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.

“Yes,” I said. “He really did.”

Jenna gave a small, incredulous laugh and wiped at one eye. “He always said people underestimated you.”

I looked at her.

“He did?”

“All the time.” She smiled despite herself. “Said underneath the whole calm-English-teacher thing was a strategic mind that could outthink most executives if properly annoyed.”

For the first time since his death, I laughed without guilt.

The attorney Joshua had lined up in Alberta arrived the next day: a woman named Maren Bell, mid-forties, sharp-boned, impeccably direct, and blessedly uninterested in theatrics. She read through the blue folder, the war room files, and the settlement proposal the brothers had drafted.

When she looked up, something like admiration touched her expression.

“Your husband,” she said, “did not leave loose ends.”

“No,” I said. “He never did.”

“Then I suggest we honor that.”

We set the meeting for three days later.

Ten a.m. sharp.

Maple Creek Farm.