores! " someone shouted as their wagon passed. Jake's hand went to his gun, but Margaret touched his arm. "Don't. That's what they want to provoke us into violence. " They made it into the courthouse where Judge Watson reviewed the journal with growing anger.
"This is damning," he said. "But Morrison's lawyers will claim it's fabricated. We need corroborating witnesses. " "I know some," Catherine said quietly. Other women, Morrison bothered. "They might speak up now that he's in jail. " Over the next days, a stream of people came forward.
The widow Thompson, whose husband had died mysteriously after refusing to sell water rights. The Martinez family, run off their land by Morrison's men, Sarah Palmer, who still bore scars from Morrison's attentions. The journal gave them courage, and their testimonies painted a picture of a man who terrorized the county for years. The trial began on a hot morning. The courthouse packed to capacity.
Morrison sat at the defendant's table. well-dressed and confident despite his chains. His lawyers, three of them from the capital, looked like predators ready to strike. Jake sat with the sisters in the gallery, feeling their tension. Rose's hand found his, squeezing tight as the prosecutor began laying out the case. The journal was entered into evidence, each damning entry read aloud.