PART 3 — THE MAN WHO THOUGHT HE COULD COLLECT HER

Silas Crowe entered the cabin without waiting for an invitation.

He removed his gloves, glanced at the fire, and then looked at Josephine again.

“Well,” he said. “Your father wasn’t exaggerating. You’re certainly a strong-looking young woman.”

Josephine felt the familiar heat rise in her cheeks.

Harlan moved between them.

“You’ll address her respectfully.”

Crowe gave a thin smile.

“Still playing protector, are you?”

“Say what you came to say.”

Crowe placed a leather folder on the table.

“Your father signed an agreement. He owes me money, and he offered the girl as part of the settlement.”

Josephine’s stomach тιԍнтened.

“I’m not part of anyone’s settlement.”

Crowe turned toward her.

“Your father seems to disagree.”

“My father doesn’t own me.”

For a moment, Crowe looked amused.

Then he turned back to Harlan.

“You paid twenty dollars and two horses. That was a generous offer. But the agreement included more than the marriage arrangement.”

Harlan’s expression remained cold.

“You have no claim on Josephine.”

“Perhaps not. But I have a claim against her father’s property.”

“Her mother’s property,” Harlan corrected. “And the deed says it belongs to Josephine.”

Crowe’s smile disappeared.

“Where did you get that information?”

“From the lawyer who handles the estate.”

Crowe closed his folder.

“Then you understand the situation. Your bride’s father has left you both with a considerable problem.”

Josephine stepped forward.

“I’m not his bride because my father signed a paper.”

Crowe looked at her.

“Then perhaps you’d like to explain to the sheriff why you left your father’s home with a man you barely knew.”

Harlan’s voice became dangerously quiet.

“Don’t threaten her.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s a practical observation.”

Crowe picked up his gloves.

“I’ll return in three days. By then, I expect the deed to be transferred. If it isn’t, I’ll take the matter to court.”

He walked out.

Harlan watched him ride away.

Josephine stood beside the table, trying to steady her breathing.

“Can he really take the land?”

“No,” Harlan said. “Not if the deed is valid.”

“But he thinks he can.”

“He thinks fear makes people easier to control.”

Josephine looked at the paper in her hand.

“He’s right about one thing. My father has left us a problem.”

Harlan shook his head.

“He left you a problem. You don’t have to solve it alone.”

The next morning, they rode to Red Creek.

Harlan took the mountain trail slowly so Josephine would not have to endure a rough journey. When they reached town, he brought her directly to the office of Mr. Pembroke, the solicitor who had handled her mother’s estate.

The lawyer was an elderly man with round spectacles and a habit of tapping his pen against the desk.

He listened carefully as Josephine explained the situation.

Then he opened a large ledger.

“Your mother left the property to you, Miss Josephine. The deed was registered before her death. Your father had no authority to sell it.”

“Can Crowe claim it because of the money my father owes him?”

“No.”

The lawyer removed a document from a drawer.

“Your mother also placed a condition on the property. It cannot be transferred without your personal signature.”

Josephine exhaled.

“So the land is still mine?”

“It is.”

“And what about the cottage?”

“Still yours.”

The words seemed too wonderful to believe.

Josephine looked at Harlan.

For the first time, she saw something like relief in his face.

But Mr. Pembroke was not finished.

“There is another matter. Your mother left a sealed letter to be given to you when you reached adulthood. It arrived here last week.”

He placed an envelope on the desk.

Josephine recognized the handwriting.

Her mother’s.

She opened it carefully.

My dearest Josephine,

If you are reading this, then you are old enough to decide what kind of life you want.

I know your father has often made you feel that you are difficult to love. I want you to know that this was never true.

Your body is not a debt. Your kindness is not a weakness. And your future is not something another person can sell.

The cottage and orchard are yours. I saved enough money to repair the roof, plant new trees, and give you a chance to begin again.

But there is one more thing.

Your father does not know that I left a second deed with Mr. Pembroke. It concerns the small mill beside the creek. I purchased it years ago because I dreamed of opening a bakery there.

I wanted you to have the choice of making that dream your own.

Josephine stopped reading.

A bakery.

Her mother had dreamed of a bakery.

She looked at the lawyer.

“Where is the mill?”

“About two miles from your mother’s cottage. It’s been closed for several years, but the building remains.”

Josephine pressed the letter against her chest.

For years, she had believed her only value was what someone else could get in exchange for her.

Now she had a home, an orchard, and a chance to build something with her own hands.

But there was still one question.

“Why did you wait until now to tell me?”

Mr. Pembroke looked uncomfortable.

“Your father collected the earlier letters sent to your home. I had no idea he had kept them from you.”

Josephine closed her eyes.

Another truth.

Another thing stolen.

Harlan placed his hand on the back of the chair, not touching her.

“What do you want to do now?” he asked.

Josephine looked out the office window.

She could return to the cottage. She could repair the mill. She could live independently, without owing anyone her graтιтude.

For the first time, the decision was entirely hers.

“I want to see the bakery,” she said.

Harlan nodded.

“Then we’ll go.”

The old mill stood beside a narrow creek, surrounded by overgrown grᴀss and wild apple trees.

Its windows were dusty, and one side of the roof needed repair. But the stone walls were strong, and the wooden sign above the entrance still carried a faded painted name.

COLETTE’S BAKERY.

Josephine climbed down from the wagon.

Her hands trembled as she touched the sign.

Her mother had planned this.

She had imagined this place.

Perhaps she had pictured Josephine standing in the doorway, flour on her apron, warm bread cooling on the shelves.

Josephine stepped inside.

The air smelled of old wood and dust.

There was a large oven against the back wall. A worktable stood beneath the window. On a shelf, a row of empty glᴀss jars remained untouched.

Then she noticed a small drawer beneath the counter.

Inside lay a notebook.

Her mother’s recipe book.

Josephine opened it.

The first page carried a sentence written in familiar handwriting.

For my daughter, who will make this place brighter than I ever could.

Tears filled her eyes.

Harlan stood quietly behind her.

“You don’t have to decide today,” he said.

Josephine turned.

“I know.”

She looked around the room again.

“But I think I know what I want.”

He waited.

“I want to open it.”

Harlan nodded.

“Then I’ll help you repair the roof.”

Josephine smiled.

“Only if you let me pay you.”

A faint smile crossed his face.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They returned to the cabin just before sunset.

A rider was waiting outside.

It was Harlan’s neighbor, Amos, holding a folded telegram.

“Came from the sheriff,” he said. “Thought you’d want it straightaway.”

Harlan opened it.

His expression changed as he read.

“What is it?” Josephine asked.

He handed her the telegram.

The sheriff had discovered that Silas Crowe’s agreement with her father was not the only document in question.

A second paper had been filed in the county office.

It claimed Josephine had voluntarily signed away her mother’s inheritance before leaving St. Louis.

But Josephine had never signed anything.

She looked at Harlan.

“Someone forged my name.”

He nodded.

“And the sheriff believes the document was witnessed by a man who says he saw you sign it.”

“Who?”

Harlan took the telegram back and read the final line.

His jaw тιԍнтened.

The witness was the preacher who brought Josephine to the mountain cabin.

And he was expected in Red Creek the following morning.