Daniel raised one hand.
“All of it.”
Abigail looked toward Lucy.
The youngest sister was seated near the stove, wrapped in one of Daniel's wool blankets.
She looked exhausted.
But her eyes were clear.
“Show him,” Lucy whispered.
Abigail hesitated.
“Lucy—”
“He saved us.”
“We don't know that yet.”
Lucy looked directly at Daniel.
“Then we need to find out.”
She opened the leather satchel.
Inside were several folded papers, a small silver pocket watch, and a leather-bound notebook.
Lucy carefully placed the notebook on the table.
Daniel stared at it.
Something about the worn brown cover seemed familiar.
He stepped closer.
On the front, pressed into the leather, was a small symbol.
A circle divided by three lines.
Daniel felt the blood drain from his face.
“Where did you get this?”
Abigail frowned.
“It belonged to our father.”
Daniel picked it up.
His hands had begun to tremble.
He opened the first page.
There, written in faded black ink, was a name.
Thomas Whitmore.
Beneath it was another name.
One Daniel had not seen in five years.
Eleanor Mercer.
His wife's name.
The woman who had died in Kansas.
Daniel slowly lowered himself into a chair.
Abigail stared at him.
“Mr. Mercer?”
He did not answer.
He turned another page.
Then another.
His expression changed from confusion to disbelief.
And finally to something much darker.
Because the notebook contained a secret he had buried with his wife.
A secret that should never have reached Colorado.
Daniel looked up at the three sisters.
“Your father,” he said hoarsely, “was he ever in Kansas?”
Abigail nodded.
“Yes. Years ago.”
“Did he know a woman named Eleanor?”
The sisters exchanged startled glances.
Then Abigail whispered:
“She was our mother's sister.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
The room seemed to tilt around him.
For five years, he had believed Eleanor's entire family was dead.
Now three of them were sitting in his kitchen.
And the men who had destroyed his life were riding toward his home.
CHAPTER THREE: THE SECRET ELEANOR LEFT BEHIND
For a long time, nobody spoke.
The only sounds in the kitchen were the crackle of burning wood, the occasional hiss of rain against the window, and the ticking of the clock above the stove.
Daniel Mercer sat with the leather notebook open before him.
His hands rested on either side of it.
He was afraid to touch the pages again.
Afraid that if he did, the words would disappear and he would discover that the entire evening had been some cruel trick played by exhaustion and memory.
Across the table, Abigail watched him carefully.
“You knew our aunt?”
Daniel gave a short, broken laugh.
“Knew her?”
He looked toward the small framed photograph standing on the mantel.
A young woman with dark eyes and a gentle smile stared back at him.
He had kept the photograph there for five years.
Every morning he saw it.
Every night he wished he could stop seeing it.
“She was my wife.”
Lucy lifted a hand to her mouth.
Rachel stared at him.
Abigail seemed unable to breathe.
“Our aunt Eleanor was married?”
Daniel nodded.
“Yes.”
“But Father told us she died unmarried.”
The words struck him harder than he expected.
“Your father said that?”
Abigail nodded.
“He said she had gone east to work as a schoolteacher. That she died during an outbreak of fever.”
Daniel looked down.
“No.”
His voice was barely audible.
“She died in Kansas. In a town called Red Hollow.”
“What happened?” Lucy asked.
Daniel did not answer immediately.
He rose from the table and crossed to the mantel.
He picked up the photograph.
For a moment, he held it with both hands.
“Eleanor was twenty-six when I met her,” he began. “She taught reading and arithmetic to children whose parents couldn't afford proper schooling. She believed every child deserved a chance to learn, whether their father owned a bank or shoveled manure for a living.”
A faint smile touched his face.
“She had a habit of taking in stray animals. Dogs, cats, injured birds. Once she brought home a half-starved coyote pup and insisted we could teach it manners.”
Lucy smiled despite herself.
“Could you?”
“No.”
Daniel looked at the photograph.
“But she tried.”
His smile faded.
“She also had a habit of asking questions people didn't want answered.”
Abigail leaned forward.
“What kind of questions?”
“About land. Money. Missing records. Families who were forced from their homes.”
Rachel frowned.
“That sounds like Father.”
Daniel turned toward her.
“It should.”
He returned to the table.
“Your father and Eleanor were investigating a group of men who had been stealing land across Kansas and Colorado.”
Abigail looked stunned.
“Stealing land?”
“Not with guns. Not at first.”
He opened the notebook again.
“They used forged deeds, false debts, corrupt judges, and fraudulent surveys. They targeted families who didn't understand the law or couldn't afford to challenge it.”
Rachel's face hardened.
“Caleb Voss.”
Daniel nodded slowly.
“He wasn't the only one.”
He turned to a page marked with a thin red ribbon.
Several names had been written in neat columns.
Some had been crossed out.
Others were accompanied by dates, locations, and sums of money.
At the bottom of the page was a single word.
Blackstone.
Abigail stared at it.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know,” Daniel admitted. “Eleanor never told me everything.”
“Why not?”
“Because she thought she was protecting me.”
He looked toward the photograph again.
“She was wrong.”
The wind shook the shutters.
Daniel drew a breath.
“Five years ago, Eleanor discovered evidence connecting several wealthy businessmen to a series of fraudulent land transfers. She planned to take the records to a federal investigator in Denver.”
“What happened?” Lucy whispered.
“She never made it.”
His voice hardened.
“Someone found out.”
He paused.
Then continued.
“One morning, while I was away serving a warrant, three armed men came to our home. Eleanor tried to escape through the back. A neighbor saw her running.”
Daniel stopped.
The memory was as sharp as broken glass.
“She was shot before she reached the street.”
Lucy began to cry.
Abigail covered her mouth.
Even Rachel looked away.
Daniel stared at the notebook.
“I spent two years hunting the men responsible. Found two of them. The third disappeared.”
“Was it Voss?” Rachel asked.
“No. At least, I didn't know his name then.”
“Did you kill the men you found?”
Daniel looked at her.
“Yes.”
The answer was simple.
There was no pride in it.
No satisfaction.
Only weariness.
Rachel swallowed.
“Did it help?”
Daniel shook his head.
“Not a day.”
Silence settled over the room.
Then Abigail reached across the table and gently touched the notebook.
“Our father never told us any of this.”
“Perhaps he thought he was protecting you too.”
“He was always protecting us,” Lucy said.
Abigail nodded.
“He was different after Mother died. More secretive. He kept the cellar locked and sometimes rode into town late at night without explaining where he was going.”
Daniel listened carefully.
“When did your mother die?”
“Seven years ago.”
“And your father?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“How?”
Abigail's expression changed.
“They said he fell from his horse.”
Daniel waited.
“But Father had ridden horses since he was six years old. He knew every trail on our property. And the horse came home without a saddle.”
Daniel's eyes narrowed.
“No saddle?”
“No.”
“Where was his body found?”
“At the bottom of the old quarry road.”
“Who found him?”
“Two men who worked for Voss.”
Daniel sat back.
Rachel spoke bitterly.
“They said it was an accident. The sheriff agreed. They buried Father before we could even ask for another examination.”
“What happened afterward?”
Abigail took a breath.
“Three days after the funeral, Mr. Voss came to the house.”
Daniel said nothing.
“He told us Father owed him money. A great deal of money. He showed us a document with Father's signature, claiming the ranch had been pledged as security for a loan.”
“Was the signature genuine?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”