“I wanted to live fully with you until the end, not slowly die in front of you.”
Shock and anger surged through me. He’d hidden his diagnosis, made medical decisions without me, denied me the chance to prepare—to cherish our final moments knowingly.
“I know you’re angry right now,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “You have every right to be. But I hope you’ll understand that I made this choice out of love, not deception.”
Outside, the men were making phone calls now, pacing the gravel drive with the frustrated energy of thwarted entitlement.
“When I got my diagnosis, I decided to use whatever time I had left to create something meaningful for you. You always loved horses, always talked about having land someday where you could raise them.”
He leaned closer to the camera.
“So I found the last place anyone would expect me to go—the farm I’d fled at eighteen, vowing never to return.”
“What my brothers don’t know is that I legally bought the farm from our father before he died. The old man was broke after years of failed schemes, drinking away the family money. He sold it to me for a fraction of its worth, desperate for cash—swearing me to secrecy from my brothers, who still thought they would inherit it someday.”
This explained the legal challenge. They believed they had rights to property that Joshua had legitimately purchased.
“The farm was in ruins when I bought it, Cat—just like when I was a kid. But this time, I had the resources to transform it. Every business trip in the last three years, I was here overseeing renovations, building something for you.”
Outside, the brothers had approached the door again. This time, the oldest, Robert, held a document against the window for me to see—a court order of some kind.
“My brothers will come for it,” Joshua continued in the video, his expression hardening. “They never wanted the farm until last year when oil was discovered in the region. Suddenly, the worthless property they’d mocked me for buying was valuable. They’ll try everything to take it from you.”
One of the brothers was on the phone again, his expression triumphant as he ended the call.
“In the bottom drawer of this desk is a blue folder with every legal document you need. The farm is unquestionably yours. I made sure of it.”
Joshua’s face softened again.
“But, Cat, whether you keep it or sell it is entirely your choice. I built this place for you, filled it with beauty for you, but I don’t want it to become a burden.”
A vehicle was coming up the driveway—a police cruiser with Royal Canadian Mounted Police markings. The brothers watched its approach with satisfied expressions.
“One last thing,” Joshua said. “In the stables, you’ll find six horses—all breeds you’ve admired over the years. The staff I’ve hired will continue caring for them whether you’re here or not. They’re my last gift to you, along with the means to enjoy them.”
The video ended, freezing on Joshua’s smiling face.
Knocking resumed at the door, more authoritative this time.
“Mrs. Mitchell. RCMP. We need you to open the door, please.”
With a deep breath, I closed the laptop, retrieved the blue folder from the drawer, and went to face whatever came next.
As I reached for the door handle, my phone rang.
Jenna—our daughter—calling from home.
I hesitated, then answered. “Jenna, now’s not a good time.”
“Mom.” Her voice was tight with anger. “Why didn’t you tell me about Dad’s farm or the oil? His brothers just called me offering a fair settlement if I help them contest the will. What the hell is going on?”
So they’d reached out to my daughter already. The realization ignited something protective and fierce within me. They weren’t just coming after me. They were trying to manipulate my grieving daughter.
“I’ll explain everything later,” I promised, watching the police officer exchange words with the brothers. “But Jenna—don’t agree to anything. Don’t agree to anything. These men are not our friends.”
“Mom, if there’s money involved—”
“This isn’t about money,” I interrupted, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. “This is about what your father wanted. Please trust me on this.”
After a moment of silence, she sighed. “Fine. But call me back as soon as you can.”
I hung up and opened the door to face a young RCMP officer flanked by three Mitchell men whose expressions ranged from smug to openly hostile.
“Mrs. Mitchell, I’m Constable Wilson. These gentlemen have a court order requesting an inspection of the property as part of an ongoing estate dispute.”
I smiled calmly, channeling the strength Joshua had always admired in me. “Of course, Constable—but first, I think you should see these.”
I held out the blue folder containing Joshua’s documentation. My husband anticipated this exact situation.
The oldest brother, Robert, stepped forward with a dismissive wave. “Family property disputes are complicated, Constable. My sister-in-law is understandably emotional and confused.”
“Actually,” I interrupted, “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 to the officer. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d review these documents before allowing anyone onto my property.”
The constable took the folder, his expression neutral, as he began examining the contents.
The Mitchell brothers exchanged glances, their confidence visibly wavering for the first time.
I thought of Joshua’s video, of the secret he’d kept to spare me and Jenna unnecessary pain, of the magnificent gift he’d created 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 from the documents. His expression changed.
“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 with anger. “This is outrageous. That woman has no right—”
“That woman,” I interjected calmly, “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 sense of both loss and discovery. The husband I thought I knew completely had kept secrets—some painful, others breathtakingly beautiful.
Now I faced a choice: retreat to the safety of my familiar life, or step fully into this unexpected legacy and the battle that came with it.
I closed the door, walked back to the desk, and opened the laptop again. Tomorrow’s video awaited, and with it more pieces of the man I had loved—and was only now beginning to fully 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 churning with revelations: Joshua’s hidden illness, the transformed farm, his brothers’ determination to claim it, and the hundreds of video messages awaiting me on the laptop.
At dawn, I explored the property properly for the first time.
The main house was a masterpiece of restoration, blending original farmhouse elements with modern comforts. 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 pastures, 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 the spotless stalls: an Andalusian, a Friesian, two Quarter Horses, a Thoroughbred, and a gentle Appaloosa that nickerd 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 replied, extending my hand—though I suspected he already knew that.
He nodded, a gentle smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Mr. Mitchell spoke of you often during his visits. Said you had a natural way with horses that he never managed to acquire.”
“You knew my husband well.”
Ellis hesitated, as well as he allowed anyone to know him. “I suppose. 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 like Joshua—methodical, hands-on, attentive to detail.
“The black Friesian there,” Ellis continued, nodding toward a magnificent stallion watching us with intelligent eyes. “That’s Midnight. Your husband spent months tracking him down specifically. 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’d admired it at a museum twenty years ago, and Joshua had remembered.
“Did he?” I hesitated, unsure how to frame the question. “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 features to the property—like a man racing against a clock only he could see.”
The confirmation stung, but also explained the driven quality I’d sensed in Joshua during his final months. I’d attributed it to work stress, never imagining he was creating all this while knowing his time was limited.
“His brothers were here yesterday,” I said, watching Ellis’s reaction carefully.
His expression hardened. “They’ve been circling since the 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. Alan’s the middle one—lawyer, slick talker. And David’s the youngest—followed Robert into finance, always in his shadow.”
“And their relationship with Joshua?”
“Strained doesn’t begin to cover it. From what I gathered, they tormented him as a child—city boys who visited the farm reluctantly, looking down on him for staying to help your father-in-law run the place.”
Ellis shook his head. “When Joshua returned to buy the property, they mocked him for wasting money on worthless land—right up until the Petersons struck oil two properties over.”
This aligned with the fragments Joshua had shared over the years: his difficult childhood, his escape to the United States for college, his reluctance to discuss his Canadian family.
“They’ll be back,” I said, more to myself than to Ellis.
“Count on it,” he nodded grimly. “But Mr. Mitchell prepared for that. He was always three steps ahead.”
Back at the house, I forced myself to eat breakfast before opening the laptop for today’s video.
Joshua appeared on screen, seated in what I now recognized as the farm’s library.
