My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

Joshua’s expression shifted. Hardened.

“My brothers will come for it,” he said. “They never wanted that property until oil was discovered nearby. Then suddenly family history became sacred.”

A humorless laugh escaped me. Even dead, he was still right on time.

“In the bottom drawer of this desk,” he continued, “there’s a blue folder. Every deed, transfer, bank record, survey, and notarized statement you’ll need. I made sure the title path was clean. The farm is yours. Entirely yours.”

Another vehicle appeared on the drive then, blue lights flickering across the afternoon. An RCMP cruiser.

My stomach dropped.

The brothers had escalated.

Joshua’s voice softened again, and in that contrast lay the thing he had always done to me best: he could move from warfare to tenderness in a single breath.

“In the stables,” he said, “you’ll find six horses. Every breed you ever admired aloud when you thought I wasn’t listening. The staff know what to do. Whether you keep them or not is your choice. Everything here is your choice now. That matters.”

I stared at him through tears.

The video ended on his face frozen mid-smile.

Then came a knock at the door different from the others. Official. Controlled.