Straight to it.
Henry admired that.
Her uncle sat.
“You misunderstand several transactions.”
“No.”
“I had broad authority—”
“No.”
“You were not involved in the day-to-day management.”
“Because you prevented it.”
The uncle sighed as if addressing a difficult child.
Henry felt anger rising.
Clara noticed.
Her hand touched his sleeve.
A warning.
Not yet.
She placed documents down.
“Warehouse Four.”
The uncle barely glanced.
“Authorized sale.”
“My mother's trust prohibits sale without beneficiary approval.”
“You were unavailable.”
“I lived in your house.”
The uncle's smile disappeared.
Clara placed another sheet.
“Bank transfer.”
Then another.
“Property acquisition under Western Continental Holdings.”
Another.
“Montana water survey.”
This time her uncle looked.
Too quickly.
Henry saw it.
So did Clara.
“That's why,” she said.
The uncle recovered.
“Why what?”
“You didn't simply want the trust.”
He leaned back.
“I have no idea what you're suggesting.”
“You wanted this valley.”
“Clara—”
“You sent men to frighten landowners.”
“No.”
“You had buildings burned.”
“No.”
“You tried to kill us.”
For the first time, the man's composure slipped.
Only slightly.
Enough.
Henry stepped forward.
The uncle looked at him.
“What exactly has my niece told you?”
“Enough.”
“Then you should know she has a history of emotional exaggeration.”
Henry's face went completely still.
Clara felt his arm tighten beneath her hand.
Her uncle continued.
“Her condition has always placed strain upon her health and judgment.”
Henry said quietly, “Choose your next words carefully.”
The uncle smiled.
“Mr. Mercer, you have known her less than a month.”
Henry nodded.
“That was enough.”
Clara turned toward him.
He did not look away from the uncle.
“I've watched her run my household, correct my accounts, plan winter stores, treat injuries, identify forged land schemes, survive a blizzard, and hold a ladder steady while I was on a frozen roof.”
His voice remained calm.
“So if you're about to tell me she's incapable of understanding her own affairs, you're going to need a better story.”
The uncle's smile vanished completely.
Clara stared at Henry.
He continued.
“And if you ever speak about my wife as if she's a problem to be managed again, we'll discover whether her opinion about me punching people has changed.”
Clara whispered, “It has not.”
Henry nodded.
“Thought so.”
Despite everything, she almost laughed.
Her uncle stood.
“You think this is amusing?”
“No,” Clara said.
Then she removed the new will.
“But this might interest you.”
He read.
His face slowly drained of color.
Clara watched.
“If Henry and I die, you inherit nothing.”
The uncle looked up.
“The original trust—”
“Frozen as of this morning.”
His eyes changed.
The mask finally cracked.
“Who authorized that?”
“My attorney.”
“You have no—”
“Federal petition.”
The uncle's mouth closed.