The marriage papers.
Josephine obtained copies from the county clerk.
There were four.
Not three.
One document granted Edwin Vale authority to negotiate a mineral lease on Josephine’s behalf.
Another attempted to assign future proceeds from the property to a holding company.
Josephine stared at the signatures.
“They’re mine.”
Margaret adjusted her spectacles.
“Were you told what you were signing?”
“No.”
“Were these pages covered?”
“Pike folded them.”
Margaret’s mouth tightened.
“Then we have fraud.”
Josephine felt dizzy.
“Can we stop it?”
“If nothing has been filed.”
A knock came.
The county clerk entered.
Her face answered the question before she spoke.
“Something was filed this morning.”
Josephine stood.
“What?”
“A mineral conveyance.”
“To whom?”
The clerk looked uncomfortable.
“Vale Western Holdings.”
Margaret swore.
Josephine asked, “My father’s company?”
“Registered three weeks ago.”
“Who witnessed the transfer?”
The clerk looked down.
“Preacher Amos Pike.”
Josephine closed her eyes.
Margaret reached for her coat.
“We’re going to the courthouse.”
The confrontation happened before noon.
Edwin Vale was there.
So was Pike.
And three men Josephine had never met, all wearing expensive coats unsuitable for Timber Crossing.
Her father looked startled when she entered with Margaret and Harlan.
Then annoyed.
“Why aren’t you at the ranch?”
Josephine stopped several feet away.
“Hello, Father.”
“Josephine.”
“You sold my land.”
Edwin looked at Harlan.
“You told her.”
Harlan said nothing.
Josephine felt something painful settle into certainty.
“You knew.”
Edwin lowered his voice.
“This is business.”
“It is my property.”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“I know enough not to give it to you.”
He stepped closer.
“Everything I did was for your security.”
Josephine laughed.
People turned.
“My security?”
“You needed a husband.”
“You sold me to one.”
Harlan’s jaw tightened.
Edwin waved dismissively.
“You have a roof.”
Josephine stared at him.
For years, that argument had worked.
Roof.
Food.
Clothing.
Bare survival offered as proof of love.
Not anymore.
“My mother left me that land.”
Edwin’s face hardened.
“Your mother was sentimental.”
“My mother protected me from you.”
Silence.
The words struck.
Edwin’s eyes became cold.
“You ungrateful girl.”
Josephine almost laughed again.
There it was.
The phrase that had controlled her childhood.
Ungrateful.
Josephine stepped closer.
“I cooked for you.”
Edwin frowned.
“I cleaned your house.”
“Josephine—”
“I kept your accounts. I preserved your food. I mended your clothes. I nursed you through influenza. I worked your garden until my hands bled.”
Her voice grew stronger.
“And every time I asked for something that belonged to me, you told me to be grateful.”
Edwin glanced around.
People were watching.
That embarrassed him.
Good.
“Lower your voice.”
“No.”