“Completely,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Remember—let them talk themselves into a corner first.”
Ellis appeared from the back of the house. “The others arrived through the service entrance. They’re set up in the dining room as you requested.”
I nodded appreciation. “Perfect timing.”
The doorbell rang, and Ellis moved to answer it with the practiced deference of a caretaker who knew his role in this carefully choreographed performance.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I heard him greet them. “Mrs. Mitchell and Miss Jenna are expecting you. This way, please.”
They entered with the easy entitlement of men accustomed to controlling rooms.
Robert led, followed by Alan with his ever-present legal portfolio, and David bringing up the rear. Behind them walked a silver-haired man in an expensive suit who radiated corporate authority.
“Catherine.” Robert nodded, his smile not reaching his eyes. “We appreciate you agreeing to this meeting. This is Harrison Wells, CEO of Northern Extraction. We thought it might be productive to have an industry expert join our discussion about the property’s potential.”
So they’d brought an oil executive to intimidate me with technical jargon and market valuations.
Predictable.
“How thoughtful,” I replied pleasantly. “I’ve had the dining room prepared for our meeting. Shall we?”
I led them through the house, noting their assessing glances at the renovations Joshua had completed. In the formal dining room, a large table had been set with documents at each place, water carafes and coffee service—the picture of professional preparation.
“Please sit,” I gestured. “I believe we have much to discuss.”
As they settled into their chairs, expressions of confidence still firmly in place, I remained standing at the head of the table.
“Before we begin,” I said, “I want to thank you for your previous proposal. It was educational.”
Robert’s smile widened, clearly interpreting my comment as submission.
“We’re pleased you’ve had time to consider our offer with Mr. Wells’s expertise. We can discuss the most advantageous arrangement for dividing the property’s assets.”
“Yes,” I mused, picking up a remote control from the table. “Division. That’s precisely what I’d like to discuss.”
I pressed a button, and a hidden screen descended from the ceiling at the far end of the room.
The brothers exchanged surprised glances. Clearly, they hadn’t expected this level of preparation.
“If you’ll direct your attention to the presentation,” I continued, clicking the remote again.
A detailed map of Maple Creek Farm appeared on the screen, showing property boundaries, topographical features, and geological formations.
“This is the complete survey of Maple Creek,” I explained. “All 2,200 acres—not just the eastern 800 acres mentioned in your proposal.”
Alan shifted uncomfortably. “The western section is undevelopable rocky terrain. We excluded it for simplicity’s sake.”
“How considerate,” I smiled. “Except for one small detail.”
Another click, and the map overlaid with oil deposit locations—the complete geological survey from Joshua’s war room, showing the massive reserve beneath the “worthless” western acres.
Harrison Wells straightened in his chair, professional mask slipping as he leaned forward to study the projection with sudden, intense interest.
“As you can see,” I continued calmly, “the primary oil deposit extends predominantly beneath the western section—the acres you so generously offered to exclude from our fair division.”
Robert’s face flushed. “These surveys are unreliable. Northern Extraction’s analysis indicates—”
“Actually,” interrupted a new voice as the connecting door opened, “those surveys have been verified by three independent geological teams.”
The Mitchell brothers turned in shock as Thomas Reeves, CEO of Western Plains Energy—Northern Extraction’s primary competitor—entered the room, followed by my attorney and two individuals in business attire.
“What is this?” Robert demanded, half-rising from his chair.
“This,” I said pleasantly, “is a meeting about the true value and future of Maple Creek Farm. Mr. Reeves has expressed significant interest in the property’s potential, particularly after reviewing the complete geological data my husband compiled.”
Harrison Wells shot a betrayed glance at the Mitchell brothers. “You told me you had exclusive negotiating rights to this property.”
“They don’t,” my attorney interjected smoothly, placing additional documents on the table. “Mrs. Mitchell holds clear, uncontested title to the entire property, including all mineral rights. The documents you’ve been shown by the Mitchell brothers have no legal standing whatsoever.”
Robert slammed his hand on the table. “This property has been in the Mitchell family for generations. Joshua had a moral obligation—”
“Moral obligations,” Jenna spoke for the first time, her voice steady despite her white-knuckled grip on her water glass, “like the moral obligation you had to my father when you stole his inheritance, copied his name onto borrowing paperwork, or threatened to implicate him in your financial crimes if he exposed you.”
The brothers froze, color draining from their faces.
“What exactly is she talking about?” Harrison Wells asked, looking increasingly uncomfortable.
“Perhaps these will clarify matters,” I said, nodding to my attorney, who distributed sealed envelopes to everyone at the table. “Copies of documentation my husband preserved regarding certain historical transactions involving Mitchell family assets. I believe the statute of limitations has expired on some of these matters, but the Canadian financial regulatory authorities might still find others quite interesting.”
Alan opened his envelope, scanning the contents with increasing alarm.
“These are private family matters,” he sputtered, “completely irrelevant to the current discussion.”
“On the contrary,” I countered, finally taking my seat at the head of the table, “they establish a pattern of fraudulent behavior that directly impacts your credibility in these negotiations—behavior that continued when you deliberately misled Mr. Wells about your standing to negotiate for this property.”
The room fell silent as the Mitchell brothers realized the completeness of their exposure.
Joshua had documented everything: their historical crimes against him, their recent manipulations, their attempts to seize valuable assets while appearing generous.
“What do you want?” Robert finally asked, his confident facade crumbling.
“I want you to leave Maple Creek Farm and never return,” I stated simply. “I want you to cease all attempts to contest my ownership or manipulate my daughter. In exchange, these documents remain private—viewable only by the people in this room.”
Harrison Wells stood abruptly. “I believe my company’s involvement in this matter has been based on incomplete and potentially fraudulent information. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Mitchell, I’ll be in touch directly regarding any future discussions of mineral rights.”
He shot a disgusted look at the brothers before exiting.
Robert’s expression hardened as he watched his oil company ally depart. “You have no idea what you’re doing, Catherine. The extraction costs for the western section are prohibitive. The logistics alone—”
“Actually,” Thomas Reeves interjected, “Western Plains has developed new extraction technology specifically suited to these geological formations. We’re prepared to make Mrs. Mitchell an offer that acknowledges both the challenges and the exceptional potential of this property.”
As the meeting continued—transforming from the Mitchell brothers’ planned takeover into my carefully orchestrated counteroffensive—I caught Jenna’s eye across the table. Her slight smile conveyed everything: pride, vindication, and the bittersweet acknowledgment that Joshua had prepared us for this moment, even from beyond the grave.
By the time the Mitchell brothers departed two hours later, defeated, exposed, and legally bound by the settlement agreement my attorney had prepared in advance, the future of Maple Creek Farm had been secured exactly as Joshua had envisioned—not divided among greedy relatives, not sold to the highest bidder, but preserved as a legacy for the family he had chosen and loved: Jenna and me.
As their vehicles disappeared down the driveway, Ellis appeared at my side.
“Your husband would be proud,” he said quietly. “You outmaneuvered them exactly as he believed you would.”
I watched the dust settle on the driveway, a strange mix of emotions washing through me: triumph tinged with grief, strength emerging from vulnerability.
“We’re not finished yet,” I replied, thinking of the videos still waiting on Joshua’s laptop, the future stretching before us. “This was just the first battle.”
But it was a battle we had decisively won—using weapons Joshua had meticulously prepared, and the strength he had always seen in me, even when I couldn’t see it in myself.
The weeks following the Mitchell brothers’ defeat passed in a blur of practical matters: legal documents finalizing our settlement agreement, meetings with Western Plains Energy to structure a mutually beneficial extraction arrangement, and careful inventory of everything Joshua had created at Maple Creek Farm.
Jenna stayed with me through it all, her initial resentment about her father’s secrets transforming into appreciation for his foresight.
We established a routine of watching his daily videos together each morning, both of us finding comfort and guidance in his posthumous presence.
“Did you have any idea?” Jenna asked one evening as we sat on the porch watching the sun set behind the western hills that contained our newfound wealth. “Any suspicion at all that Dad was sick or planning all this?”
I considered the question carefully, searching my memories for missed signals.
