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.

Because he was dying. Because he was trying to build beauty before the dark closed in. Because he trusted you so little he designed legal redundancies from beyond the grave.

But I could not say any of that yet. Not to them. Not in front of Jenna while her emotions were still pointed in the wrong direction.

Instead I said, “Complicated family history is not evidence of confusion.”

Jenna crossed her arms. “That’s not really an answer.”

Something in me softened then, unexpectedly. Not toward the brothers. Toward her. She looked tired. Too polished. Too fast. Like a child wearing certainty because grief had left her underdressed.

“Maybe not,” I said. “But it’s the only answer you’re getting while they’re standing in my living room.”

Robert’s mask slipped then, if only by half an inch.

“This property is worth tens of millions now. Perhaps more, depending on the survey results. You are a schoolteacher from Minnesota, Catherine. We’re offering to save you from a legal and financial situation that will become unmanageable very quickly.”

There are moments when someone tells you exactly how they see you, and the insult in it is almost secondary to the gift of clarity. A schoolteacher. As if the phrase itself disqualified me from strategy. As if a life spent reading motive and contradiction and buried meaning in text had somehow made me naive rather than dangerous.

I smiled.

“My husband,” I said, “did not spend the last years of his life building this place only to leave it to men who suddenly discovered family values after an oil strike.”

Robert’s expression hardened.

Jenna turned to me with visible frustration. “Why are you being like this?”

Like this. Defensive. Difficult. Emotional. Female. Protective. Inconvenient.

Before I could answer, Ellis appeared in the doorway from the back hall.

“Everything all right, Mrs. Mitchell?”

Robert pivoted toward him with the impatience of a man unaccustomed to staff having names. “This is a family matter.”

“Ellis is employed by me,” I said. “Which makes this his concern too.”

Allan interjected smoothly, “Pending resolution of ownership, employment arrangements may also be subject to review.”

Ellis did not move an inch. “Mr. Mitchell hired me direct and made me promise to look after the place.”

Robert dismissed him with a glance. “We’ll revisit all staffing decisions later.”

I looked from one brother to the next, then at my daughter.