Robert stepped forward with a dismissive wave.
“Family property disputes are complicated, Constable. My sister-in-law is understandably emotional and confused.”
“Actually,” I said, cutting across him, “I’m neither emotional nor confused. I’m a widow standing on property that legally belongs to me, facing three strangers who happen to share my late husband’s DNA.”
I turned back to the constable.
“And I’d appreciate it if you would review these documents before allowing anyone onto my property.”
He took the folder, expression neutral, and began examining its contents. The brothers exchanged glances, their confidence wavering for the first time. I thought of Joshua’s video, of the secret he had kept to spare Jenna and me unnecessary pain, of the extraordinary gift he had built in his final years. Whatever game his brothers were playing, I was determined not to lose the last tangible expression of my husband’s love without a fight.
The constable looked up.
“These appear to be in order, Mrs. Mitchell. A clear deed transfer, properly notarized statements, even certified bank records of the original purchase.”
He turned to the brothers.
“Gentlemen, I don’t see grounds for forcing an inspection today. This appears to be a matter for the civil courts.”
Robert’s face flushed red.
“This is outrageous. That woman has no right—”
“That woman,” I interrupted, perfectly calm, “is Joshua Mitchell’s wife, and I have every right to be here.”
As the brothers reluctantly retreated to their vehicle, followed by the apologetic constable, I felt a strange combination of loss and discovery. The husband I had thought I knew completely had kept secrets, some painful, others breathtakingly beautiful. Now I stood at a crossroads. I could retreat to the safety of my old life, or I could step fully into the legacy he had left me and the battle that came with it.
I closed the door, walked back to the desk, and opened the laptop again. Tomorrow’s video was already waiting, and with it more pieces of the man I had loved and was only now beginning to understand. Outside, the Mitchell brothers might have lost this skirmish, but their expressions as they drove away made one thing abundantly clear. The war for Maple Creek Farm had only just begun.
I spent that night in Joshua’s—no, our—farmhouse, surrounded by the evidence of his secret labor of love. Sleep eluded me. My mind churned with revelations. Joshua’s hidden illness. The transformed farm. His brothers’ determination to claim it. The hundreds of videos waiting on the laptop. At dawn I set out to explore the property properly for the first time.
The main house was a masterpiece of restoration, blending original farmhouse details with modern comfort. Every room reflected thoughtful consideration of my tastes, from the library filled with first editions of my favorite novels to the sunroom overlooking the eastern pasture, perfect for morning coffee. But it was the stables that truly took my breath away.
As promised in Joshua’s video, six magnificent horses occupied spotless stalls. An Andalusian, a Friesian, two Quarter Horses, a Thoroughbred, and a gentle Appaloosa that nickered softly when I approached.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
The voice startled me. A man in his early sixties emerged from the tack room, wiping his hands on a cloth.
“I’m Ellis. Your husband hired me to manage the stables.”
“Catherine Mitchell,” I said, extending my hand. “Though I suspect you already knew that.”
He nodded, a gentle smile creasing the corners of his eyes.
“Mr. Mitchell spoke of you often during his visits. Said you had a natural way with horses he never managed to acquire.”
“You knew my husband well?”
Ellis hesitated.
“As well as he allowed anyone to know him. He was here every month for the past three years, overseeing everything personally. Never delegated a decision if he could make it himself.”
That sounded exactly like Joshua. Methodical. Hands-on. Precise.
“The black Friesian there,” Ellis said, nodding toward a magnificent stallion watching us with intelligent eyes, “that’s Midnight. Your husband spent months tracking him down. Said he reminded him of a horse in a painting you loved.”
My heart clenched. The Stubbs painting of a black horse against a stormy sky. I had admired it in a museum twenty years earlier, and Joshua had remembered.
I hesitated, unsure how to ask what I needed to know.
“Did my husband ever mention his health to you?”
A shadow crossed Ellis’s weathered face.
“Not directly. But these last six months he pushed harder, worked longer hours, added more and more features to the property, like a man racing against a clock only he could see.”
The confirmation stung, but it also explained the driven quality I had sensed in Joshua’s final months. I had blamed work stress. I had never imagined he was here, sick, building all this while he knew his time was running out.
“His brothers were here yesterday,” I said, studying Ellis carefully.
His expression hardened at once.
“They’ve been circling since oil was discovered on neighboring properties. Suddenly very interested in the family farm they hadn’t visited in decades.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
Ellis secured a stall door before answering.
“Robert’s the oldest. Runs some investment firm in Toronto. Always acted like he was doing Joshua a favor by acknowledging him. Allan’s the middle one. Lawyer. Slick talker. David’s the youngest. Followed Robert into finance, always in his shadow. As for their relationship with Joshua… strained doesn’t begin to cover it. From what I gathered, they tormented him as a child. City boys who came to the farm reluctantly and looked down on him for staying to help your father-in-law run the place.”
He shook his head.
“When Joshua came back to buy the property, they mocked him for wasting money on worthless land right up until the Petersons struck oil two properties over.”
It fit the fragments Joshua had shared over the years, his difficult childhood, his flight to the United States for college, his reluctance to speak about his Canadian family.
“They’ll be back,” I murmured.
“Count on it.”
He nodded grimly.
“But Mr. Mitchell prepared for that. He was always three steps ahead.”
Back in the house, I forced myself to eat breakfast before opening the laptop for the day’s video.
Joshua appeared on screen seated in what I now recognized as the library.
“Good morning, Cat. I hope you slept well in our new home.”
He smiled, and I felt that smile like an ache.
“Today I want to show you something special.”
The camera moved as he carried it through the house, down a hallway I had not yet explored, stopping at a locked door.
“This room is for you alone. The key is in the top drawer of the bedside table, the antique silver one with the horse engraving.”
