Chapter 2 - The Will That Should Not Exist
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Jonathan Vale had the lean appearance of a man who spent more time in courtrooms than corrals. Snow lay across the shoulders of his navy coat, and his leather case appeared old enough to have crossed half the territory.
Clara stared at him.
“You told me my mother’s will was valid.”
“The will you were shown was.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying it was not the only one.”
Ethan stood beside her.
His size made Jonathan glance up twice before settling his attention on Clara again.
Sheriff Reeves pointed toward his office.
“Inside.”
They entered.
Ethan ducked beneath the doorframe.
A coal stove glowed in one corner.
Clara stood beside a desk while Jonathan opened the black case.
Silas remained outside.
The sheriff had made sure of that.
Jonathan withdrew a document wrapped in oilcloth.
“I represented your mother before she died.”
“I know.”
“She changed her will six months before her death.”
Clara frowned.
“My father said her health was too poor.”
“It was weak. Her mind wasn’t.”
Jonathan placed the document on the desk.
Clara recognized the signature immediately.
Margaret Whitmore.
Her mother.
The sight of it nearly broke her composure.
“What changed?”
Jonathan hesitated.
“The company.”
Ethan watched Clara’s fingers tremble.
Jonathan continued.
“Your mother became suspicious of several debts your father had accumulated without informing her.”
“My father?”
“Railroad speculation. Mining claims. Private loans.”
Clara shook her head.
“My father hated speculation.”
“Apparently not always.”
Jonathan looked toward Ethan.
“There were also land transactions involving Cole Ranch.”
Ethan’s expression darkened.
“My ranch?”
“Your father’s ranch originally.”
Ethan stepped closer.
“My father never dealt with Whitmore except for the north-range lease.”
“That’s what you were told.”
Jonathan slid another paper forward.
The name at the bottom stopped Ethan’s breath.
Samuel Cole.
His father.
Dead eight years.
Ethan picked it up.
It described a partnership.
Samuel Cole and Margaret Whitmore had jointly purchased the northern range twenty years earlier.
Ethan read it twice.
“This can’t be right.”
Jonathan said nothing.
“My father would’ve told me.”
“Perhaps he intended to.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“I don’t know.”
Clara leaned closer.
“What does this mean?”
Jonathan pointed to one paragraph.
“If authentic, half the north range belongs to the Cole estate.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“Then Whitmore never had the right to sell all of it.”
“Correct.”
The sheriff folded his arms.
“Who knew?”
Jonathan looked at Clara.
“Margaret.”
“My mother is dead.”
“And Samuel Cole.”
“Dead,” Ethan said.
“Your father, apparently.”
Clara whispered, “And you.”
Jonathan nodded.
The sheriff’s gaze sharpened.
“Anybody else?”
Jonathan hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Thomas Whitmore.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Her father.
Ethan looked at her.
He wanted to touch her shoulder.
He did not.
Not after accusing her in the street.
Doctor Hale entered without knocking.
Clara spun around.
“My father?”
“He’s awake.”
She rushed toward the door.
The doctor stopped her.
“He’s confused.”
“What happened?”
“Blow to the back of the head.”
“Was he attacked?”
“Almost certainly.”
Clara’s face whitened.
Ethan spoke.
“Can she see him?”
“For a few minutes.”
They crossed to the Whitmore house.
Thomas Whitmore lay in his study on a sofa.
He was sixty-one, thick silver hair disordered, skin gray beneath the lamplight.
When Clara entered, he tried to rise.
“Stay down.”
“Clara.”
She knelt beside him.
“Father, who did this?”
Thomas looked past her.
His eyes found Ethan.
Something unreadable moved across his face.
“Cole.”
Ethan stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Whitmore.”
Thomas tried again to sit.
Doctor Hale pushed him gently back.
“The papers.”
Clara’s breath caught.
“What papers?”
“The safe.”
“Someone took them.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
Silence.
Then Clara asked, “Was it Jonathan?”
His eyes opened.
“No.”
“Silas?”
Thomas did not answer.
That was answer enough.
Clara sat back.
“You were going to sell Ethan’s land to him.”
Thomas looked away.
“It was business.”
“It wasn’t yours to sell.”
His gaze snapped back.
“What?”
Jonathan entered.
Thomas saw the black case.
Fear appeared instantly.
“No.”
Clara looked between them.
“You knew about Mother’s second will.”
“No.”
Jonathan said, “Thomas.”
“I said no.”
“You signed as witness to the partnership agreement.”
Thomas’s face collapsed.
Ethan stepped into the room.
“Did my father own half that land?”
Thomas stared at him.
“He believed he did.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“Ethan,” Clara said softly.
He forced himself to stay still.
Thomas rubbed one hand across his forehead.
“Samuel was a proud man.”
“So am I.”
“Yes.”
Thomas gave a bitter little laugh.
“That is exactly the problem.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed.
Thomas looked toward the window.
“Your father borrowed money after the winter of ’76.”
Ethan remembered.
He had been twenty-two.
Nearly half their cattle had died.
Samuel had rebuilt somehow.
“He borrowed from Margaret?”
“Yes.”
“And gave her the land?”
“No. He gave her a security interest.”
Jonathan frowned.
“That isn’t in the agreement.”
“Because the agreement was rewritten.”
“By whom?”
Thomas stared at the ceiling.
“Me.”
Clara stood.
“Father.”
“I needed the company.”
“What did you do?”
“When Samuel died, Margaret wanted the north range returned fully to Ethan.”
Ethan’s hands curled.
Thomas continued.
“I refused.”
“You stole it.”
“I protected my family.”
“You stole it.”
“I was trying to keep Whitmore Holdings solvent!”
Clara stared at her father as if seeing a stranger.
Thomas’s voice rose.
“You think money simply remains because your name is printed on a building? Your mother inherited land. I built an empire.”
“With stolen property?”
Thomas closed his mouth.
Clara turned away.
Ethan felt something inside him go cold.
For eight years he had paid Thomas Whitmore to graze cattle on land that may already have belonged to him.
Thomas looked toward Ethan.
“I intended to make it right.”
“When?”
“Eventually.”
“My father died believing he failed me.”
Thomas flinched.
That told Ethan something else.
“You knew that.”
Thomas said nothing.
“You knew he thought he had lost the land.”
“I couldn’t help what Samuel believed.”
Ethan crossed the room.
The sheriff stepped between them.
Ethan stopped.
He had never wanted to strike an old man.
He still didn’t.
But he had never understood violence so clearly.
Clara turned.
“Ethan, please.”
Her voice brought him back.
He stepped away.
Jonathan cleared his throat.
“There’s more.”
Everyone looked at him.
He unfolded the second will.
“Margaret did not simply transfer two percent of Thomas’s voting rights upon Clara’s marriage.”
Clara frowned.
“What else?”
“She included a condition.”
Thomas whispered, “Don’t.”
Jonathan continued.
“If Clara married before her twenty-eighth birthday, control transferred immediately.”
Clara’s birthday was in three weeks.
Ethan understood.
“And if she didn’t?”
Jonathan looked at her.
“Thomas retained permanent control.”
Clara’s expression hardened.
“So Father arranged my marriage to Silas before my birthday.”
Thomas protested.
“It was a suitable match.”
“You were selling me control of Mother’s company.”
“No.”
“You were making sure my husband was someone you could control.”
Thomas’s silence confirmed it.
Clara paced away.
Ethan watched her shoulders shake.
Now her proposal made more sense.
And somehow hurt more.
She had been cornered.
Silas was closing in.
Her father was betraying her.
She needed a husband.
She had chosen Ethan because she trusted him.
But trust was not love.
Ethan had learned not to confuse gratitude with desire.
He turned toward the door.
Clara noticed.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Ethan.”
He stopped.
She crossed the room.
“I meant what I said.”
“About saving the ranch?”
“About marrying you.”
He looked down.
“Why me?”
“I told you.”
“That answer sounds good in front of a crowd.”
Her face changed.
“Do you think I pity you?”
“I think you’re desperate.”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised him.
Clara stepped closer.
“I am desperate. My father tried to sell my future. Silas thinks he can own me. Somebody attacked Father. Someone stole documents from that safe. And in three weeks I lose the only power my mother left me.”
Ethan said nothing.
“But desperation tells you who you trust when there isn’t time to lie to yourself.”
Her eyes held his.
“I came to you.”
He swallowed.
Clara lowered her voice.
“I did not choose the tallest man in Montana because he frightened everyone else.”
A faint flicker crossed Ethan’s face.
“I chose the man who spent ten years pretending he didn’t know I watched for him every time he rode into town.”
He stared.
Clara’s cheeks flushed.
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“You barely spoke to me.”
“Because every time I tried, you found a reason to leave.”
Ethan looked away.
She smiled sadly.
“You thought I was uncomfortable.”
“You were.”
“I was nervous.”
“Same thing.”
“Not remotely.”
A knock interrupted them.
Deputy Morris entered.
“Sheriff.”
Reeves turned.
“What?”
“We found blood behind the house.”
Thomas stiffened.
The sheriff noticed.
“Whose?”
“Don’t know.”
“Trail?”
“Leads toward the livery.”
Ethan reached for his coat.
Clara followed.
Outside, evening had begun darkening the snow.
They crossed behind the Whitmore residence.
A stain marked the white ground.
Several drops.
Then more.
Ethan crouched.
“Horse tracks.”
The sheriff nodded.
“One rider.”
The trail led to the livery barn.
Inside, horses shifted nervously.
A lantern hung near the entrance.
The blood trail continued between two stalls.
Ethan moved first.
The sheriff drew his revolver.
Clara stayed behind him despite his gesture telling her not to.
They reached the final stall.
Empty.
Except for a torn piece of gray cloth caught on a nail.
Clara picked it up.
Her expression changed.
“You recognize it?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
She looked toward the loft.
“Silas wore a gray waistcoat yesterday.”
A board creaked overhead.
Ethan looked up.
“Someone’s here.”
The sheriff raised his gun.
“Come down.”
No answer.
Another creak.
Then something heavy struck the loft floor.
Clara flinched.
Ethan climbed the ladder.
He reached the top.
Stopped.
“What is it?” Clara called.
Ethan stared into the darkness.
A man lay unconscious beside an open travel trunk.
It was not Silas.
Jonathan climbed halfway up behind Ethan.
He saw the man’s face.
Then whispered, “Dear God.”
Clara called again.
“Who is it?”
Jonathan looked down at her.
May you like
“It’s the witness who signed your mother’s real will.”
And his throat had been cut.
