PART 4 — THE SIGNATURE THAT WAS NEVER HERS
PART 4 — THE SIGNATURE THAT WAS NEVER HERS
Josephine read the telegram twice.
The words did not change.
The preacher who had stood beside her on the day she was sent into the mountains—the man who had called her marriage a blessing—had supposedly witnessed her surrendering the inheritance her mother left behind.
“I never signed anything,” she said.
“I believe you,” Harlan replied.
His answer came so quickly that Josephine looked up.
“You don’t even know what the paper says.”
“I know you.”
She wanted to believe him. But the fear that had followed her from St. Louis was beginning to return.
“What if the sheriff believes the preacher?”
“Then we show him the truth.”
Harlan reached for his coat, then paused.
“Josephine, I need you to understand something. I can stand beside you. I can help you find the documents. But I won’t decide what happens to your life.”
She studied him.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because someone should have said it to you a long time ago.”
The next morning, they rode toward Red Creek.
The snow had softened overnight, and the trail wound between tall pines whose branches sagged beneath the white weight. Josephine sat beside Harlan in the wagon, holding her mother’s letter inside her coat.
For the first time, she was not traveling because someone had ordered her to go.
She was traveling because she wanted answers.
At the county office, Sheriff Bell was waiting with Mr. Pembroke, the solicitor who had handled her mother’s estate.
The sheriff laid a folded document on the desk.
“This is the paper filed three weeks ago,” he explained. “It states that you voluntarily transferred your inheritance to Silas Crowe.”
Josephine stared at the signature.
It looked like hers.
The same sweeping J. The same small curl at the end of her surname.
But the signature was not hers.
“My father’s handwriting is on the witness line,” she whispered.
Pembroke adjusted his spectacles.
“Your father claims you signed it in his home before leaving St. Louis.”
“I never saw this document.”
Sheriff Bell looked toward the door.
“Reverend Miller is on his way. He says he can confirm it.”
Harlan stood beside Josephine, silent but attentive.
A few minutes later, the preacher entered.
He looked older than Josephine remembered. His coat was damp, and his eyes avoided hers.
“Miss Josephine,” he said, “I’m sorry this has become so complicated.”
“Did you see me sign this paper?”
The preacher swallowed.
“I remember your father asking you to sign some documents.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
His gaze moved to Harlan.
“I don’t believe this is the place—”
“It is exactly the place,” Josephine said.
Her voice trembled, but she did not stop.
“Did you see me sign away my mother’s home?”
The preacher’s hands тιԍнтened around his hat.
“I was told the document was necessary.”
“By whom?”
He hesitated.
Then he looked at Sheriff Bell.
“Silas Crowe.”
The room became still.
The sheriff leaned forward.
“Are you saying Crowe instructed you to witness a document you did not see signed?”
The preacher’s face had gone pale.
“I’m saying he brought it to me after the ceremony. He told me Josephine had already signed it. He asked me to confirm that I had witnessed the signature.”
Josephine felt a chill pᴀss through her.
“Why did you agree?”
The preacher lowered his eyes.
“Your father owed him money. Crowe said the family would lose everything if I refused.”
“That was my mother’s land,” Josephine said. “It was meant for me.”
“I know.”
“No,” she whispered. “You didn’t know. You never asked me.”
The preacher had no answer.
Sheriff Bell took the document and placed it in a separate folder.
“This will be investigated. Until then, no transfer of the property will be recognized.”
Josephine exhaled slowly.
But Pembroke was still studying the paper.
“There’s something else,” he said.
He pointed to a small mark near the bottom of the page.
“This document was filed using a seal from the St. Louis probate office. That seal should not have been available to Crowe.”
Harlan’s expression hardened.
“Who had access to it?”
Pembroke looked at Josephine.
“Your father.”
Before she could respond, the office door opened again.
A young clerk rushed inside, carrying a second envelope.
“Sheriff,” he said breathlessly. “This was delivered for Miss Turner. The messenger said it was urgent.”
Josephine recognized the handwriting on the front.
Her father’s.
She opened it with unsteady fingers.
Inside was a single sentence:
If you want to know why Harlan Creek chose you, ask him what happened to your mother’s last visitor.
Josephine slowly lifted her eyes.
Harlan had gone completely still.
And for the first time since she arrived at the cabin, he looked afraid.
