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“I’ll burn it to the ground before I give it to you.”

His smile chills me.

“Things burn every day, Gracie.”

Joe follows his father from the courtroom.

I stare after them, suddenly certain of two things.

The Jacksons caused my parents’ deaths.

And if I leave my daughters anywhere near Pine Ridge County, they will use my babies to force me to surrender the ranch.

My attorney gathers his papers.

“You should go home and make arrangements.”

“Arrangements with whom? I don’t have anyone.”

“That isn’t my problem.”

He walks away.

I remain in the empty courtroom until Sheriff Miller approaches.

“I’m sorry, Gracie.”

“Can you help me appeal?”

“I’m a sheriff, not a lawyer.”

“You know they framed me.”

“I know.”

“Then do something!”

He glances toward the door before lowering his voice. “Get your girls out of this county tonight.”

A tear rolls down my cheek.

“They have nowhere to go.”

“Do they have a father?”

My breath catches.

For nearly five years, I have kept one worn piece of motel stationery in a box beneath my bed.

Two words are written on it.

Logan Allen.

“I don’t know where he is.”

“Then find him.”

“I don’t even know whether he remembers me.”