Mail-Order Bride With Secret Fortune Arrives to Burnt Homestead—Rebuilds With One-Armed Blacksmith

Chapter 7

The Liberty Creek Bank occupied a false-fronted building that aspired to grandeur through brass fixtures and polished wood, though nothing could disguise the Montana dust that crept through every crack. Abigail entered on a Tuesday morning, dressed in her most conservative Philadelphia suit and carrying a small leather portfolio.

Lawrence Preston looked up from his desk, surprise flickering across his features before transforming into practiced charm. “Miss Thornton! What a pleasant surprise. Please, have a seat.”

Abigail settled into the chair across from him, posture erect, hands folded calmly in her lap. “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Mr. Preston.”

“Always happy to assist a lady, particularly one new to our community.” Preston’s smile was all teeth. “How may the bank be of service?”

“I’d like to open an account.” Abigail withdrew a bank draft from her portfolio. “Five hundred dollars to start.”

Preston’s eyebrows rose as he examined the draft—Philadelphia Merchant’s Bank, properly executed, made out to Abigail Thornton. “This is quite substantial. Will you be receiving additional funds?”

“Perhaps. My father left me a modest inheritance. I’m considering investing in property here in Montana.”

“Property.” Preston’s interest sharpened visibly. “What sort of property?”

“I’m exploring options.” Abigail kept her expression neutral. “I understand the Pearson Ranch will be auctioned for back taxes?”

“Indeed, yes. September fifteenth, assuming the tax debt remains unpaid.” Preston leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Although I must caution you, Miss Thornton—that property would be a significant undertaking for anyone, let alone a woman alone.”

“I appreciate your concern. Nevertheless, I’d like to understand the process. If someone were to pay the back taxes before the auction, what would that accomplish?”

Preston’s expression shifted subtly, calculation replacing charm. “Back taxes total two hundred eighty-seven dollars. Paying them would prevent the auction, yes. However, the property would still need to pass through probate. As chairman of the probate committee, I can tell you that process typically takes six to eight months, during which time the county would need to identify rightful heirs.”

“And if no heirs came forward?”

“The property would eventually be sold, with proceeds going to settle the estate.” Preston smiled. “Of course, someone who had already invested in the property by paying its back taxes would naturally have a strong position when that sale occurred.”

Abigail absorbed this information, recognizing the careful dance they were performing. Preston wanted the Pearson Ranch for himself. Her sudden interest represented competition he hadn’t anticipated.

“I see. That’s very helpful, Mr. Preston. Thank you.”

“Of course, there are other properties in the area that might suit a lady’s circumstances better.” Preston opened a drawer, withdrawing several documents. “I have listings for a small house in town, very respectable. And there’s a shop space on Main Street that might be converted to living quarters—”

“The Pearson property specifically interests me,” Abigail interrupted gently. “The location is appealing.”

“Miss Thornton.” Preston’s tone shifted, becoming almost paternal. “I feel obligated to speak plainly. The Pearson Ranch is five miles from town, isolated, with a burned main house and significant repairs needed. For a woman alone, particularly one unaccustomed to frontier life, such an undertaking would be… inadvisable.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Abigail replied, her voice level. “Nevertheless, I’d like to proceed with opening the account today. And I’ll need information on how to pay property taxes to the county.”

Preston’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Certainly. I’ll prepare the account paperwork.” He paused. “Might I ask if you’re working with anyone on this potential property investment? Legal counsel, perhaps, or a business advisor?”

The question was casual, but Abigail recognized the probing beneath it. Preston wanted to know if she had allies, resources, expertise.

“I’m consulting with individuals familiar with local circumstances,” she said vaguely. “But the investment would be mine alone.”

After completing the account paperwork and receiving her deposit book, Abigail left the bank with the distinct impression that she’d just declared war. Preston’s affable mask had slipped several times, revealing the calculating businessman beneath.

She found Ezra Sullivan waiting with his wagon outside the general store, as planned. He took in her expression as she climbed up beside him.

“Preston give you trouble?”

“Not trouble, exactly. But I think he’s realized I’m serious about acquiring the property.” Abigail arranged her skirts. “He wants that land badly.”

“Water rights,” Sullivan said again. “Control the water, control the ranches that depend on it. Preston’s building an empire, one property at a time.”

“Then we’ll have to outmaneuver him.”

Sullivan glanced at her, something like approval in his eyes. “You’re tougher than you look, Miss Thornton.”

“I’ve had to be.” Abigail surprised herself with the admission. “My father’s business partner tried to force me into marriage to get control of… of what my father left me. I didn’t come all this way to let another man take what’s mine.”

“Understood.” Sullivan clicked to his horses. “There’s someone you should meet. Fellow named Josiah Hendricks—served as county clerk before retiring last year. He knows probate law better than anyone, and he’s got no love for Preston.”

“Would he be willing to help?”

“If I ask him, yes. Josiah owes me favors going back years.”

As they drove toward the Pearson property—her property, Abigail was beginning to think—she felt pieces aligning. She had resources Preston didn’t know about. She had Ezra Sullivan’s unexpected alliance. And she had the advantage of being underestimated, something she’d learned to use to her benefit in Philadelphia.

Let Lawrence Preston see a naive eastern woman in over her head. Let him believe she was easy prey.

He would learn otherwise.

But as the burned ranch came into view, Abigail felt a flutter of apprehension. She was gambling everything on this place—her money, her future, her freedom. If she failed, if Preston outmaneuvered her, she would have nowhere left to run.

The thought both terrified and exhilarated her.

For the first time since her father’s death, Abigail Thornton was fighting for something that was entirely her own.