Abigail looked toward Rachel.
Her sister stepped forward.
"Then we make sure he can't."
The room quieted.
Rachel had always been the fiercest of the Whitmore sisters.
She spoke quickly, argued passionately, and rarely concealed her anger.
But now her voice was controlled.
Almost cold.
"My father was murdered because he refused to surrender our land."
She looked toward the crowd.
"Deputy Samuel Price was murdered because he tried to protect us."
A man near the door lowered his head.
Rachel continued.
"And Daniel Mercer's home was burned because he gave three women shelter during a storm."
A shocked murmur spread through the church.
Rachel's voice rose.
"How many more homes must burn?"
Nobody answered.
"How many more people must die?"
Still silence.
Rachel looked toward the windows.
"Voss thinks fear belongs to him."
She turned back.
"But fear doesn't belong to anyone."
She drew a breath.
"And neither does this town."
A voice called from the rear.
"She's right!"
Margaret Henderson stood.
"My husband died believing he'd failed our family because he couldn't save our farm."
Tears streamed down her face.
"But he didn't fail us."
She looked toward Abigail.
"Men like Voss failed him."
Several women nodded.
A farmer rose.
Then another.
Within moments, people were standing throughout the church.
Reverend Collins raised both hands.
"Friends, please. We must remain peaceful."
Rachel nodded.
"Yes."
She looked at the crowd.
"We're not asking anyone to start a gunfight."
A man shouted, "Then what do we do?"
Abigail stepped forward again.
"We organize."
She looked toward Benjamin Carter.
"Mr. Carter, can you prepare a written statement for the territorial governor?"
The printer nodded.
"Yes."
"Reverend Collins, can the church serve as a meeting place?"
"Of course."
"Mrs. Henderson, can you help gather the names of families whose land was taken?"
Margaret nodded.
"I already know most of them."
Abigail looked toward the railroad workers.
"Can you send word to the neighboring towns?"
One of them stepped forward.
"We can."
She nodded.
"Then we begin."
The room filled with conversation.
For the first time in years, people were not whispering about what Voss might do.
They were discussing what they could do together.
But outside the church, another man was listening.
Sheriff Nathaniel Crowe stood beneath the shade of an old elm tree.
He had arrived quietly, without deputies.
His hat was pulled low.
He had heard Abigail's speech.
He had heard Rachel's accusations.
And he had heard Margaret Henderson speak about her husband.
Every word had cut deeper than he expected.
Crowe looked toward the courthouse.
The building had once represented everything he believed in.
Justice.
Order.
Protection.
Now it stood as a monument to his cowardice.
He had spent four years telling himself that his choices were necessary.
That he had no alternative.
That protecting Emily justified whatever Voss demanded.
But Samuel Price was dead.
Thomas Whitmore was dead.
Daniel Mercer was being hunted.
And the town he had sworn to protect was rising against him.
Crowe removed his hat.
He looked at the silver star pinned to his vest.
Then he slowly unfastened it.
For a moment, he held it in his palm.
He remembered the day he first received it.
Samuel Price had been there.
The young deputy had smiled and said, "You'll make this county proud, Sheriff."
Crowe closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Sam."
A voice spoke behind him.
"You ought to be."
Crowe turned.
Martha Bellamy stood near the church door.
Her expression was hard.
"Martha."
She folded her arms.
"Nathaniel."
He looked away.
"I suppose you've come to tell me what a disgrace I am."
Martha stepped closer.
"Would it help?"
Crowe said nothing.
She studied his face.
He looked older than he had the last time she saw him.
Tired.
Defeated.
And frightened.
Martha's expression softened slightly.
"Where's Emily?"
Crowe went still.
"What?"
"Your daughter."
He stared at her.
"She's dead."
Martha shook her head.
"No."
Crowe's face drained of color.
"What are you talking about?"
Martha lowered her voice.
"Joseph's nephew works at the freight depot. He saw a girl matching Emily's description boarding a private railcar last spring."
Crowe stared.
"That's impossible."
"Is it?"
He took a step backward.
"Voss told me—"
Martha's eyes narrowed.
"Voss told you what?"
Crowe's hands began to tremble.
He looked around.
Then whispered, "Not here."
Martha studied him.
Finally, she nodded.
"Come inside."
They entered a small room behind the church.
Martha closed the door.
Crowe stood beside the window.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he spoke.
"Four years ago, Emily became ill."
Martha listened.
"She had a fever. A terrible one. The doctor said she needed treatment he couldn't provide."
Crowe swallowed.
"Voss offered to send her to a specialist in Denver."
Martha's expression hardened.
"He paid for the journey?"
Crowe nodded.
"At first."
"And then?"
"He told me she needed more treatment. That it would be expensive."
Crowe looked down.
"He said he could help if I did a few favors."
Martha closed her eyes.
"Oh, Nathaniel."
Crowe continued.
"At first, it was small things. Ignoring complaints. Delaying investigations. Signing warrants."
His voice broke.
"Then it became worse."
Martha said nothing.
"One day, I told him I was finished."
Crowe looked toward the window.
"He showed me a letter."
"What kind?"
"From Emily."
His hands trembled.
"She begged me to keep helping him. Said she was frightened. Said the men watching her wouldn't let her leave."
Martha felt cold.
Crowe whispered, "He told me if I stopped, I'd never see her again."
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then Martha asked, "Have you seen her since?"
Crowe shook his head.
"No."
"Have you spoken to her?"
"No."
"Then how do you know she's alive?"
He looked at her.
Tears filled his eyes.
"I don't."
Martha stepped closer.
"Nathaniel."
He lowered his head.
"I've done terrible things."
"Yes."
The honesty struck him.
Martha continued.
"But if your daughter is alive, and Voss is using her to control you, then you have a choice."
Crowe looked up.
"What choice?"
"Keep obeying him."
She paused.
"Or help us find her."
Crowe stared at her.
For four years, he had believed resistance meant losing Emily.
Now, for the first time, he wondered whether obedience had already cost him everything.
He looked toward the silver star in his hand.
Then slowly closed his fingers around it.
"What do you need me to do?"
Martha nodded.