Chapter 5 - The Midpoint Reckoning
The heavy oak doors of the library seemed to shrink as the afternoon light cast long, cold bars across the floor.
Trace stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floorboards. His face was a mask of restrained fury. "A writ of attachment? On what grounds?"
"They claim the marriage certificate from Dust Hollow was improperly filed and that the estate is currently under fraudulent administration," Martha said, wringing her hands in her apron. "Mr. Vance is in the front parlor right now, reading it out loud to the staff. He says the sheriff is here to secure the premises until the Thursday board meeting."
Ria stood slowly. She didn't panic. The cold terror she had felt days ago in her father's freezing cabin had been forged into something harder, sharper.
"He wants to humiliate us," Ria said, her voice steady and clear. "He wants the staff to see us driven out, or at least cornered, before Thursday even arrives."
Trace looked at her, his jaw set. "I'm going out there. I'll throw them off the property myself."
"No," Ria said, placing a firm hand on his arm.
Trace stopped, surprised by the authority in her touch.
"If you use violence," Ria continued, her dark eyes locking onto his, "the sheriff has legal backing to arrest you for resisting an officer of the court. That is exactly what Vance and Mara want. They want you in a jail cell in Santa Fe on Thursday morning so you can't vote at the board meeting."
Trace stared at her, the realization dawning with chilling clarity. "You're right. If I'm locked up, the board votes unanimously to void everything."
"So we don't fight them with fists," Ria said, a fierce, brilliant spark igniting in her eyes. "We fight them with their own rules."
She walked over to the desk, picked up Silas Calder's old leather-bound diary, and tucked it securely beneath her arm. Then she reached down and picked up the thick stack of original land grants and property charters Trace had laid out.
"Come with me, husband," Ria said, her chin held high. "Let's go greet our guests."
When Ria and Trace stepped into the grand parlor, the scene looked like a tableau staged for a courtroom drama.
Mr. Vance stood by the marble fireplace, looking smug and self-important. Next to him stood Sheriff Miller, a broad-shouldered, weary-looking lawman from the county seat who clearly looked uncomfortable being used as a rich man's errand boy. Several household servants hovered nervously near the doorway.
And seated in an armchair by the window, sipping tea as if she owned the world, was Aunt Mara.
"Ah," Mara said, setting her teacup down with a delicate clink. "Look who decided to join us. I trust you've packed your bags, girl?"
Sheriff Miller cleared his throat, tipping his hat slightly toward Trace. "Mister Calder. I'm sorry about this, but I've got a court order signed by Judge Higgins. Until the board reviews the validity of your marriage on Thursday morning, this estate's financial assets and primary residence are placed under temporary receivership managed by Mr. Vance."
Trace stepped forward, his presence filling the room with an intimidating chill, but before he could speak, Ria stepped out from beside him.
She walked right up to the mahogany table where Mr. Vance had laid out his official copies. She didn't look at the lawyer. She looked straight at Sheriff Miller.
"Sheriff," Ria said, her voice ringing clear and authoritative through the silent parlor. "Did Judge Higgins sign that writ based on the standard property clause, or did Mr. Vance present the 1874 corporate charter addendum?"
The sheriff blinked, caught off guard by her directness. "He... he presented the addendum provided by the legal firm."
Ria opened Silas Calder's diary to a specific, bookmarked page and laid it down on the table right next to Vance's documents, alongside a heavy, brass-bound land deed she had pulled from the stack.
"Then Judge Higgins made his decision based on incomplete information," Ria said calmly. "Because Article Twelve of the 1874 charter—signed by Silas Calder himself and witnessed by three territorial magistrates—states that any temporary receivership or board challenge is null and void if the primary heir is actively residing on the property with a recognized spouse unless a formal audit of the lumber mill's tax payments is attached."
Mr. Vance stepped forward, his face draining of color. "That... that clause was superseded by the 1880 revision!"
"Was it?" Ria asked, her dark eyes pinning him to the spot. She tapped the page of Silas Calder's personal journal. "According to Silas Calder's own hand, written two weeks before he died, the 1880 revision was drafted by you, Mr. Vance, but never legally filed with the territorial secretary because my late father refused to sign it."
Silence descended upon the parlor so heavy that the crackle of the fireplace sounded like thunder.
Sheriff Miller looked down at the open diary, then at Vance's sweating face. "Is that true, counselor?"
Vance stammered, his polished composure completely shattering. "That—that's private family correspondence! It has no legal standing—"
"It has the standing of a notarized signature and a registered territorial seal right here on the back page," Ria said smoothly, sliding the original land grant forward. "You brought a court order based on a fake revision, Sheriff. If you execute this writ today, you are enforcing an illegal corporate seizure."
Sheriff Miller slowly pulled off his hat, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. He looked at Trace, then at Mara, and finally at Ria.
"Well," the sheriff muttered, folding the writ of attachment and sliding it into his coat pocket. "If there's an unfiled revision and a disputed signature, that's a matter for a full probate judge, not a county sheriff with a temporary warrant. I can't touch this property today."
Mara stood up from her chair, her face contorted with white-hot fury. "Sheriff! You can't let a backwoods girl bully you with old books—"
"I enforce the law, Mrs. Blackwell, not your family feuds," the sheriff interrupted, turning toward the door. "Good day to you all."
As the sheriff and his deputies filed out of the parlor, Mr. Vance gathered his papers with trembling fingers and hurried out behind them without another word.
Mara stood alone by the fireplace, her chest heaving with suppressed rage. She turned her icy glare onto Ria, the mask of polite society completely gone.
"You think you've won something," Mara hissed, her voice trembling. "Thursday is coming. The board will strip him of everything, and you'll be thrown back into the dirt where you belong."
"Perhaps," Ria said, standing tall beside her husband. "But until Thursday, we are standing right here."
Mara spat out a contemptuous breath, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the room, slamming the heavy library door behind her.
The parlor fell quiet.
Trace let out a slow, breathy laugh, looking down at Ria with a mixture of sheer awe and profound, swelling respect. He reached out, his hand gently taking hers—this time, with no hesitation, and no boundary left uncrossed.
"Where did you learn to read a corporate lawyer like that?" Trace whispered, a grin breaking across his rugged face.
"My father taught me how to read," Ria said softly, looking up into his eyes as the afternoon sun caught the dark braids over her shoulders. "And books taught me that men who shout the loudest are usually hiding the biggest lies."
Trace lifted her hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles, the distance between them vanishing entirely.
May you like
"Thursday is going to be a bloodbath," Trace murmured, his voice softening.
"Good," Ria replied, her grip tightening on his hand as the first real battle lines of their marriage were drawn. "We have plenty of room for a fight."
