My husband had strictly forbidden me from visiting his farm, but after his death the lawyer handed me the keys and said, “Now it’s yours.” I planned to sell it, but out of curiosity I decided to visit first. When I opened the door, I lost my breath, because inside was… – INFO DESK

I tucked the key into my pocket, a strange determination settling over me. “I’m going to Canada, Mr. Winters, today.”

Forty-eight hours later, after hastily booked flights and a long drive through the Alberta countryside, I found myself standing before imposing wooden gates marked Maple Creek Farm in wrought iron. Beyond stretched a property far larger and more impressive than I had imagined—rolling hills, stands of maple trees turning gold with autumn, and in the distance a large farmhouse and several outbuildings, all freshly painted.

This was no broken-down family farm.

This was an estate.

The key turned smoothly in the gate’s lock. As I drove up the winding gravel driveway, my heart pounded with anticipation and apprehension. What secrets had Joshua kept here? What part of himself had he hidden from me for all these years?

The farmhouse was a stunning two-story structure with a wide porch and large windows. Nothing about it suggested the pain Joshua had always associated with his childhood home. This place had been loved, restored, reimagined.

My hands shook as I inserted the key into the front door. The lock clicked, the door swung open, and I stepped across the threshold into my husband’s secret world.

What I saw inside made me gasp, my knees weakening as I gripped the doorframe for support.

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