Struggling Widower Saves A Lone Survivor Of A Wagon Massacre, Unaware She’s A Wealthy Baroness

Chapter 8

Josiah Hendricks lived in a tidy cabin on the outskirts of Liberty Creek, surrounded by meticulously maintained flower beds that suggested someone with time and care to invest in beauty. He emerged as Sullivan’s wagon approached—a slight man with wire-rimmed spectacles and snow-white hair, moving with the careful precision of someone whose body had begun to betray him.

“Ezra!” Hendricks’s face lit with genuine pleasure. “It’s been too long. And you’ve brought a visitor.”

“Miss Abigail Thornton, this is Josiah Hendricks. Smartest man I know when it comes to Montana law.”

Hendricks gestured them inside, where shelves lined with law books competed for space with more volumes on botany, history, and philosophy. This was a scholar’s retreat, unexpected in the rough Montana territory.

Over tea and cookies that Hendricks insisted on serving, Abigail explained her situation—edited for safety but essentially truthful. She’d come west expecting marriage, found deception instead, and now wanted to establish herself independently by acquiring the Pearson property.

“Preston’s trying to steal it through the tax auction,” Sullivan added. “Already told Miss Thornton there’s no heir, which is technically true but deliberately misleading.”

Hendricks nodded thoughtfully, fingers steepled. “Lawrence Preston is a clever man and a ruthless one. He’s acquired seven properties in the last three years through similar tactics—manipulating probate proceedings, pressuring widows, exploiting legal technicalities.” He paused. “But he’s not infallible.”

“What would you advise?” Abigail leaned forward.

“First, pay the back taxes immediately. That prevents the auction and establishes you as a creditor of the estate—someone with financial interest in how it’s settled.” Hendricks rose and retrieved a law book from his shelf, flipping to a marked page. “Montana territorial law allows creditors to petition for estate administration. If you pay the taxes, you can petition to be appointed administrator.”

“Would the probate committee approve that?”

“If properly presented, yes. Preston chairs the committee, but he doesn’t control it absolutely. Judge Morrison and Reverend Thatcher are the other members, and both are honest men.” Hendricks smiled slightly. “They’re also aware of Preston’s schemes, even if they can’t always counter them.”

“So I pay the taxes, petition to administer the estate, and then…” Abigail trailed off, working through the implications.

“And then you negotiate directly with the actual heir—the second cousin in Ohio. Offer to buy the property at a fair price. Most eastern relatives are happy to sell Montana land they’ll never see for cash they can use immediately.” Hendricks pushed his spectacles up. “Preston’s been counting on that heir’s disinterest to let the property go to auction, where he planned to be the only significant bidder.”

“This could work,” Sullivan said slowly. “If Miss Thornton moves fast enough.”

“There’s risk,” Hendricks warned. “Preston will fight you through every legal means available. He’ll challenge your petition, question your qualifications as administrator, possibly even investigate your background looking for leverage.”

Abigail’s blood chilled. Her background was exactly what she couldn’t afford to have investigated—not if it meant Victor Caldwell learning her location.

“What kind of investigation?” she asked carefully.

“Nothing too invasive, typically. He’d want to establish your financial credibility, make sure you’re not judgment-proof. Can you demonstrate sufficient assets to be taken seriously?”

“I have five hundred dollars on deposit at Preston’s bank.” Abigail chose her words carefully. “And access to additional funds if necessary.”

It was technically true. She had access to thirty thousand dollars. She simply didn’t want Preston—or anyone—knowing that.

Hendricks studied her over his spectacles with the shrewd assessment of someone who’d spent decades reading people. “You’re keeping secrets, Miss Thornton. That’s your right. But understand that secrets can become vulnerabilities if your opponent discovers them.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Hendricks closed the law book. “Then here’s what you do. Tomorrow, pay the back taxes at the county assessor’s office. Get a receipt. File your petition to administer the estate with the probate clerk—I’ll help you draft it. And start writing to the Ohio cousin. His name is Harold Pearson, and I have his address in my files.”

“What should I offer him?”

“Jacob’s property was worth about fifteen hundred dollars before the fire. After?” Hendricks shrugged. “Maybe eight hundred, given the damage. Offer Harold a thousand dollars cash. He’ll likely jump at it.”

A thousand dollars. It would take a significant portion of her revealed resources, but she’d still have the bulk of her fortune hidden. And she’d have land, a home, a future built on solid foundation rather than deception.

“I’ll do it,” Abigail said.

As Sullivan drove her back to the ranch, the sun was beginning its descent, painting the hills in shades of amber and rose. The landscape had become familiar now, no longer alien but something approaching home.

“You’re sure about this?” Sullivan asked. “Once you start down this path, Preston will make you his enemy.”

“He was going to be my enemy regardless.” Abigail watched the play of light across the valley. “At least this way I’m fighting for something worth having.”

“The land means that much to you?”

“The land. The independence. The life I can build here.” She glanced at Sullivan. “In Philadelphia, I was my father’s daughter, then Victor Caldwell’s intended property. Here, I can be myself—whatever that turns out to be.”

Sullivan nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”

They rode in comfortable silence until the ranch came into view. Home, Abigail thought. Not yet, perhaps. But becoming home with each day she invested in its soil and structures.

“Thank you,” she said as Sullivan helped her down from the wagon. “For introducing me to Josiah. For helping me.”

“Haven’t done much.”

“You’ve done more than you know.” Abigail smiled. “I’ll need to go into town tomorrow to pay the taxes. Would you—”

“I’ll drive you,” Sullivan interrupted. “First thing in the morning.”

After he’d departed, Abigail stood in the doorway of her little cabin, watching stars emerge one by one in the darkening sky. She thought of Philadelphia’s gaslit streets, of her father’s deathbed, of Victor Caldwell’s threats disguised as proposals.

She thought of Thomas Fletcher’s carefully crafted lies that had brought her across the continent.

And she thought of the future stretching ahead—uncertain, challenging, but entirely her own.

Tomorrow she would take the first real step toward claiming it.