Unwrapping The Rancher′s Secret
Unwrapping The Rancher's Secret
Lauri Robinson
A ghost of Christmas past…Heiress Sara Johnson is shocked when the step-brother she believed was dead returns to Colorado to claim his inheritance! It might be the season of good will, but Crofton Parks seems determined to destroy his late father’s empire.Sparks fly as Crofton and Sara are forced to work together, and soon she begins to uncover the secrets behind his disappearance and need for revenge. But a far more unsettling discovery is the desire he awakens in Sara…this roguish rancher might just claim her heart by Christmas!
A ghost of Christmas past...
Heiress Sara Johnson is shocked when the stepbrother she believed was dead returns to Colorado to claim his inheritance! It might be the season of goodwill, but Crofton Parks seems determined to destroy his late father’s empire.
Sparks fly as Crofton and Sara are forced to work together, and soon she begins to uncover the secrets behind his disappearance and need for revenge. But a far more unsettling discovery is the desire he awakens in Sara. This roguish rancher might just claim her heart by Christmas!
“I don’t deserve to inherit any of Winston’s holdings. You’re his son. His blood relative. And I’m—”
“Not up to the challenge?” Crofton asked.
“But Winston would have wanted you to have it,” she said, with an exuberant amount of passion. “I know he would have.”
Crofton ran both hands over his thighs. When she got all emotional he wanted to wrap his arms around her, but he couldn’t. If he did that he might kiss her. Not a peck on the cheek, but really kiss her. Where the hell had these yearnings come from? He’d never been known for his chivalry, and he had kissed more than his fair share of maidens, but this was out of the ordinary even for him. As was the misery it provided. She was a young innocent girl, with more on her plate than she could handle, and all he could think of was her. Kissing her. Holding her. Protecting her.
Author Note (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
Ideas for stories come to me in many ways. I’ve dedicated this book to one of my granddaughters because she was behind my inspiration for Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret. While she was at our house one day we watched a cute cartoon about a little girl whose mother married a king, turning the little girl from a commoner into a princess overnight. I found that concept intriguing, and that gave birth to Sara Johnson Parks—a girl who was born in a dirt dugout in Kansas and didn’t own a pair of shoes until she was five, when her mother married a lumber baron. Upon the death of her stepfather Sara becomes the richest woman in Royalton, Colorado. But that is also when Crofton Parks appears. The stepbrother she believed had died as a child…
I hope you enjoy Sara and Crofton’s story!
Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret
Lauri Robinson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A lover of fairytales and cowboy boots, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men—and women—who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset…or kick them off for other reasons. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home, and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren. Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com (http://www.laurirobinson.blogspot.com), facebook.com/lauri.robinson1 (https://facebook.com/lauri.robinson1), or twitter.com/LauriR (https://twitter.com/LauriR).
Books by Lauri Robinson
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
Daughters of the Roaring Twenties
The Runaway Daughter (Undone!)
The Bootlegger’s Daughter
The Rebel Daughter
The Forgotten Daughter
Stand-Alone Novels
Christmas Cowboy Kisses
‘Christmas with Her Cowboy’
The Major’s Wife
The Wrong Cowboy
A Fortune for the Outlaw’s Daughter
Saving Marina
Her Cheyenne Warrior
Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret
Mills & Boon Historical Undone! ebooks
Testing the Lawman’s Honour
The Sheriff’s Last Gamble
What a Cowboy Wants
His Wild West Wife
Dance with the Rancher
Rescued by the Ranger
Snowbound with the Sheriff
Never Tempt a Lawman
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
To my granddaughter, Hayley.
Love you to the moon and back!
Contents
Cover (#ud11d0016-ea9e-5f64-bf91-eb2d1c77a4e1)
Back Cover Text (#u8d159cf3-90eb-5962-ab2c-cc6d0056df2a)
Introduction (#u9d6e67db-cbdd-5651-9f16-a4fefdde301a)
Author Note (#u74c3fde5-cdfb-56c0-9af1-b597968d7770)
Title Page (#u1d446963-d580-5b1d-a45d-fb8d21b373f8)
About the Author (#uea244380-7cfe-5faf-a241-bc88b7f98253)
Dedication (#u5d244c3b-afed-5a42-bc13-733acbaa1f92)
Chapter One (#u267c189a-f0f3-5898-a15b-8fded0460e56)
Chapter Two (#u572aa4d2-28d7-5a9c-a22e-72fc59e5d8ca)
Chapter Three (#u8ff23b5d-9096-5044-a1fd-27b7f3f14941)
Chapter Four (#u38ea7a8d-f050-58b9-b7ab-922214bd172b)
Chapter Five (#u45420567-31a4-5847-b7a6-d3dfb6efd015)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
Royalton, Colorado, 1885
There were several ways to play the hand that had been dealt to him. All of them would benefit him. That, of course, was the main object—benefitting him—and he would play it right. Not could. Would. Just as he always did.
Crofton Parks lit the cigarette he’d been twirling between his thumb and forefinger and leaned against the side of the building to ponder his options. Smoking wasn’t a habit he partook of regularly, but a man with a smoldering stick between his lips could stand around doing nothing but dragging in smoke and no one would give him a second look. While a stranger staring at the mortuary across the street would catch attention. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Attention. It would come later. At the moment, anonymity would benefit him the most.
White with a black door and shutters framing the windows, the mortuary was new, as were most of the buildings in town. Not surprising. Becoming a railroad hub, the town had doubled in size the past couple of years, and would keep growing. The lumber mill would continue to prosper, supplying all the houses and businesses the newcomers would build.
Crofton flicked off the ashes and lifted the cigarette to his lips for another draw. Through the smoke that swirled in the crisp air, he witnessed a woman open the door of the building she’d entered a short time ago. Leave it to Winston Parks—his good old flesh-and-blood father—to throw yet another boulder in his pathway. Another loop around the ankle. As if all the others hadn’t been enough. At least this one wasn’t an eyesore, or not from a distance anyway.
Disgusted by his own thoughts, Crofton dropped the cigarette to the ground and smashed the smoldering end deep into the dirt with the toe of his boot.
A man twice the woman’s age, which Crofton knew to be twenty as of October, climbed down from a buggy to meet her as she walked down the steps of the mortuary. Once he arrived at her side, she leaned her head against the man’s shoulder for a brief moment, and then straightened. With a shake of her head, as if that gave her fortitude, she squared her shoulders and marched forward. The man lagged behind momentarily, but then quickly caught up with her.
With the sole of one boot braced against the wall behind him and head down, fiddling with the tobacco pouch as if preparing to roll another cigarette, Crofton peered from beneath the brim of his hat to watch the man help the woman into the buggy.
The man climbed in, but Crofton remained still, waiting until the buggy turned the corner and disappeared. Then he glanced both ways, tucked the tobacco pouch into his pocket and crossed the street. It was time he said goodbye to his father. This time it would be for good.
* * *
“There will come a time, child, when you’ll remember this day, not with pain and sorrow, but with peace.”
The aching inside her was so profound that every movement hurt, yet Sara managed to nod in response to the bittersweet words Reverend Borman whispered in her ear. She understood that life went on, despite death and hardships. She’d lived through it before. Perhaps if she’d been older when her father had died she’d be able to remember how long the numbness lasted. For how many days tears would burst forward without warning, or how long the emptiness inside would remain.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the burning sting and bit her lips together. There were no memories to assure her the pain would ease. No memories of her real father. All that came forward were the things her mother had told her about that time in their lives. How little they’d had, and how far they’d come—all because of Winston Parks.
Older now, and in many ways wiser, Sara knew that no matter how long the pain, how deep the loss or how the numbness lingered, there was no time for her to mourn. A child born in a dirt dugout on the Kansas prairie, who hadn’t owned a pair of shoes until she was five, was now the richest woman in town. Along with the wealth bequeathed upon her by the deaths of her mother and stepfather came responsibilities. Ones she couldn’t ignore even long enough to grieve their passing.
That’s what her mother would have wanted. For her to continue to pay homage to Winston for the life he’d provided them, and so many others.
She knelt down and laid the bouquet of yellow mums, that despite the cooler weather, were still blooming in her mother’s garden, on top of the large mound of dirt. Beneath were two coffins, side by side, in one grave. As soon as the stone arrived from Denver, there would be one granite marker, bearing the names of Winston and Suzanne Parks, describing them as loving husband and wife.
Years from now, looking upon the headstone, people wouldn’t know both Winston and Suzanne had been married before. No one would know the anguish and loss they’d each suffered prior to finding one another. Or the strength of the love they’d shared.
Fresh tears formed. Winston had not only loved her mother, he’d loved her, too. He’d treated her as a daughter from the day she’d moved into his home, and in many ways, he’d transformed her from a pauper to a princess. That’s how her mother had described the changes that had happened because of Winston, and why they needed to behave properly—to be women he could be proud of—and the importance of remaining grateful for everything he’d done at all times. The only way she could return his love now was to assure his dream came true.
After adjusting the white ribbon tying the flower stems together, Sara rose, and with a nod in Reverend Borman’s direction, stepped back to stand amongst the few townsfolk who’d traveled up the steep mountainside from the church in town to the grave site on the homestead Winston had settled upon years ago. The service had been beautiful, and the pews packed with people, but Bugsley had suggested this part of the service should be private, that the last thing Sara needed was a house full of mourners. She’d agreed with him, even though it had left a knot in her stomach. The townsfolk had loved her mother and Winston as deeply as she.
Once the final prayer was recited, Sara turned and started walking down the hill toward the house, pausing now and again to accept a hug or word of comfort as people meandered toward their buggies and saddled mounts.
Hilda Austin’s heavy sobbing forced her to remain in the woman’s embrace a bit longer than most, and offer comforting words of her own.
“Hush, now,” Sara whispered, recalling how her mother had responded to such situations over the years. “They are at peace, and together.”
“I’m just going to miss her so much,” Hilda sobbed. “I’ll never have another friend like her.”
“We’ve both suffered great losses.” Sara’s gaze went to the three-story brick house that still had the ability to awe her as it had the first day she’d seen it. From that day onward, she’d never wanted for anything. Her throat threatened to close up, and she had to swallow in order to say, “Keeping happy memories close these next few weeks is what we must do. It’ll help.”
Hilda sniffled and stepped back to wipe her nose with an embroidered hanky. “Look at me. I’m blubbering away when you’re the one’s who’s lost her momma. You poor child—you’re all alone now.”
Sara’s throat swelled shut. Blinking back tears, she nodded and started for the house again. Bugsley was right. She didn’t need a house full of people. There wasn’t time to dwell on the fact that she was completely alone. She wasn’t. Mrs. Long wouldn’t leave. Amelia Long had been managing Winston’s house for decades and this morning promised to continue working here until she was too old to knead bread. Bugsley was here, too. He’d worked for Winston for years, and promised he’d help her with everything. She’d forever be grateful to him for being at her side the past few days. He’d kept her strong, and she’d needed that.
It was Bugsley who appeared at her elbow before she was all the way down the hill. Sara didn’t have to offer him a smile. He wouldn’t expect it, and that felt good.
“Come,” he said softly while tucking her arm through his. “You’ve had a rough day.”
His wool suit was as black as her gabardine dress and his boots recently shined. Something that probably hadn’t happened since the last funeral he’d attended.
Sara took a deep breath, drawing strength and resolve in understanding that she wasn’t the only person who’d experienced such devastating pain. The Williams children had lost their father just last week. Bugsley hadn’t gone to the funeral, but she and her mother had, and Winston, who had slipped into the recent widow’s hand an envelope containing a sum of money to help the family through their hard time. Sara was grateful that part wasn’t an issue for her. Just the opposite in fact. She had more money than she knew how to handle. That would soon change. She’d learn how to handle the money, and invest it for the future of Royalton.
Not entirely sure how she’d complete that daunting task, she said, “It was a lovely service.”
“Yes, it was,” Bugsley said. “I’ll have a donation sent to the church tomorrow.”
“I already made a donation for the services,” she said. “Yesterday, when I gave Reverend Borman the selection of songs for today.”
“I told you I’d take care of things for you,” Bugsley said.
“I know,” she answered. “And I appreciate your help, but there were some things I wanted to do myself. Needed to do.”
“All right,” he said, patting her arm. “But I’m here to handle everything else.”
There was no doubt she’d need his help. She didn’t have the knowledge it would take to run the lumber mill and negotiate the contracts with the railroad, but she was astute and a fast learner, and wasn’t going to shy away from any part of her duties. She’d stayed up late the last two nights, studying maps and contracts, and a plethora of other paperwork in Winston’s office, but she now felt she knew less about what to do rather than more. She wasn’t about to give up, though, or ask for help. Not yet. One couldn’t ask for help until one knew what help was needed. “You’ll be the first person I seek when I need assistance,” she said. “I promise.”
He stiffened slightly but held his silence until they arrived at the house and she looked up. His cheeks were ruddy from shaving off his scruffy whiskers for the day. He’d gotten a haircut, too. White skin showed where his brown hair had been snipped short around his ears. He wasn’t what most would call handsome, but he was dedicated and that was what she needed above all else.
“You need some rest,” he said with a gentle smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Unless you want me to stay—maybe you don’t want to be alone?”
Her gaze roamed to the house. To the flower bushes beside the steps, the set of white wicker furniture situated in the corner of the massive front porch and the wide front door complete with a screen door to let the air in on warm days. It could be warm today. She couldn’t tell. The chill that had settled inside her, clear to her bones, was too encompassing, even wearing the heavy black dress and cape. Fighting off a shiver, Sara answered, “I won’t be alone. Mrs. Long is here.”
“She’s still up the hill,” he said. “Talking.”
“But will be along shortly.” Pulling her hand out of the crook of his elbow, Sara drew a fortifying breath. Mrs. Long had been upset about not hosting a gathering after the funeral, giving people the opportunity to mourn and share memories. Looking at the empty house, Sara had to wonder if she should have sided with Amelia rather than Bugsley. Perhaps entering the front door would be easier with others nearby. The decision had been made, though, and she had no choice but to abide by it. To go forward. Alone. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she told Bugsley.
She entered the house without looking back. It would be easy to ask him to step in and see to everything. Too easy. Turning, she closed the inside door, thankful it provided a barrier, making it harder to change her mind. Winston had never let her or her mother down, and now she couldn’t let him down. There was no law that said he had to be her father, that he had to feed and clothe her. But he had. Along with so many other things. Therefore, she would do what no law said she had to do. Take up where he had left off. Make sure the railroad had enough timber to build the line from the pass to the border. Farther even, all the way across the Utah Territory and into Nevada.
The ache in her chest became all-consuming. Winston had been so proud of this project. He’d been committed to it, too. Needing to diminish the pain, center her attention on something other than her loss, Sara focused on walking past the sweeping staircase that led to the second floor. The very steps she’d loved to run down and jump into Winston’s arms when she’d been younger. He’d laugh and twirl her about before hugging her tight and then setting her down to run off, giggling and dizzy.
Removing the black gloves that matched her funeral dress and cape as she walked, she held them both in one hand when she arrived at Winston’s office door. The contracts were in there, and maps and statements and correspondence with railroad men. Reading through them would take her mind off other things as well as prepare her for her next steps. She’d make sure of it this time. Really focus. Living with Winston all these years had left her with considerable knowledge already. Just a few years ago the railroad had been at a standstill in Colorado. The two largest companies attempting to build a line through the southern part of the state had taken each other to court. The Santa Fe had won out, being a standard gauge. Winston had said, and many others had agreed, that the narrow-gauge rails of the Denver & Rio Grande were far better when it came to laying track through the Rocky Mountains, but not beyond, and he’d said that was the important piece. Running tracks beyond the mountains, clear to the ocean.
Winston had won the bid to provide lumber for the Santa Fe and their standard-gauge rail, and that’s what she needed to research. She would spend the rest of the day reading and taking notes so this time she’d remember things. Understand them. She needed to know what was expected of the lumber mill better than she knew the recipe for her famous cinnamon cookies. Made famous by her stepfather who ate them two at a time as soon as she took them out of the oven.
The smile that memory evoked froze on her lips as she opened the door to Winston’s office. Her heart momentarily stopped, too. For a split second she could have sworn she was staring at Winston—how he’d looked fifteen years ago when she and her mother first met him back on the Kansas prairie.
The man behind the big desk that sat angled in the corner swiveled the chair around and lifted a dark brow as his gaze met hers. “Well, hello, little sister.”
A shiver curled around her spine. “E-Excuse me?”
“I said, hello, little sister.”
She’d dropped a glove, and used the time it took to bend down and pick it up to gather her wits. A cold and frightening lump formed in her stomach. One that left her hands trembling. “I do not have any siblings,” she said, straightening as tall as possible and squeezing her gloves with both hands. “And you, sir, are trespassing.”
Crofton Parks almost cracked a grin. Might have if the situation had even an ounce of humor surrounding it. It didn’t, and neither did he. Have an ounce of humor that is. Her black cape didn’t disguise her hourglass figure and her chestnut-colored hair had just enough red to make it shimmer like gold in the sunshine. The sight of Sara Johnson—or Parks as everyone referred to her—confirmed he’d been right. She wasn’t an eyesore. Not from a distance or up close. If her mother had looked anything like her, with eyes that big and blue and skin that lily-white, he could almost understand why his father had deserted him and his mother back in Ohio. Almost, because to his way of thinking, no man should discard one family for another. Not for any reason.
He leaned back in the big leather chair and stretched his arms overhead before threading his fingers together and lowering them until the back of his head rested against his palms. Even after all these years, he could remember how his father had used to sit like that. All he’d have to do was kick up his feet to rest his heels on the desk and his memory would be complete. He didn’t kick up his feet for several reasons, including that he wasn’t here to relax. “I’m not trespassing, little sister. I’m just here to collect what’s mine.”
She was wringing the gloves in her hands so hard they were practically tied in knots, and her eyes were darting around as if she couldn’t let them rest on him. He knew why. From the time he’d been born people had said he looked exactly like his father. At one time he’d taken pride in that. That was no longer the case. Hadn’t been for years.
“Stop calling me that, and there’s nothing here that could be—”
“Mine?” he interrupted. “Yes, there is, and you know it.” He dropped his hands and leaned forward to wave a finger her way. “Don’t bother lying. I can see by the fear in your eyes that you know who I am.” Crofton stood and straightened the bottom of his vest before reaching behind him to gather up the jacket that completed the suit he’d purchased for the occasion, his father’s funeral. He also attempted to keep the scorn out of his tone when he added, “I’ve always been the spitting image of my father.”
One arm was in his jacket sleeve when he paused, waiting for her reaction.
Her fair skin had turned whiter. Colorless. He dropped the coat just as her blue eyes disappeared behind her eyelids.
“Damn!”
Crofton made it around the desk in time to catch her before she hit the floor.
He’d picked up and carried calves that weighed more than she did. However, none of those critters ever smelled liked flowers and sunshine. She did, and all the other things women were supposed to smell like. Ignoring that, for it made no difference, he carried her to the long sofa covered in cowhide and situated near a massive stone fireplace on the other side of the room. There he set her down. On her bottom. She hadn’t passed out, not completely and was already squirming to get out of his hold.
As soon as she was free, she scooted along the seat, farther away from him. “You’re—you’re dead,” she whispered. “Dead.”
“I could apologize for that, but since I wasn’t the one to put that idea in your head, I won’t. As you can clearly see, I’m not dead. Never was.” A shred of guilt laced his gut at the way she trembled. He tried to ignore it, but in the end, he told himself she wasn’t to blame and holding his father’s faults against her wouldn’t be fair. Despite his parentage, that was one thing he did pride himself on: being a fair man. An honest one, too. It had taken him a long way in this life.
“How can that be?”
Crofton stopped his inner musings and shrugged. “Because it never was.”
“Fa—” She pinched her lips together for a second. “Winston said you died as a small child, back in Ohio, in a fire. He was devastated over it.”
“Was he?” The scorn slipped out before Crofton had a chance to conceal it.
“Yes,” she said. “He spoke of you often, especially—”
Her lips pinched tight and her thick lashes held teardrops when she lifted them. The sight was as unique as it was touching.
Once again Crofton had to detour his thoughts. “Especially when?”
“Before my little brother died. He was only four.”
“Your little brother?”
Looking up at him with moisture filled eyes, she nodded. “Yes, my little brother. Hilton. He died of the fever six years ago.”
Why that felt like a gut punch, Crofton wasn’t sure, but either way, he sat down. It would make sense that his father had gone on to have more children, but he’d never contemplated that aspect. Probably should have. “How many other children are there?” Wrestling a stepdaughter would be a simple enough feat; another blood son might not be. It wouldn’t stand in his way, though. Nothing would stand in his way of finding out why the railroad had pulled out of running a line south into New Mexico. He’d made promises on it, and he never broke a promise. There, too, he was nothing like his father.
“Other—” She shook her head. “None.”
“None?”
She wiped aside a teardrop sitting on her left cheek. “No, there were no more children, not before or after Hilton.”
Crofton withheld a grin, kept it hidden deep inside where only he knew it existed. “So it’s just you and me.”
After a lengthy hesitation, she met him eye to eye. “Yes. Just you and me.”
Chapter Two (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
The walls were closing in on her. She unbuttoned her cloak and shrugged it off her shoulders, but it didn’t help. The heavy black dress was just as suffocating. So was his nearness. Willing her legs to cooperate, she pushed off the sofa. She stumbled slightly, but caught herself. This was all impossible. Crofton Parks was impossible. He’d died years ago. Winston would never have lied about that. Not something that important. Actually, he wouldn’t have lied about anything. He was a good, honest man.
Gaining inner strength, she turned her attention to the stranger. He certainly resembled Winston. Dark brown hair, hazel-rimmed green eyes flecked with specks of gold. Tall. Broad at the shoulders and lean at the waist. He even had a dimple in the middle of his chin. However, he couldn’t possibly be Winston’s son. More like an impostor who was simply after her stepfather’s money. Winston’s wealth, the lumberyard he’d spent a lifetime building and his work with the railroad were well-known, perhaps nationwide or even worldwide.
Sara lifted her chin and tightened her neck muscles to keep her voice from quivering. “You, sir, are an impostor and I insist you leave immediately.”
He leaned back and swung a foot up to balance on his opposite knee. “I’m not an impostor, Sara—”
“I gave you no invitation to use my first name,” she snapped, unwilling to listen to anything he had to say. “If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll summon the sheriff.”
“And how will you do that?” he asked, crossing his arms. “You got a little bell you ring or something?”
His comment was so arrogant and smug that Sara wished she’d asked Bugsley to stay, or that Mrs. Long had returned. Something deep inside said she didn’t want to be alone with this man. He couldn’t be trusted, that was a given, but his uncanny resemblance to Winston was confusing her usual good sense.
Alvin Thompson who saw to the horses and other chores around the property lived just down the hill, but not within shouting distance. Nonetheless, she said, “I have men I will send to town.” A bluff, but he wouldn’t know that. “As a matter of fact, I have men who will take you to town. See you jailed for trespassing.”
Relief washed over her as he planted his foot back on the floor and stood. Without a word, he crossed the room and gathered his suit coat. She moved toward the open doorway, prepared to walk him all the way to the large front door, and lock it after he left.
Rather than putting on the coat, he pulled something out of a pocket and turned, holding an envelope out to her. “The sheriff’s out of town.”
Knowing Sheriff Wingard was out of town, and not wanting to dwell upon it, she asked, “What’s that?”
“An affidavit proving I am indeed Crofton Parks, son and heir of Winston Parks.” Still holding the envelope out for her to take, he added, “And Alvin won’t be any help. He’s at his job at the lumber mill.”
“How—” She bit down on her bottom lip, angry for allowing a word to slip out before she’d thought it through. Alvin did work at the mill, and had returned there upon leaving the church, so therefore, was not home.
“How do I know about Alvin? And Sheriff Wingard?” He laid the envelope on the desk as if it made no difference whether she read it or not. “I’ve made it my business to know.” Walking toward the windows framed by long olive-green drapes held back to let the sun in with gold rope ties, he said, “I also know everything about my father’s company and his deal with the railroad. And you. And your mother.”
The disdain in his voice was strikingly sharp. Out of defiance, Sara lifted her chin. “Why?”
“Because I’m his son.”
She wasn’t ready to believe that. Might never be. She did however want to know what he was doing here. “Anyone can have a piece of paper written up. That’s no proof whatsoever. Besides, if you truly were his son, you would have come to see Winston while he was alive. Any decent man would have.”
His back was to her as he stared out the window. The lumber mill was a distance down the mountainside, but large and visible from where he stood. So was the town of Royalton. Winston had often stood in that same spot, watching the hustle and bustle below. She’d stood there plenty of times herself.
“How do you know I didn’t?” he asked.
Sara didn’t know for sure, however there was one thing she knew for certain. “Because I knew Winston Parks. If his son was alive, and had contacted him, he would have told me. He would have told my mother. He would have shouted it from the rooftop.”
He turned. The smile on his face was false; the dullness of his eyes said so. Yet, at the same time, she couldn’t help but see Winston in him, and that was frightening.
“Maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought,” he said.
Sara was saved from responding by the sound of the front door being opened, as well as someone saying her name.
“Mrs. Long is calling for you,” he said. “The housekeeper.”
He was attempting to intimidate her—something she refused to let happen. “Anyone in town could have told you who lives here, including Mrs. Long, and that the sheriff is out of town, and that Alvin Thompson lives next door so there’s no need to pretend you’re full of family secrets. There aren’t any.”
“You’re wrong, Sara,” he said softly. “There are lots of family secrets when it comes to Winston Parks.”
As much as she didn’t want to believe his words, she couldn’t ignore the clarity of his gaze.
“Oh, there you are,” Amelia Long said. “I—Oh, I didn’t know we had company.”
Sara didn’t turn around to where the woman was obviously standing in the doorway. Instead, she kept her gaze on the man, and held her stance. “We don’t,” she said. “He was just leaving.”
“Land sakes,” Amelia gasped. “It can’t be. Can it? Lord have mercy! Is it? Is it you, Crofton? Crofton, oh, sweet Lord! Tell me it’s really you! Tell me! Please, tell me!”
The smile that appeared on his face was as bright as sunshine. “Yes, Amelia, it’s me.”
Sara had no time to react, not even when the man rushed past her and caught Amelia as she slumped.
Crofton once again carried a woman across the room, questioning if every woman in Colorado fainted on a regular basis. This one was much older, heavier and not nearly as firm or sweet smelling as the younger one he’d carried mere minutes ago. But, this one had carried him around when he was little, and he’d never forgotten her.
Placing Amelia gently on the sofa, he told Sara, “Get some water. Unlike you, she’s not pretending. She really fainted.”
“I—I didn’t pretend.”
Crofton knelt near the sofa. “Just get some water, would you?”
She hurried out the door, and Crofton laid a hand on Amelia’s cheek. Her face was soft, full of wrinkles, and her blond hair streaked with gray, but she was as lovely to him as she had been twenty years ago when he used to wish she was his mother. Amelia had always had time for him. Never shooed him from the room or scolded him for getting dirty. She even helped dig worms and would drop whatever she’d been doing to take him fishing. At least that was how he remembered it. Just like he remembered her cooking had been the best he’d ever eaten. Especially her fried chicken. Of all the people, all the things he’d missed when his mother had whisked him off to England, it had been Amelia Long and her fried chicken.
Amelia stirred, and Crofton leaned closer. “Shh,” he whispered. “Just lie still for a moment. You’re fine.”
“Here.”
He took the glass of water Sara held out and as Amelia’s eyes opened, he gently raised her head up with his other hand. “Take a sip,” he said. “It’ll help.”
Watching him closely, Amelia took several small sips, and then shook her head. He handed the glass back to Sara before asking, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes,” Amelia answered. “I was just so shocked to see you. She told us you were dead.”
“I’ve heard that,” he said. “But as you can see, she was wrong.”
Amelia popped up with all the speed of a spring chicken. “Why would she have done such a thing? Oh, if only Winston could have seen you.” Sniffling, she wiped her nose with the tip of one finger as tears dripped down her wrinkled cheeks. “Oh, Crofton, he would have been so joyous. He never got over your death. Never.”
Damn, she was making his nose burn, and his chest. He bit the inside of his bottom lip. He’d never gotten over his father’s death, either. That hadn’t been possible for an eight-year-old who’d believed his father had been the bravest, strongest man on earth. His father had been his hero, up until he turned eighteen and learned the truth.
“Oh, that Ida,” Amelia growled. “I’d like to give her a piece of my mind. I tell you that. She always was nasty, but this—you—it’s downright evil. Evil I say.”
“She had her reasons, Amelia,” he said quietly.
“Oh, and what would they be?” Without waiting for a response, she added, “Pure selfishness is what she had. No reason is good enough for what she did—for this. Not a single one. Winston was so sick over your death, so lost and...” Sniffling again, she shook her head. “We all were. My heart is breaking all over again. For Winston. Oh, your poor, poor father. He loved you so much.”
To his surprise, Sara sat down next to Amelia and put her arm around her.
“Hush, now,” she whispered. “He knows Crofton is here now. He knows.”
Crofton pretended he hadn’t heard her words, but he had, and it appeared it had taken less convincing for her to believe he was Winston’s son than he’d expected.
“I expect he does,” Amelia said. “He was probably searching all over the pearly gates for his baby boy. Just like he did back in Ohio all those years ago.” Wiping at the tears on her cheek, she whispered, “He didn’t believe the news and went back to see for himself.”
Crofton couldn’t take much more. Of course Amelia would side with his father. Nate, her husband, had been in on Winston’s first lumber deal. Nate had died during the railroad wars, back in ’78, when both companies had brought in hired guns to settle their dispute over laying westbound tracks out of Colorado. A judge finally settled things, but there was still plenty of fighting going on. Both sides had gained ground. The narrow-gage line was working its way west through the mountains, and the standard-gage was running along the south end of the state. That was the set to run a line down into New Mexico, give ranchers a way to ship cattle. A way for him to ship his cattle, but the railroad had withdrawn for no apparent reason. He knew the reason. His father.
The silence in the room tickled his neck, and Crofton lifted his head to find both women looking at him expectantly. Having no idea what they’d asked, yet noting they were clearly waiting for an answer, he shrugged and turned it back on them. “What do you think?”
“I think she’s dead,” Amelia said with more hatred than he’d ever have expected to hear from her. “Otherwise, she’d have been trying to get money out of your father. Just like she did when you di—when she claimed you’d died.”
So the topic was his mother. He’d expected that. There had been no love lost between her and anyone left on this side of the ocean. With a nod, he stood and walked over to the fireplace. The mantel was massive, as was the hearth, with a large area to stack wood built right in the stone. It was an impressive design, something his father had been good at. Anyone who knew Winston said he was a visionary, could see what he wanted and didn’t stop until he got it. That, too, Crofton had inherited.
“That’s you.”
He frowned at Amelia’s statement, and then scanned the mantle, wondering what she referred to. A photo of a child sat in the center, in a polished frame.
“The one next to it is Hilton, taken shortly before he died.”
Sara had said that, and he took a moment to examine the other picture of a boy child, no more than a baby actually. There was a certain family resemblance, which caused an odd pang inside him.
Turning about, he said to Amelia, “I’m assuming my mother is still alive, but I can’t say for sure. I haven’t seen her in eight years.”
“Eight years?” Sara asked, biting her tongue as soon as the words were out. Although Amelia was convinced of this man’s heritage, she wasn’t. But, even if he was Winston’s son, he wasn’t to be trusted. Any man who hadn’t seen his father in over twenty years, and his mother in eight, had to be a scoundrel. A selfish, no-good rascal.
“Yes,” he answered. “Eight years. Since I left England.” His cold stare turned to Amelia, where it warmed slightly. “I left the day I learned my father was alive.”
“Alive?”
Sara was glad Amelia asked that. It had been on the tip of her tongue, but the years of being told to only speak when spoken to had returned.
“Yes. Just as my mother told him I was dead, she told me he was dead. That you all were dead.”
“Oh, that bitter woman,” Amelia hissed. “She’ll have her judgment day. Lord forgive me, but she will.”
He turned away from the fireplace, and after gazing at both her and Amelia for what seemed like an eternity, he gave a subtle nod. “I have an appointment I must see to now. Good day, ladies.”
Amelia shot to her feet. “You can’t leave, Crofton, you can’t.”
“I’ll be back,” he said, patting the hand she’d used to grab his arm. “I just have to see a man about a horse.”
His answer struck Sara to the core. Winston had always used that saying. Crofton obviously knew that and was trying to get a rise out of her. So was Amelia, the way she turned a set of sad eyes her way.
“Sara, tell him he mustn’t leave,” Amelia pleaded. “Tell him.”
That was the last thing she’d do. “Mr. Parks...” She let her words linger, telling him she didn’t completely believe that was his name. “Can most certainly leave.” And not return, she added silently, but knew he understood.
“No, he can’t,” Amelia insisted. “We have so much—”
“I’ll return for the evening meal,” he said, drawing Amelia’s attention. “If I can wrangle an invitation.”
The look he gave the older woman was enough to make Sara throw up, or see red, which she was doing.
“You don’t need an invitation,” Amelia said. “You’re family.” With a sigh, and while hugging his arm, she added, “It’s a miracle. A pure Christmas miracle having you here. Sara needs family right now. We all do.”
His gaze, which went over Amelia’s head to meet her stare, was as clear as the words written in the Good Book. Just as she was reading his mind, he was reading hers, and neither one of them considered the other family, nor did they believe this was a Christmas miracle.
Amelia followed him out of the room, and Sara moved to the window, waiting to see him leave. Her stomach was churning and her mind was spinning. His arrival could change everything. Winston’s dream. The railroad’s success. The town of Royalton. She had no right to fight him, no claim to all that Winston had left behind, but he wasn’t here to further Winston’s dream. Intuition told her that, and her allegiance to Winston said she couldn’t let his dream die. Couldn’t and wouldn’t.
During the years since Winston had built his lumber mill, over a hundred buildings and homes had been built in Royalton. The town had been transformed from a lumber camp to a bustling city, complete with stage coach service, and more important, a railroad depot. The entire town depended upon Parks Lumber. Jobs. The railroad. Prosperity for all.
It was all up to her.
The air in Sara’s lungs burned as Crofton appeared outside the window. He made a point of stopping the big roan he rode at the top of the hill, and turned around to tip his hat directly at the window. At her.
She didn’t respond, or move, other than the sinking of her stomach.
He nudged the horse and rode away. Once again she was reminded of Winston. Of all the times she’d watched him ride down that hill.
When Crofton, if that truly was his name, disappeared amongst the bustle of Royalton, Sara turned and walked to the desk. Rather than anything of Winston’s, the item that caught and held her attention was the envelope Crofton had left behind. Burning it would be the smart thing to do, but her curiosity was too strong for that. Taking up the sharp knife Winston always used to slit open the mail, she eased it beneath the flap.
“I can’t believe it,” Amelia said from the open doorway. “Just can’t believe it. All these years we thought he was dead. All these years.”
Sara set the envelope and the knife down. “Don’t you find it odd that he learned Winston wasn’t dead eight years ago, but never once visited? Never once tried to make contact?”
With eyes sadder than they had been this morning, Amelia shook her head and sat in the chair in front of the desk. “We have no way of knowing what she told him.”
“Who?”
“Crofton’s mother. Ida.”
Sara wasn’t willing to believe there was anyone to blame except Crofton. “He doesn’t seem like the type of man to take someone else’s word.” Or orders, she supplied completely for herself.
“I’m sure he’s not, just like Winston wasn’t, but Ida had a way about her.”
“What sort of way?” Sara asked.
“A sneaky, conniving one. That woman wouldn’t stop until she got her way. Ever.”
Amelia’s tone held more scorn than Sara had ever heard her use, and that alone would have been enough to make her jittery, if she hadn’t been already. Like mother, like son.
Slapping her knees, Amelia jumped to her feet. “I’m going to go fetch that hen that’s been pecking at the others. Crofton always liked fried chicken. Oh, that boy could eat like no other. I think I’ll bake a pie, too.”
“A pie?”
“Yes. Make us a real celebration dinner.”
“We just left a funeral,” Sara pointed out. “A celebration dinner wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Waving a hand at the desk, and the rest of the room, Amelia asked, “Do you think Winston would mind? Or your mother? They wouldn’t want us sitting around moping. They’d expect us to get on with life. And they would expect us to give Crofton a proper welcome home. It truly is a Christmas miracle.”
“Christmas is weeks away.”
Amelia shrugged. “So it is.” While heading for the door, she added, “And we both have to eat. Fried chicken is your favorite, too.”
Sara waited until Amelia left the room before mumbling, “It won’t be after today.” The letter lying on the desk, the one she’d been prepared to slit open moments ago mocked her. She was still curious, but did she really want proof Crofton was Winston’s son? Did she need proof?
The answer was obvious. Amelia would not say he was if he wasn’t. Furthermore, he was too much like Winston not to be his son. Besides looks, he had the attitude, the swagger, even sat upon a horse the same way. Straight and tall. The only notable difference was that Winston had had a softness about him. He’d been loveable. Crofton wasn’t even likable.
Chapter Three (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
Crofton rode into town with a chip on his shoulder. It had been there for years, but today it felt like a boulder. He popped his neck and arched his back, but the weight didn’t shift. He hadn’t expected it to. What he did expect was to get a pair of blue eyes out of his mind.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t she have been homely?” That was another trait his father had given him—the inability to ignore a beautiful woman.
It wasn’t Sara’s beauty that worried him. It was the intelligence in those blue eyes. She’d been sizing him up since the moment they met, and that told him being Winston’s son wasn’t going to be enough.
Burying those thoughts as much as he could, Crofton pulled up his reason for being here tackling all these old memories, and rode up the main street of town. Buildings of all sizes lined the street on both sides of him. Not a one was as large as the home he’d just left. Leave it to his father to build a home larger than even the hotel. It was only two stories. His father’s brick house had three, plus a basement. Imagine that, the owner of the lumber company building himself a brick house. Ironic.
There was plenty of wood in his father’s house, too. The trim, windows, door and large porch were all painted white, making it look even more impressive. So were the balconies off the second floor, and the two round turrets on the third.
It had taken plenty of wood to build the town. Businesses, the same as most towns, offered customers goods and services. As he scanned the stores—a mercantile, feed store, blacksmith, hotel, saloon, nothing out of the ordinary—he thought of other boom towns he’d seen. Here today. Gone tomorrow. Royalton didn’t have the look or feel of the others he’d seen, and he wasn’t sure whether he appreciated that or not.
He’d already visited the dry goods store, that’s where he’d purchased his suit yesterday, and this morning he’d bought a bath and shave. While scraping his face, the barber had seen exactly what Sara had: his resemblance to Winston. Others would, too. He’d planned on using that to his advantage, and now was as good a time as any. Actually, the sooner the better.
Riding to the edge of town, where the lumber mill was located, Crofton maneuvered his way through the busy yard. The noise was immense, and he couldn’t help but be impressed. Two huge water wheels provided some of the power needed for the numerous saws, but there was also a large steam shed that generated other saws. The heat was intense, but it didn’t slow down the workers. The mill was a town in itself, with traffic, wagons empty and full, maneuvering about, and men, far more than he could quickly count, went about completing various jobs. Laborious jobs. A locomotive whistle sounded where it slowly chugged its way down the hill behind the mill. The long logs it carried were so large only three fit on the flat car behind the engine.
His father had never done anything on a small scale, but this lumber mill went beyond that. He’d been young, but Crofton remembered the mill in Ohio, the one his father had built there to supply wood for the railroad expansion back then. He also remembered how his father had waved a hand at that mill, saying someday that it all would be his.
This may not be Ohio, but that day had come.
Crofton frowned at his own thought. He wasn’t here to inherit a lumber mill. Why was he thinking that way? Because, no one but him needed to know that. That’s why. Convinced, he made his way toward the door on a large wooden structure that had the word Office painted in red. There he dismounted, tethered his horse and made his way to the open doorway. He entered the building, and took a deep breath.
The smell of fresh-cut wood filled his nostrils, and his mind, invoking more memories. Ones he’d long ago buried. How he’d loved visiting the mill with his father, and how the pride of walking beside him had puffed out his small chest back then.
The attention his slow ride through the yard had aroused wasn’t just outside, and Crofton pushed aside his childhood memories. The man standing before him was the one he’d seen with Sara at the mortuary yesterday and at the funeral today. Bugsley Morton wasn’t as old as Winston had been, but he was middle aged, maybe forty or so, and from the looks of him, considered himself in charge.
“If you’re here to place an order, Walter can help you,” Bugsley said, gesturing toward a counter.
Though he tried not to show it, shock was written all over Bugsley’s face. Much like the man standing behind the wide counter. Walter. He was as stiff as a corpse with eyes so wide they nearly popped out of his head.
Crofton glanced back to Bugsley. The man knew full well he wasn’t here to place an order, and was attempting to disguise his nervousness. He’d stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. The man saw exactly what Crofton wanted him to see. Exactly what Walter saw. A clear resemblance to Winston.
“We aren’t hiring, if it’s a job you’re after,” Bugsley said.
Crofton let a hint of a grin form while shaking his head. He didn’t know much about Bugsley Morton. The man hadn’t been a part of Winston’s pack back in Ohio, but Mel’s letters had said Morton was Winston’s right-hand man, had been for the past decade or so. That didn’t bother him. Neither a right-nor left-hand man meant anything compared to flesh and blood, and that was a card Crofton was more than prepared to use.
“I said—”
“I heard you.” Crofton kept one eye on the man while moving toward a set of stairs that led to the second floor.
“You can’t go up there.”
Crofton gave the man a solid once-over, from his shiny boots to his newly trimmed hair, but never detoured from walking toward the staircase. “Who’s going to stop me?” he asked. “You?”
“Matter of fact, yes. Me.” Bugsley stepped closer, but didn’t block the stairway.
Crofton had noticed the gun hanging on the man’s hip, and how Bugsley’s right hand hovered over the well-worn handle. That gun had known plenty of use, and the thought it may have been the one to end Mel’s life crossed Crofton’s mind. Briefly, for he knew that couldn’t have been possible. Mel had been shot from a distance, with a rifle.
“Go ahead then.” Crofton stepped onto the stairs and started to climb. Bugsley was far too curious to draw the gun or pull the trigger, and shooting a man in the back with witnesses nearby was the best way to get hanged.
A hallway led off the top step, was lit by a tall window at the far end and contained four doors, all closed. Crofton knew which one would have been his father’s, the last one on the left. It would host windows that not only looked over the back side of the mill, but up the hill, to where the view would show the big brick house.
He was right of course, but the room surprised him. There was the usual desk, shelves, table and chairs, a long sofa along the interior wall, a small stove in the outside corner and other necessities here and there, but things were out of place. Although it had been years, certain things about a man rarely changed. His father had been meticulous with his paperwork, and everything had always been put away, under lock and key when he left a room. That’s how his office back at the house had been.
Granted he had been dead for a few days, and it was expected someone else would need to take over the running of the business, but if that person respected the man Winston had been, they would have continued his practices.
A stack of maps were haphazardly spread across the table and several open ledgers sat on top of the desk, almost as if someone was searching through them for something particular, but had yet to find it. Whatever it was.
Bugsley was on his heels, so Crofton barely paused upon entering the room. He strode over to the sofa and took a moment to examine the pictures hanging along the wall. Family portraits of Winston, his wife and Sara, and again, there was the grainy photo of him as a child. It didn’t stir him as strongly as the one of Sara did. She’d been little, maybe five or six and looked like a cherub with her softly painted pink cheeks. The big picture hanging front and center had her in it, too, taken at the same time. In this one, she sat upon Winston’s lap while her mother stood behind them.
He let his gaze linger on his father in that portrait for a few minutes before he turned to Bugsley. “Uncanny resemblance, wouldn’t you say?”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Crofton took another glance at the picture before he moved toward the desk sitting at an angle in the corner. “You know who I am.”
“But that’s impossible,” Bugsley answered.
“Evidently not.” He walked around the desk to the window. It provided a spectacular view of the brick house on the hill. With the right eyepiece he’d be able to see inside the windows of the house. When thoughts of Sara, of which room was hers, attempted to wheedle their way into his mind, he shifted his gaze to the hillside.
“Winston said you were dead.”
“Perhaps I was,” Crofton answered. “To him.” He walked to the window on the other wall. This one overlooked the train tracks leading up the hill and into a thick forest. The trees were tall, and went on for as far as he could see. Winston had certainly picked out the right spot for his lumber mill. The mountainside appeared to have a never-ending supply of timber.
“Did he know?”
Crofton turned. Bugsley appeared more nervous. The truth must be hitting him, and he wasn’t liking it. “Know that I was alive?” Crofton asked.
“Yes.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Crofton took a step to the desk and flipped through a few pages of one of the open ledgers, not really seeing what was written on the pages, but pretending to. He’d wondered if his father had always known that he was alive. His mother claimed Winston knew and didn’t want anything to do with him, but she’d say most anything, truth or lie, depending on what suited her best. He’d long ago learned to never lay much on her word.
“I guess we’ll never know, will we?” Crofton closed the book, letting the snap of the cover echo through the room. He knew. Winston had known.
Bugsley stiffened. “Well, you can’t just waltz in here—”
“Yes,” Crofton said. “I can.”
Squaring his shoulders, Bugsley shook his head. “Winston left me in charge, every time he went out of town he left me in charge.”
“He’s not merely out of town this time, is he?” Crofton had seen enough to know what he was up against when it came to Bugsley Morton. The man was afraid of losing and wasn’t about to go down easily. The black hat that hung on the hook near the door was the same one he’d been wearing at the funeral. Winston may have left Bugsley in charge when he went out of town, but he obviously didn’t let the man in on every detail of his business. Some things never changed. Crofton had been counting on that.
Holding back a grin, he walked to the open doorway. “My lawyer will arrive later this week. Until then, business should continue as usual.”
“Whoa up there. You can’t—”
“Yes, I can.” Pausing long enough to tip the brim of his hat, Crofton said, “Good day, Mr. Morton.” Just because the opportunity was there, he added, “I expect you to put everything back where you found it.”
On the ground floor he nodded at Walter, who was still standing behind the counter, board stiff and staring at him like he was a ghost. In a sense he was. He hadn’t been Winston’s son in a long time, but it was time to reenter that role.
The weight on his shoulders seemed to lessen a bit as he stepped outside. The crisp mountain air was filled with the sweet smell of freshly cut wood, and more memories returned. For the first time in a long time, they didn’t make his gut tighten. The past no longer mattered nearly as much as the future.
Considering December had arrived, he’d expected snow this high up, and had appreciated the weather’s cooperation during his trek here. He hoped the warmer temperatures held out a while longer as he mounted his horse.
His next stop was the livery. He’d paid a few extra coins the past couple of nights to bed down in the hayloft. The owner had been more than happy to oblige, just as Mel had said in his letter.
While climbing the ladder into the loft, Crofton once again questioned if his father could have been behind Mel’s death. He’d gone back and forth with the idea for some time, and after meeting Bugsley Morton face-to-face, was leaning toward the possibility. Or maybe he was thinking Bugsley could be behind it. That would mean his father had been, too. Winston had always called the shots and that wouldn’t have changed.
He, however, had changed. He was no longer a kid being dropped at one school after the other, wishing his father hadn’t died. He was no longer a young man wondering why his father had abandoned him and why his mother lied about it, either. He was older and wiser, and knew his path had little to do with either parent. Once this railroad fiasco was over that is.
Crofton gathered his bundle of dirty clothes. He hadn’t worried about leaving them here, figured if someone took them, they needed an old shirt and pair of pants more than he did. But, he’d never left messes for others to clean up, and wasn’t going to start now. Perhaps because he’d been a product of someone’s mess his entire life.
After thanking the livery owner for his hospitality, who stared at him as if seeing double now that his face wasn’t covered with scraggly whiskers, Crofton made his way up the main street to Buster’s Saloon. Mel’s letter had said he was meeting a man there and would write more afterward. Of course, more never came. Instead of a letter, a week after his last post, Mel’s horse had wandered into the yard, still saddled. Gun still in the scabbard. A day later, Crofton had found Mel’s body. Halfway between home and Royalton. Shot in the back.
After tethering his horse to the hitching post, Crofton entered the saloon. Someone had preceded him. The silence that fell upon the crowded room told him who even before he saw Bugsley Morton at a table with three men dressed in suits. They could have been at the funeral, but his gut said they were dressed in suits because they were railroad men not mourners. The fourth stranger at the table wasn’t a mourner, nor a railroad man. He was a gunslinger. A well-known one. If rumors were correct, Woody Wilson was on the Santa Fe Railroad payroll.
Here for only one thing at the moment, Crofton walked to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. Holes were burning in his back, but he paid them no mind as the man behind the bar took the money he’d laid down and poured amber-shaded whiskey into a shot glass until it sloshed over the rim. After downing the whiskey in one gulp, Crofton set the glass down. “I’d like to buy a round.”
The barkeep frowned. “For who?”
Crofton twirled a finger in the air.
Frowning so deep his forehead had crevices, the barkeep asked, “The entire room?”
Crofton nodded.
“Why?” the man asked over the mumbling that circled the room.
Crofton slapped several bills on the counter, and pointed to his glass. “Line them up,” he said. “Just like that one.”
The barkeep shrugged and started setting out glasses. Like horses smelling water, men gravitated toward the bar. Crofton took his glass and stepped aside, making more room as the bartender poured whiskey into glasses from bottles in both hands.
“Step up, gentlemen,” Crofton said loudly. “I’d like to make a toast.”
Bugsley and the men at his table hadn’t moved. Crofton hadn’t expected them to, and made no point in singling them out until every other man in the saloon had made their way to the bar and now held a shot of whiskey.
“I’d like to make a toast.” Crofton held up his glass and looked at Bugsley. “To Winston Parks, may he rest in peace.”
Men shouting, “Hear, hear!” held up their glasses.
“He was one hell of a father!” Crofton tossed down his drink in one gulp again, and while others were choking and coughing, half because of the whiskey, half because of his toast, he walked over and set his glass on the table in front of Bugsley and then walked out the door.
Chapter Four (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
“Surely you aren’t going to wear that to dinner.”
“Of course I am,” Sara answered. Given a choice, she would have changed out of the black gabardine dress, but considering their dinner guest, she felt the dress she’d worn to the funeral was more than suitable.
Amelia opened her mouth, but must have changed her mind. After a heavy sigh, she muttered, “Suit yourself. Crofton should be here shortly.”
Glancing at the clock on the top shelf of the buffet that held the set of delicate china Winston had purchased for her mother several years ago, Sara said, “We’ll eat at six whether he’s here or not.”
Amelia finished setting the silverware on napkins beside all three plates before she glanced up. “It’s not his fault, you know.”
“I never said anything was his fault,” Sara pointed out. “I never said anything was anyone’s fault.”
“You’re acting like it is.”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Sara said, stepping forward to move the place setting from the head of the table to a chair on the side. Winston was not here, and no one, not even his son, would sit at the head of the table. “But I will tell you what I’m acting like. I’m acting like someone who just attended the funeral of her parents this morning and does not feel like having company for dinner.” The plate in her hand clattered against the table as she set it down. “Company of any kind.”
Her throat had thickened and no amount of swallowing helped ease the stinging. The pain inside wasn’t due to Crofton’s arrival, but blaming him for it would be easy. Anything would be easier than coming to grips with the idea of never seeing Mother again, of never seeing Winston.
The gentle touch of Amelia’s hand on her shoulder was more than she could take. The tears she’d been fighting to contain spilled forth. Sara spun around and hurried from the room. The air in her lungs burned as if she was suffocating, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t take a breath. She stumbled across the foyer, toward the door, needing air.
She opened the door, but blinded by tears, wasn’t sure what stopped her, not until firm hands gripped her upper arms.
“Hey there, slow down.”
The greeting and hold were so familiar that her knees wobbled and the tears came faster. Winston always said “Hey there,” and more than once he’d stopped her from running down the steps, telling her to slow down before she fell and broke something.
“Here, let’s go back inside.”
She shook her head against the tug on her arms. Air was once again entering her lungs, but her legs were too weak to move. The need to escape had left, but the pain hadn’t. So full of loss, she just wanted to collapse and cry. Cry until she couldn’t any more.
“Sit here then.”
She didn’t fight the help to move forward enough to step down onto the first step and sit on the porch floor. Wiping at the tears didn’t stop them from running down her cheeks, so she just covered her face with both hands and let them flow. At that moment in time, she truly didn’t care what Crofton Parks thought of that. Of her. Of anything.
He said nothing, but didn’t move, either. Just sat there beside her.
Eventually the heart-wrenching pain turned into a hollow ache, and her tears eased. She lifted her head, wiping at her cheeks with both hands. After blinking several times she could make out the barn and farther up the hill, the fenced-in area that held the fresh mound of dirt. The wave of sadness that washed over her was heavy, but she was too numb to react.
“It gets easier.”
“I know,” she replied. “Time heals.”
“In some ways,” he said quietly, “it does.”
Glancing sideways, just enough to see his profile, she said, “In other ways it doesn’t.”
He nodded.
She looked back over the yard and without the energy to do much more, simply stared up the hill. “I know that, too.” Not having anything in common with Crofton would have suited her, but not having an accident, a stupid, unbelievable accident, take the lives of her mother and Winston would have suited her, too. But she hadn’t had a choice, and still didn’t. In other words, this is what she had. A mound of dirt and a man who wanted Lord knows what.
The sigh that left her chest was thick and rather hopeless. However, her life had been worse. She and her mother hadn’t even had hope when Winston had arrived at their place back in Kansas. Although she couldn’t remember much about that time, her mother had said that with no money and very little food, they wouldn’t have made it through the month. Winston had been their miracle.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she told herself she did not need a miracle. Not like her mother had back then. The last thing she needed was a husband. She’d dreamed of getting married someday. Having children. But her mother had told her to be careful with those dreams. With her heart. That a wife’s duty was to be completely dedicated to her husband. To give up everything to follow him wherever he may lead her. That’s how she’d ended up in Kansas, alone, with a small child.
Sara had thought about that long and hard, and couldn’t imagine leaving home. Leaving Royalton, her parents, Amelia.
On that thought, she gave her face one final swipe with both hands and then slapped her knees. She had money, food, a home, and wouldn’t be giving any of that up. “Dinner’s getting cold.”
Without waiting for his help, she stood and stepped up onto the porch. He was just as quick, and was already holding open the door. Even that, his manners, irritated her. His presence did, too. Winston would have been so happy to see him, so happy to have him here, and knowing he’d prevented that happiness from ever happening went beyond irritation.
As soon as he walked in, he asked, “Is that fried chicken I smell?”
“Your favorite,” Sara seethed between her teeth. This would be a lot easier if Amelia didn’t welcome him so fully. Blame is what he deserved. Amelia should see that.
“That it is,” he said, pretending to sniff the air. “That it is.”
He wasn’t pretending. The smell of fried chicken filled the house. Amelia had probably stood over the pan with a towel, waving it about in hopes the scent would have made it all the way to town, telling him the meal was ready.
In the dining room he greeted Amelia with a hug, and if he thought it odd that they’d all be eating together, he didn’t comment. Amelia had eaten with the family ever since her husband Nate had died. Before then, the two of them had lived in the house between here and the mill. The one Alvin now lived in.
Sara took her seat on the one side of the table, and again, if Crofton found it odd that no one sat at the head of the table, he didn’t comment. He took the chair next to Amelia, and surprisingly, offered to say grace. Sara wasn’t sure why that surprised her, or why his heartfelt blessing, which wasn’t a rote one, was as equally surprising. Winston had never been a churchgoing man, but he had been God-fearing, so it was believable that his son was as well. If she wanted to believe such things, that is.
They’d no sooner passed around the platter of fried chicken and bowls of potatoes, gravy, beans, and bread when a knock sounded on the door.
Amelia set down her fork, “I’ll get it.”
Sara stood. “No, I will.” The other two had been visiting like old friends, which it appeared they were, and she’d already heard and seen enough to tell her there would be no convincing Amelia to agree with any notions of sending Crofton away. Back to where he came from, wherever that was.
With those thoughts filling her mind, Sara felt a scowl pulling on her brows by the time she opened the front door.
“Hello, Miss Parks,” Samuel Wellington said as she pushed open the screen door. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
For years everyone had assumed her last name was Parks instead of Johnson, and she’d never corrected them. Now wasn’t the time to start. “We have just sat down to eat,” she said. “Is there something you need, Samuel?”
He nodded, but didn’t apologize for the interruption. Instead, he shifted from foot to foot, much like he did when delivering things ordered from the general store his father owned.
Normally congenial to all, she wasn’t in an affable mood today. Might never be again. “Well, what is it?”
“Well...uh...I—I.” With a nod he spit out, “I’ve come to talk to you.”
His face had turned almost as red as his hair and his shuffling had increased.
“About what? Did Mother or Winston order something from your father? I can come by to pay for whatever it is tomorrow.”
“No, no, that’s not it. Not it at all.”
Growing frustrated, she asked, “Then what is?”
“Well, I...uh...well...uh...I’ve come to offer you my—my hand in marriage.”
He’d spit the last four words out so quickly it took her a second to decipher what he’d said. Once she did, a rattling shock raced through her so fast she didn’t have time to engage her brain before repeating, “Marriage?”
Samuel seemed to remember his hat at that moment and with a jolt, pulled it off his head to hold over his chest. “Yes, m-m-marriage.”
She recalled what Winston had told her about marriage—that any man trekking up that hill to ask for her hand had better be the best of the best. Samuel was not that—not at any stretch of the imagination. Except of course his mother’s. All Sara could think to say was, “Why?”
“Well, b-because folks are t-talking. Now that M-Mr. Parks is dead, y-you’ll n-need a husband.”
Winston’s statement about the best of the best had not been a guarded secret, and steam replaced her shock. “Folks are talking, are they?”
Tall and gangly, Samuel’s entire body seemed to nod, not just his head.
Although he was a couple years older than her, she’d always looked upon him as being much younger. Plenty of folks did. Therefore, she willed her nerves to remain calm. Drawing a deep breath helped. Gossipers had been talking since the accident, but she hadn’t imagined their topics would turn to her. Not in the sense of marriage. “Thank you, Samuel, but I can’t marry you. And...” She let the word stretch out while reminding herself to remain in check. People would naturally wonder what was to happen with the lumberyard and the railroad upon Winston’s death. The entire community depended upon them for their livelihoods. She couldn’t blame anyone for being anxious, or curious, however, her material status was not of their concern. “If you hear people talking, feel free to mention that I do not need a husband, and assure them they have no need to worry.”
“But you can’t—”
“I assure you I can.” Although she had no idea of what he’d been about to say she was unable to do, she was perfectly capable of many things. “And most certainly have no need for a husband.”
The way his shoulders slumped, she wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved.
“I—I’ll let you get back to your supper, then,” he said with barely a stutter. “B-but if you change your mind, I’d be obliged if you’d consider my offer.”
She bit the end of her tongue to stifle a promise she’d not be considering his offer now or ever. The fact Winston’s son sat at the dining room table did cross her mind. Briefly, for if by some cruel act of fate, Crofton did end up inheriting everything, she would not remain in Royalton. Watching him blunder Winston’s dream would be as devastating as the deaths she’d just experienced. A shudder made her tense her shoulder muscles. She had not considered that aspect—of what might happen to her if Crofton got what he came after. Where would she go? What would she do?
She hadn’t considered it, because it would not happen. “Goodbye, Samuel,” she said, spinning around to return to the dining room with the momentum of urgency. She would need to find a way to appease the townsfolk until she got herself on solid footing with the lumber mill, and despite Bugsley’s assurance that there was no need for her to speak with Winston’s lawyer, Ralph Wainwright, she would set up an appointment with him. Of course Bugsley hadn’t known about Crofton when he’d told Mr. Wainwright all was under control when the lawyer had come to the house to offer his condolences. None of them had known about Crofton.
Word traveled fast, and by morning she had no doubt everyone would know about Crofton. He had, after all, gone into town.
“Who was it?” Amelia asked as Sara entered the dining room.
“Just Samuel,” she said, taking her seat and waiting until Crofton sat back down before lifting her fork. His manners shouldn’t surprise her—he was Winston’s son. Maybe they irritated her more than surprised her. For that exact reason. That he was Winston’s son.
“What did he need? Had you ordered something?” Amelia asked.
Not answering, Sara turned a cold stare to their guest. “Where did you go this afternoon?”
He finished chewing and swallowed, before stating, “I told you, to see a man about a horse.”
This time around, hearing him use the line Winston often did lit a fireball in her stomach. Although she knew neither was the case, she asked, “What man? What horse?”
His stare remained steady. “The owner of the livery. I had to pay for my accommodations the past few days.”
“Your accommodations?” Amelia asked. “Surely you haven’t been staying at the livery stable.”
He offered Amelia a smile along with a glance. “I didn’t want to intrude, considering the circumstances.”
“Intrude?” Sara spat. “Circumstances?” Anger rarely got the best of her, but today was far from normal. She’d just buried her parents. “Do you think you aren’t intruding now? Do you think the circumstances have changed?”
“Sara!”
She didn’t so much as blink at Amelia’s admonishment. His eyes were locked on hers and she would not be the one to look away first.
“The circumstances changed the moment I rode into town and heard about Winston’s death,” he said.
Fully prepared to get to the bottom of his arrival, she asked, “Oh? Were you coming to see him?”
Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms and eyed her quizzically before eventually saying, “I was sure our paths would cross once I arrived.”
“Your paths would have crossed?” She repeated his answer as a question to let it roll around in her head for a moment. If he hadn’t been coming to see Winston, what had he come here for?
Amelia was more straightforward. “If it wasn’t to see your father, why did you come here?”
A smile tugged at Sara’s lips. It was about time Amelia questioned something about him. Sara lifted a brow, as he had earlier, and waited to hear his response.
His silence lingered so long she was just about to concede he wouldn’t answer when he opened his mouth.
“I came here to discover who murdered my friend.”
Regardless of the anger still fueling her system, the stone-coldness of his eyes and the gravel in his voice sent a chill up Sara’s spine.
“Murdered?” Amelia asked. “Here in Royalton? When? Who?”
The naturalness of how he laid a hand over the top of Amelia’s made Sara’s stomach churn. There was a clear connection between Amelia and Crofton. It might have lain sleeping beneath the surface for years, but had returned the moment the two had seen one another. Expecting anything less from Amelia would be impossible. She cared about people, even those she didn’t know, and inside Sara’s troubled mind, she knew Amelia more than cared for Crofton. She loved him. She’d spoken of him often, as if he’d been her own child. His death, or supposed death, had been as painful for Amelia as it had been for Winston.
That realization made Sara’s churning stomach sink. She would have no ally in Amelia when it came to fighting this man for Winston’s dream. Then again, she had no right to fight him. She had no claim to anything of Winston’s. Although she’d loved him like a father, and he’d loved her like a daughter, she wasn’t his rightful heir. Had no legal place to stand.
“Mel’s murder didn’t happen in Royalton,” he said, “but this was the last place he’d been.”
“Mel who?” she asked.
“Barton,” he said meticulously, almost as if it hurt. “Mel Barton.”
“I don’t know of any Bartons in the area,” Amelia said. “Do you, Sara?”
Never taking her eyes off Crofton, for his were still leveled on her, she shook her head. “No.”
“He wasn’t from around here,” Crofton said. “He was my partner. We share—shared several thousand acres of rangeland.”
Knowing the mountainous region around Royalton fairly well, Sara asked, “Where?”
“Arizona Territory,” he answered.
“Arizona!” Amelia squealed. “You live in Arizona and never once came to see me? How long have you been there?”
“About two years,” he answered. “I never came to see you because Winston didn’t want me to.”
A shiver rippled up Sara’s neck at the hint of anger in his tone, but it appeared Amelia didn’t notice it, or at least didn’t care. How could she be so blind to this man and his actions? He clearly didn’t care about her, or his father. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.
“That’s not true. Winston would have been overjoyed to see you,” Amelia said. “Purely overjoyed.”
Although no one had touched their food the last few minutes, Crofton pushed his plate toward the center of the table, as if signaling his appetite had left him. There was a twitch in the center of his cheek as he turned to look at Amelia. “Evidently not. I know you were committed to Winston, and don’t want to believe certain things about him, but my father did not want to see me. Did not want to acknowledge I was alive.”
Sara had her own opinion on that, but this conversation was clearly between Crofton and Amelia, so chose to remain silent. In her mind, though, she couldn’t ignore the fact that Winston would never have denied seeing his son. When Hilton had died she’d seen Winston cry and mourn the child’s death deeply. It had to have been that way when he’d heard of Crofton’s death, too.
With an unusual show of anger, Amelia threw her napkin on the table. “That’s impossible. I won’t believe it for a minute. Not a single one, I tell you. Your father loved you and would have wanted to see you. Don’t you dare sit here and tell me otherwise. I saw the anguish that man went through all those years ago, how it hung with him, and I know how happy he would have been to know you were alive.”
Crofton had remained quiet during Amelia’s fiery outburst, but had pulled a pocketbook out of the suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair, and as soon as she’d closed her mouth, he handed something to her.
Itching to know what was on the slip of paper, Sara leaned closer to the table. From the looks of the tattered edges, Crofton had been carrying it with him for some time.
“What’s this?” Amelia asked.
“Open it.”
She unfolded the paper and frowned as she read whatever it held. Slowly lifting her gaze to Crofton, she opened her mouth and then closed it.
“Speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”
Sara balled her hand into a fist to keep it from shooting across the table to snatch the paper from Amelia. Crofton must have sensed that because he waved a hand in her direction. Following his unspoken command, Amelia handed the piece of paper across the table. Suddenly apprehensive, not overly sure she wanted to know what it said, Sara took the paper gingerly.
Western Union Telegraph Company was printed in large letters across the top along with a paragraph of rules and regulations in much smaller print. Below that, someone had written on the printed lines, noting that the message had been received at 6:48 p.m. on the twelfth of April 1879—more than six years ago—in Baltimore, and that it had been sent from Royalton.
She had to swallow at the lump forming in her throat before letting her eyes go lower. The ink on the well-tattered and thin-at-the-folds note was faded, but readable. It was to M. Hammond, and the message below that was simple.
Impossible. Crofton Parks died years ago. Do not contact me again.
W. Parks.
Handing the paper back to Crofton, she said, “I’m assuming this is a telegraph in response to one sent to Winston. Who is M. Hammond?”
“A judge in Baltimore.”
“Why did a judge in Baltimore send a telegraph to Winston?”
Crofton was in the midst of reasoning how he wanted to answer that question when once again a knock sounded on the front door. He wasn’t so deep in thought he missed a flash of disgust in Sara’s eyes. She could have been disappointed to have their conversation disrupted, but he sensed it was more than that.
“Is that Samuel returning?” Amelia asked. “Did you order something from Wellington’s?”
“No,” Sara answered. “I didn’t order anything from Wellington’s.”
Wellington’s was the mercantile, but that didn’t explain why her hands shook when she laid her napkin on the table.
“I’ll go see who it is,” she said with a ragged sigh.
Crofton waited until she rounded the corner of the dining room before pushing away from the table. He paused in the arched doorway and everything inside him hardened at the sound of a man’s voice. Extending one arm, he braced himself against the narrow wall of the dining room archway and willed his muscles to relax while deliberately capturing Bugsley Morton’s gaze as the man entered the house.
Chapter Five (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
Upon spying him, Bugsley turned a crimson shade of red, and Crofton almost cracked a smile. Instead, to prove who was in charge, he gave a single nod. “Morton.”
Bugsley’s nostrils flared, but he managed to hide anything else as he turned to Sara. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“We’re fine,” she said.
“I see you have company,” Bugsley said.
Crofton caught a chortle before it expelled. If Bugsley thought that attitude would get, or perhaps keep, him on Sara’s good side, he was a buffoon. From what he’d encountered so far, a man would have better odds going up against a cross-eyed bull with a lasso than using that condescending tone with her.
“Yes, we do,” she said coldly. “Have you met...Crofton?”
He didn’t miss the pause before she said his name, almost as if saying it grated her nerves down to the last one.
“I’ve had the...pleasure,” Bugsley answered.
Crofton did let out a laugh. Turning to Sara, he explained, “Mr. Morton was at the lumber mill when I stopped by there earlier, and I saw him again at the saloon.”
Her frown let him know what she thought of Bugsley being at the saloon. The only woman he’d ever met that didn’t mind a man stopping by a saloon was June. Thinking of her made him think of Mel, June’s brother, his best friend, and that brought his full attention right back to where it should be. “I hope my toast to my father didn’t interrupt your business with those railroad men and their gunman.”
While Bugsley glared at him, Sara glared at Bugsley. “What railroad men?”
“They were in town for the funeral,” Bugsley answered with an annoyed tone.
Crofton knew all about being annoyed, and this man increased every ounce of it in him. He also knew a liar when he saw one.
“I didn’t see them at the funeral,” she said.
“Perhaps they didn’t want to intrude,” Crofton offered, knowing that would get even more of a rise out of her.
He hadn’t realized Amelia was nearby until she jabbed him in the back.
“We’ve just finished eating, Bugsley,” Amelia said, skirting around Crofton as she walked out of the dining room. “But are about to have dessert if you’d care to join us.”
“Thank you,” Bugsley answered. “But I just need to speak with Sara for a moment and will then be on my way.”
Like the mother hen Crofton remembered, Amelia stopped directly in front of Sara and shook her head. “Not tonight. Sara just buried her mother and father. There is nothing you need to speak to her about that can’t wait until tomorrow, or the next day.”
Crofton was holding his breath, waiting for Sara to spout off, but as the seconds ticked by he realized that wasn’t going to happen. Surprisingly. Then again, perhaps not. Amelia’s hand was only heavy when it was loaded with love. He remembered that, and the woman’s words caused an inkling of guilt to tickle his stomach. Sara had loved her mother and Winston, and the day had to have been a hard one for her.
“Now, as I said,” Amelia continued, “you’re welcome to join us for dessert if you’d like.”
That clearly was not what Bugsley would like, and Crofton never took his eyes off the man.
Bugsley was staring back, and a challenge appeared in his eyes when he said, “Thank you, dessert sounds wonderful.”
“Right this way, then,” Amelia said, hooking her arm through Bugsley’s.
It was clear the other man would much prefer to escort Sara, but obviously had no choice. With a nod toward Morton, Crofton pushed off the wall and moved forward, making a clear point that he would assist Sara into the dining room. Anticipating she might not approve, he walked around her and closed the inside door, and then rather than take her arm, merely waved toward the dining room.
She gave him a solid glare, and then with her chin in the air, walked toward the arched doorway. He lagged a step behind. In this instance, he’d rather have her for an ally than an enemy. His gut had signaled an instant dislike of Morton from the first time he’d seen the man leading Sara down the steps of the mortuary. If you asked him, Morton could easily be behind Mel’s death, but a gut feeling wasn’t proof, and that was what he needed. Proof.
When Sara paused in the dining room doorway, he gently laid a hand against her back to move her forward. Understanding the reason for her hesitation, he stepped around her and grasped the back of the chair Bugsley was about to pull out. The head of the table had purposefully been left empty while they ate, and would remain so. Call it respect for his father, or empathy for Sara, either way, Crofton placed a foot against the chair leg, making sure it wouldn’t be pulled out.
There was a brief showdown of eyes only before Bugsley stepped to the side of the table. Amelia hustling through the door to the kitchen with a tray may have been the reason, but Crofton preferred to take pleasure in the fact the other man had conceded because of him.
Sara had entered the kitchen and returned with a second tray. Hers contained a silver coffeepot, four cups with saucers, cream and sugar containers. Amelia was already setting out the four plates holding slices of pie. Crofton stood on one side of the table, with Bugsley straight across from him. They were still sizing up one another. The man may have been Winston’s right-hand man, but something said he hadn’t been as welcome in the family home as he had been in the lumber mill. Or at least he hadn’t had free rein in the home. Perhaps he hadn’t at the lumber mill, either. Until lately that is, which, in itself, was interesting.
Amelia pulled out a chair next to the other man, and though Crofton could tell Sara wasn’t impressed, she walked around the table. He held her chair, and once she was settled, sat down next to her.
“I must say, Amelia,” Crofton started while she poured coffee for all four of them. “Your fried chicken was even better than I remembered, and I’d lay bets this pie is going to be beyond that even.”
Her cheeks flushed as she scooted his cup closer to him. “I’ve had practice. Fried chicken is Sara’s favorite, too.”
He lifted a brow as he glanced toward Sara. She made no comment, in fact, barely glanced his way.
“Apple pie is her favorite, too,” Amelia said.
He picked up his fork. “I guess we have a lot in common.”
“I’d surmise that fried chicken and apple pie are favorites for many people,” Sara said. “Including Winston.”
If she was trying to get his goat, it didn’t work. He remembered many things about his father, including his likes and dislikes. “Did he still sprinkle a teaspoon of sugar over the top of his pie?”
He’d addressed the question toward Amelia, and the way she giggled and glanced across the table had him turning toward Sara in time to see her drop the spoon back into the sugar dish. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll take it when you’re finished. It always adds the perfect touch, don’t you think?”
She quickly took the spoon and sifted sugar across the top of her pie before setting the spoon back in the dish and passing it to him.
“I don’t believe Sara needs such reminders this evening,” Bugsley said.
“Oh, I disagree,” Amelia piped in. “Wonderful memories are exactly what she needs.”
Crofton didn’t take the time to consider whether he agreed that’s what Sara needed or not. His mind was set on disagreeing with whatever Bugsley said or did. The man needed to understand who had the upper hand. “Did Winston still like his beef red, not pink?” he asked Amelia.
“Oh, yes, the redder the better, and that was hard sometimes, timing things so precisely,” Amelia answered.
“Did he alter his six o’clock meal time?” Crofton asked, slicing off the end of the triangle-shaped piece of pie with his fork.
“No,” Sara supplied. “The evening meal was always served at six.”
“And lunch at noon,” Crofton added before lifting his fork to his mouth. The pie was as good as he remembered, just as the chicken had been. He hadn’t been exaggerating about that, nor had he forgotten Amelia’s cooking. The first few years in England he’d thought he might starve. Nothing had compared to the meals she’d prepared. He gave an inflated groan, just to let her know his appreciation.
Amelia giggled and turned toward Bugsley. “Is the pie not to your liking?”
“No—yes,” he said, taking a bite. “It’s very good. I just haven’t had much of an appetite.”
Crofton bit back a grin at how Amelia frowned.
“Not eating isn’t good for the body, or the mind, no matter what the circumstances,” she said.
Perhaps he hadn’t given Amelia enough credit all these years. He may have been only a child, but he never recalled Amelia speaking ill of anyone, nor openly reproofing them. Hearing how she’d spoken about his mother earlier today had surprised him, except for the fact his mother deserved the scorn considering her actions. However, it appeared Amelia had a bushel of contempt for Bugsley Morton, and that increased his curiosity.
While taking another bite of pie, he let his gaze wander to Sara, wondering what her feelings were towards Bugsley. They had appeared friendly toward one another at the mortuary yesterday, but considering the circumstances, she’d needed a friend. Bugsley would have put himself into that roll as easily as he had put himself into Winston’s office at the lumber mill.
Counting on Amelia to put him in an even closer position, Crofton asked her, “Remember when you brought Sampson home for me?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, but I didn’t exactly bring him home. He followed me. Poor thing was practically starved to death.”
“Who was Sampson?” Sara asked.
“A dog,” he answered. “The best one ever.”
“And biggest,” Amelia said. “He ate more than Crofton, which I didn’t think was possible. And goodness but that dog had hair. Long black hair that stuck to everything.”
Crofton laughed. “Good thing it was black and not white, otherwise we’d never have made it to church in time.” Turning to Sara, he explained, “She used to pick the hair off my clothes the entire way to town.”
“I swear that dog slept on your Sunday clothes—it was as if he thought that might keep you at home come Sunday morning.” Glancing at Sara, Amelia continued, “That dog went everywhere with Crofton. He’d walk him to school every morning, and then come home and lie on the porch until it was time to go back and walk him home. But I put my foot down when it came to church. He was so big he scared the daylights out of people.”
“He was big,” Crofton said. In all his years and travels, he’d never seen another dog as big as Sampson had been.
“And thank goodness he was,” Amelia said. “You would have drowned if not for that dog. Remember that?”
With his mouthful of pie, he could only nod.
“I should never have agreed to take you fishing. That river was much too high.” Once again including Sara in the conversation, Amelia said, “His hook got caught in the weeds and rather than break the line, he jumped in the water to unhook it. You know I can’t swim, and was scared to death. Crofton was only about seven. He was a good swimmer, but the current was strong because of the high water and before I knew it, he was heading downstream. Sampson ran along the bank until he was ahead of Crofton and then jumped in, swimming out for Crofton to grab a hold of him.”
“I did more than grab a hold,” Crofton said, having forgotten the incident until she brought it up. “I leaped onto his back.”
“He must have been a large dog,” Sara said.
“He was,” Crofton assured.
“Winston claimed the dog was bigger than a pony,” Amelia said. “He always joked about putting a saddle on him.”
Crofton had forgotten that, too. “We did once,” he said. “Father said not to tell you because you’d take a switch to both of us. Sampson wasn’t impressed so we never did it again.”
“Oh, you two,” Amelia said with a giggle. “What one of you didn’t think of, the other did. I said it was like having two children at times.” Shaking her head, she added, “No wonder that dog wouldn’t sleep in the barn.”
“That and my bed was far more comfortable.”
“Oh, and did your mother go into a tizzy over that. Every time she returned home, she’d have a conniption fit over that dog being in the house,” Amelia said.
That was something else Crofton had forgotten about. His mother’s ire at Sampson. All of a sudden, he could hear his father’s voice, Leave the boy and his dog alone, Ida.
“Return home?” Sara said with brows knit together. “Where was your mother?”
Crofton shrugged, he didn’t remember much about his mother back then, considering she was never around, but he had heard her side of things. “Baltimore, usually,” he said. “Her father worked for the B & O Railroad, the Baltimore and Ohio, and was ailing. She had to make several trips to see to his care.”
Though she hid it well, Crofton heard the huff that Amelia let out and saw the tightness of her lips. Bugsley, who had remained quiet the entire time, saw it, too, and Crofton was sure the man made a mental note of that.
The man pushed away from the table. “The pie was excellent, thank you.”
Amelia rose to her feet at the same time Bugsley did. “You two finish your coffee,” she said. “I’ll see Mr. Morton to the door.”
Crofton waited for Sara to protest, while considering if he should offer to walk Morton to the door. Amelia hadn’t changed much over the years, and he could tell she wanted the man gone without speaking to anyone. He wondered if that included him.
When Sara offered no protest, Bugsley said, “You and I will need to discuss a few things, Sara. Perhaps I could stop by tomorrow?”
“That will be fine,” she answered.
The other two left the room, and though his plate was empty and his coffee cold, Crofton didn’t attempt to rise.
“More coffee?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” he replied, wondering what his next steps should be. In his mind, he’d planned on being offered lodging at the house, but at the moment was feeling a bit intrusive. Perhaps it would be better if he got a room at the hotel. However, considering he wanted the entire town to view him as Winston’s son, staying here was an important factor.
The subtle silence that hovered over the table was broken when Sara asked, “What happened to Sampson?”
Crofton had wondered about that for years. He’d felt utterly abandoned that day all those years ago. Hadn’t understood why his father had taken Sampson. With a shrug, he said, “He came West with my father and Amelia and Nate.”
“No, he didn’t.” Having wasted no time in seeing Bugsley to the door, Amelia was already walking back into the dining room. “We left him with you—your father insisted upon it.”
Memories flowed stronger than they had in years, and he clearly remembered coming home from school that day to find Sampson gone. He also recalled that his father had driven him to school in the buggy that morning, telling him all about Colorado during the ride. How they were going there to start another lumber mill, larger than the one in Ohio, and that as soon as the house was built, he’d be back to get him and his mother. Sampson had trotted along beside the horse. The memory of the last time he’d seen his father and Sampson was as clear right now as it had been back then. He’d stood in the school yard, watching his father drive away with Sampson running alongside the buggy. From then on, he had few memories. Sadness had clouded his young mind, along with train rides and hotels, and eventually the long ship ride to England. After arriving there, he’d chosen to forget more than he chose to remember. He lifted a shoulder. “I guess he must have died. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?” Sara asked.
He shook his head.
“Did he die in the fire?” she asked.
Having learned his mother had informed Winston he’d died when their Ohio house caught fire, he shook his head. “There was no fire. At least not while we lived there. I did stop by the old place on my way West. The barn was the same, but the house wasn’t.”
“Yes, there was a fire,” Amelia said. “It burned the house to the ground. Winston traveled back there and spoke to people about the fire. He also saw your grave, had a big headstone made for it.”
Having seen it himself, he told Amelia, “The headstone is in Baltimore.”
“Because that is where Ida claimed you were buried. She said you’d been burned in the house fire and she sent you to Baltimore for medical help, and that’s where you died. She buried you next to her father. Your grandfather.” Amelia sat back down at the table. “Where were you during that time?”
Crofton only had fragments of memories during that time, and his mother hadn’t enlightened him even when he’d asked. “I honestly don’t know.” Having strolled down memory lane—a place he rarely liked to visit—long enough, Crofton stood. “I thank you ladies for a wonderful,” nodding toward Amelia, he added, “and delicious, evening.”
Frowning, Amelia asked, “Where are you going?”
No longer wanting an invitation, he said, “I must acquire accommodations for the night at the hotel.”
“You will not,” Amelia stated. “You’ll be staying here. We have plenty of room, don’t we, Sara?”
She’d risen and was gathering dishes from the table. “Mr. Parks may find the accommodations at the hotel more hospitable.”
“He will not,” Amelia said. “There are three extra bedrooms upstairs, and he will use one of them. No arguments.” Piling dishes on the second tray, she added, “From either of you.”
Sara felt Amelia’s glare and Crofton’s curious stare on her back, and ignored them both as she carried the tray into the kitchen. She also heard Amelia continue insisting Crofton stay at the house. At the moment, her mind was too full of other things to care where he slept. He was part of what was dancing about inside her head—especially why his mother would have told Winston he’d died when he hadn’t. The other part of her was wondering about Bugsley. He’d seemed nervous tonight, and subdued. Of course the conversation and Amelia’s attitude could have been part of it. Amelia hadn’t liked Bugsley since he’d taken Nate’s place as Winston’s right-hand man.
Bugsley had worked for Winston before Nate had died during the rail road wars, but had become more essential afterward. Therefore, Sara could understand a small portion of Amelia’s dislike, but she’d never made it quite as obvious before.
Scraping clean the plates, her mind shifted once more—to that of Sampson. She’d often thought having a dog would be fun, but had never asked for one. Mother would never have approved. Life should focus on what was needed not wanted.
It was still that way.
“Well, that’s settled,” Amelia said, setting down the other tray. “Crofton will stay in the room at the end of the hall.”
Sara crossed the room to the stove to dip hot water from the reservoir into the washing bowl. Arguing wouldn’t solve anything; furthermore, he had more right to be in Winston’s house than she did, a fact that truly didn’t settle well.
“Now who could that be?”
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Lauri Robinson
A ghost of Christmas past…Heiress Sara Johnson is shocked when the step-brother she believed was dead returns to Colorado to claim his inheritance! It might be the season of good will, but Crofton Parks seems determined to destroy his late father’s empire.Sparks fly as Crofton and Sara are forced to work together, and soon she begins to uncover the secrets behind his disappearance and need for revenge. But a far more unsettling discovery is the desire he awakens in Sara…this roguish rancher might just claim her heart by Christmas!
A ghost of Christmas past...
Heiress Sara Johnson is shocked when the stepbrother she believed was dead returns to Colorado to claim his inheritance! It might be the season of goodwill, but Crofton Parks seems determined to destroy his late father’s empire.
Sparks fly as Crofton and Sara are forced to work together, and soon she begins to uncover the secrets behind his disappearance and need for revenge. But a far more unsettling discovery is the desire he awakens in Sara. This roguish rancher might just claim her heart by Christmas!
“I don’t deserve to inherit any of Winston’s holdings. You’re his son. His blood relative. And I’m—”
“Not up to the challenge?” Crofton asked.
“But Winston would have wanted you to have it,” she said, with an exuberant amount of passion. “I know he would have.”
Crofton ran both hands over his thighs. When she got all emotional he wanted to wrap his arms around her, but he couldn’t. If he did that he might kiss her. Not a peck on the cheek, but really kiss her. Where the hell had these yearnings come from? He’d never been known for his chivalry, and he had kissed more than his fair share of maidens, but this was out of the ordinary even for him. As was the misery it provided. She was a young innocent girl, with more on her plate than she could handle, and all he could think of was her. Kissing her. Holding her. Protecting her.
Author Note (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
Ideas for stories come to me in many ways. I’ve dedicated this book to one of my granddaughters because she was behind my inspiration for Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret. While she was at our house one day we watched a cute cartoon about a little girl whose mother married a king, turning the little girl from a commoner into a princess overnight. I found that concept intriguing, and that gave birth to Sara Johnson Parks—a girl who was born in a dirt dugout in Kansas and didn’t own a pair of shoes until she was five, when her mother married a lumber baron. Upon the death of her stepfather Sara becomes the richest woman in Royalton, Colorado. But that is also when Crofton Parks appears. The stepbrother she believed had died as a child…
I hope you enjoy Sara and Crofton’s story!
Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret
Lauri Robinson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A lover of fairytales and cowboy boots, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men—and women—who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset…or kick them off for other reasons. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home, and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren. Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com (http://www.laurirobinson.blogspot.com), facebook.com/lauri.robinson1 (https://facebook.com/lauri.robinson1), or twitter.com/LauriR (https://twitter.com/LauriR).
Books by Lauri Robinson
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
Daughters of the Roaring Twenties
The Runaway Daughter (Undone!)
The Bootlegger’s Daughter
The Rebel Daughter
The Forgotten Daughter
Stand-Alone Novels
Christmas Cowboy Kisses
‘Christmas with Her Cowboy’
The Major’s Wife
The Wrong Cowboy
A Fortune for the Outlaw’s Daughter
Saving Marina
Her Cheyenne Warrior
Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret
Mills & Boon Historical Undone! ebooks
Testing the Lawman’s Honour
The Sheriff’s Last Gamble
What a Cowboy Wants
His Wild West Wife
Dance with the Rancher
Rescued by the Ranger
Snowbound with the Sheriff
Never Tempt a Lawman
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
To my granddaughter, Hayley.
Love you to the moon and back!
Contents
Cover (#ud11d0016-ea9e-5f64-bf91-eb2d1c77a4e1)
Back Cover Text (#u8d159cf3-90eb-5962-ab2c-cc6d0056df2a)
Introduction (#u9d6e67db-cbdd-5651-9f16-a4fefdde301a)
Author Note (#u74c3fde5-cdfb-56c0-9af1-b597968d7770)
Title Page (#u1d446963-d580-5b1d-a45d-fb8d21b373f8)
About the Author (#uea244380-7cfe-5faf-a241-bc88b7f98253)
Dedication (#u5d244c3b-afed-5a42-bc13-733acbaa1f92)
Chapter One (#u267c189a-f0f3-5898-a15b-8fded0460e56)
Chapter Two (#u572aa4d2-28d7-5a9c-a22e-72fc59e5d8ca)
Chapter Three (#u8ff23b5d-9096-5044-a1fd-27b7f3f14941)
Chapter Four (#u38ea7a8d-f050-58b9-b7ab-922214bd172b)
Chapter Five (#u45420567-31a4-5847-b7a6-d3dfb6efd015)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
Royalton, Colorado, 1885
There were several ways to play the hand that had been dealt to him. All of them would benefit him. That, of course, was the main object—benefitting him—and he would play it right. Not could. Would. Just as he always did.
Crofton Parks lit the cigarette he’d been twirling between his thumb and forefinger and leaned against the side of the building to ponder his options. Smoking wasn’t a habit he partook of regularly, but a man with a smoldering stick between his lips could stand around doing nothing but dragging in smoke and no one would give him a second look. While a stranger staring at the mortuary across the street would catch attention. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Attention. It would come later. At the moment, anonymity would benefit him the most.
White with a black door and shutters framing the windows, the mortuary was new, as were most of the buildings in town. Not surprising. Becoming a railroad hub, the town had doubled in size the past couple of years, and would keep growing. The lumber mill would continue to prosper, supplying all the houses and businesses the newcomers would build.
Crofton flicked off the ashes and lifted the cigarette to his lips for another draw. Through the smoke that swirled in the crisp air, he witnessed a woman open the door of the building she’d entered a short time ago. Leave it to Winston Parks—his good old flesh-and-blood father—to throw yet another boulder in his pathway. Another loop around the ankle. As if all the others hadn’t been enough. At least this one wasn’t an eyesore, or not from a distance anyway.
Disgusted by his own thoughts, Crofton dropped the cigarette to the ground and smashed the smoldering end deep into the dirt with the toe of his boot.
A man twice the woman’s age, which Crofton knew to be twenty as of October, climbed down from a buggy to meet her as she walked down the steps of the mortuary. Once he arrived at her side, she leaned her head against the man’s shoulder for a brief moment, and then straightened. With a shake of her head, as if that gave her fortitude, she squared her shoulders and marched forward. The man lagged behind momentarily, but then quickly caught up with her.
With the sole of one boot braced against the wall behind him and head down, fiddling with the tobacco pouch as if preparing to roll another cigarette, Crofton peered from beneath the brim of his hat to watch the man help the woman into the buggy.
The man climbed in, but Crofton remained still, waiting until the buggy turned the corner and disappeared. Then he glanced both ways, tucked the tobacco pouch into his pocket and crossed the street. It was time he said goodbye to his father. This time it would be for good.
* * *
“There will come a time, child, when you’ll remember this day, not with pain and sorrow, but with peace.”
The aching inside her was so profound that every movement hurt, yet Sara managed to nod in response to the bittersweet words Reverend Borman whispered in her ear. She understood that life went on, despite death and hardships. She’d lived through it before. Perhaps if she’d been older when her father had died she’d be able to remember how long the numbness lasted. For how many days tears would burst forward without warning, or how long the emptiness inside would remain.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the burning sting and bit her lips together. There were no memories to assure her the pain would ease. No memories of her real father. All that came forward were the things her mother had told her about that time in their lives. How little they’d had, and how far they’d come—all because of Winston Parks.
Older now, and in many ways wiser, Sara knew that no matter how long the pain, how deep the loss or how the numbness lingered, there was no time for her to mourn. A child born in a dirt dugout on the Kansas prairie, who hadn’t owned a pair of shoes until she was five, was now the richest woman in town. Along with the wealth bequeathed upon her by the deaths of her mother and stepfather came responsibilities. Ones she couldn’t ignore even long enough to grieve their passing.
That’s what her mother would have wanted. For her to continue to pay homage to Winston for the life he’d provided them, and so many others.
She knelt down and laid the bouquet of yellow mums, that despite the cooler weather, were still blooming in her mother’s garden, on top of the large mound of dirt. Beneath were two coffins, side by side, in one grave. As soon as the stone arrived from Denver, there would be one granite marker, bearing the names of Winston and Suzanne Parks, describing them as loving husband and wife.
Years from now, looking upon the headstone, people wouldn’t know both Winston and Suzanne had been married before. No one would know the anguish and loss they’d each suffered prior to finding one another. Or the strength of the love they’d shared.
Fresh tears formed. Winston had not only loved her mother, he’d loved her, too. He’d treated her as a daughter from the day she’d moved into his home, and in many ways, he’d transformed her from a pauper to a princess. That’s how her mother had described the changes that had happened because of Winston, and why they needed to behave properly—to be women he could be proud of—and the importance of remaining grateful for everything he’d done at all times. The only way she could return his love now was to assure his dream came true.
After adjusting the white ribbon tying the flower stems together, Sara rose, and with a nod in Reverend Borman’s direction, stepped back to stand amongst the few townsfolk who’d traveled up the steep mountainside from the church in town to the grave site on the homestead Winston had settled upon years ago. The service had been beautiful, and the pews packed with people, but Bugsley had suggested this part of the service should be private, that the last thing Sara needed was a house full of mourners. She’d agreed with him, even though it had left a knot in her stomach. The townsfolk had loved her mother and Winston as deeply as she.
Once the final prayer was recited, Sara turned and started walking down the hill toward the house, pausing now and again to accept a hug or word of comfort as people meandered toward their buggies and saddled mounts.
Hilda Austin’s heavy sobbing forced her to remain in the woman’s embrace a bit longer than most, and offer comforting words of her own.
“Hush, now,” Sara whispered, recalling how her mother had responded to such situations over the years. “They are at peace, and together.”
“I’m just going to miss her so much,” Hilda sobbed. “I’ll never have another friend like her.”
“We’ve both suffered great losses.” Sara’s gaze went to the three-story brick house that still had the ability to awe her as it had the first day she’d seen it. From that day onward, she’d never wanted for anything. Her throat threatened to close up, and she had to swallow in order to say, “Keeping happy memories close these next few weeks is what we must do. It’ll help.”
Hilda sniffled and stepped back to wipe her nose with an embroidered hanky. “Look at me. I’m blubbering away when you’re the one’s who’s lost her momma. You poor child—you’re all alone now.”
Sara’s throat swelled shut. Blinking back tears, she nodded and started for the house again. Bugsley was right. She didn’t need a house full of people. There wasn’t time to dwell on the fact that she was completely alone. She wasn’t. Mrs. Long wouldn’t leave. Amelia Long had been managing Winston’s house for decades and this morning promised to continue working here until she was too old to knead bread. Bugsley was here, too. He’d worked for Winston for years, and promised he’d help her with everything. She’d forever be grateful to him for being at her side the past few days. He’d kept her strong, and she’d needed that.
It was Bugsley who appeared at her elbow before she was all the way down the hill. Sara didn’t have to offer him a smile. He wouldn’t expect it, and that felt good.
“Come,” he said softly while tucking her arm through his. “You’ve had a rough day.”
His wool suit was as black as her gabardine dress and his boots recently shined. Something that probably hadn’t happened since the last funeral he’d attended.
Sara took a deep breath, drawing strength and resolve in understanding that she wasn’t the only person who’d experienced such devastating pain. The Williams children had lost their father just last week. Bugsley hadn’t gone to the funeral, but she and her mother had, and Winston, who had slipped into the recent widow’s hand an envelope containing a sum of money to help the family through their hard time. Sara was grateful that part wasn’t an issue for her. Just the opposite in fact. She had more money than she knew how to handle. That would soon change. She’d learn how to handle the money, and invest it for the future of Royalton.
Not entirely sure how she’d complete that daunting task, she said, “It was a lovely service.”
“Yes, it was,” Bugsley said. “I’ll have a donation sent to the church tomorrow.”
“I already made a donation for the services,” she said. “Yesterday, when I gave Reverend Borman the selection of songs for today.”
“I told you I’d take care of things for you,” Bugsley said.
“I know,” she answered. “And I appreciate your help, but there were some things I wanted to do myself. Needed to do.”
“All right,” he said, patting her arm. “But I’m here to handle everything else.”
There was no doubt she’d need his help. She didn’t have the knowledge it would take to run the lumber mill and negotiate the contracts with the railroad, but she was astute and a fast learner, and wasn’t going to shy away from any part of her duties. She’d stayed up late the last two nights, studying maps and contracts, and a plethora of other paperwork in Winston’s office, but she now felt she knew less about what to do rather than more. She wasn’t about to give up, though, or ask for help. Not yet. One couldn’t ask for help until one knew what help was needed. “You’ll be the first person I seek when I need assistance,” she said. “I promise.”
He stiffened slightly but held his silence until they arrived at the house and she looked up. His cheeks were ruddy from shaving off his scruffy whiskers for the day. He’d gotten a haircut, too. White skin showed where his brown hair had been snipped short around his ears. He wasn’t what most would call handsome, but he was dedicated and that was what she needed above all else.
“You need some rest,” he said with a gentle smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Unless you want me to stay—maybe you don’t want to be alone?”
Her gaze roamed to the house. To the flower bushes beside the steps, the set of white wicker furniture situated in the corner of the massive front porch and the wide front door complete with a screen door to let the air in on warm days. It could be warm today. She couldn’t tell. The chill that had settled inside her, clear to her bones, was too encompassing, even wearing the heavy black dress and cape. Fighting off a shiver, Sara answered, “I won’t be alone. Mrs. Long is here.”
“She’s still up the hill,” he said. “Talking.”
“But will be along shortly.” Pulling her hand out of the crook of his elbow, Sara drew a fortifying breath. Mrs. Long had been upset about not hosting a gathering after the funeral, giving people the opportunity to mourn and share memories. Looking at the empty house, Sara had to wonder if she should have sided with Amelia rather than Bugsley. Perhaps entering the front door would be easier with others nearby. The decision had been made, though, and she had no choice but to abide by it. To go forward. Alone. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she told Bugsley.
She entered the house without looking back. It would be easy to ask him to step in and see to everything. Too easy. Turning, she closed the inside door, thankful it provided a barrier, making it harder to change her mind. Winston had never let her or her mother down, and now she couldn’t let him down. There was no law that said he had to be her father, that he had to feed and clothe her. But he had. Along with so many other things. Therefore, she would do what no law said she had to do. Take up where he had left off. Make sure the railroad had enough timber to build the line from the pass to the border. Farther even, all the way across the Utah Territory and into Nevada.
The ache in her chest became all-consuming. Winston had been so proud of this project. He’d been committed to it, too. Needing to diminish the pain, center her attention on something other than her loss, Sara focused on walking past the sweeping staircase that led to the second floor. The very steps she’d loved to run down and jump into Winston’s arms when she’d been younger. He’d laugh and twirl her about before hugging her tight and then setting her down to run off, giggling and dizzy.
Removing the black gloves that matched her funeral dress and cape as she walked, she held them both in one hand when she arrived at Winston’s office door. The contracts were in there, and maps and statements and correspondence with railroad men. Reading through them would take her mind off other things as well as prepare her for her next steps. She’d make sure of it this time. Really focus. Living with Winston all these years had left her with considerable knowledge already. Just a few years ago the railroad had been at a standstill in Colorado. The two largest companies attempting to build a line through the southern part of the state had taken each other to court. The Santa Fe had won out, being a standard gauge. Winston had said, and many others had agreed, that the narrow-gauge rails of the Denver & Rio Grande were far better when it came to laying track through the Rocky Mountains, but not beyond, and he’d said that was the important piece. Running tracks beyond the mountains, clear to the ocean.
Winston had won the bid to provide lumber for the Santa Fe and their standard-gauge rail, and that’s what she needed to research. She would spend the rest of the day reading and taking notes so this time she’d remember things. Understand them. She needed to know what was expected of the lumber mill better than she knew the recipe for her famous cinnamon cookies. Made famous by her stepfather who ate them two at a time as soon as she took them out of the oven.
The smile that memory evoked froze on her lips as she opened the door to Winston’s office. Her heart momentarily stopped, too. For a split second she could have sworn she was staring at Winston—how he’d looked fifteen years ago when she and her mother first met him back on the Kansas prairie.
The man behind the big desk that sat angled in the corner swiveled the chair around and lifted a dark brow as his gaze met hers. “Well, hello, little sister.”
A shiver curled around her spine. “E-Excuse me?”
“I said, hello, little sister.”
She’d dropped a glove, and used the time it took to bend down and pick it up to gather her wits. A cold and frightening lump formed in her stomach. One that left her hands trembling. “I do not have any siblings,” she said, straightening as tall as possible and squeezing her gloves with both hands. “And you, sir, are trespassing.”
Crofton Parks almost cracked a grin. Might have if the situation had even an ounce of humor surrounding it. It didn’t, and neither did he. Have an ounce of humor that is. Her black cape didn’t disguise her hourglass figure and her chestnut-colored hair had just enough red to make it shimmer like gold in the sunshine. The sight of Sara Johnson—or Parks as everyone referred to her—confirmed he’d been right. She wasn’t an eyesore. Not from a distance or up close. If her mother had looked anything like her, with eyes that big and blue and skin that lily-white, he could almost understand why his father had deserted him and his mother back in Ohio. Almost, because to his way of thinking, no man should discard one family for another. Not for any reason.
He leaned back in the big leather chair and stretched his arms overhead before threading his fingers together and lowering them until the back of his head rested against his palms. Even after all these years, he could remember how his father had used to sit like that. All he’d have to do was kick up his feet to rest his heels on the desk and his memory would be complete. He didn’t kick up his feet for several reasons, including that he wasn’t here to relax. “I’m not trespassing, little sister. I’m just here to collect what’s mine.”
She was wringing the gloves in her hands so hard they were practically tied in knots, and her eyes were darting around as if she couldn’t let them rest on him. He knew why. From the time he’d been born people had said he looked exactly like his father. At one time he’d taken pride in that. That was no longer the case. Hadn’t been for years.
“Stop calling me that, and there’s nothing here that could be—”
“Mine?” he interrupted. “Yes, there is, and you know it.” He dropped his hands and leaned forward to wave a finger her way. “Don’t bother lying. I can see by the fear in your eyes that you know who I am.” Crofton stood and straightened the bottom of his vest before reaching behind him to gather up the jacket that completed the suit he’d purchased for the occasion, his father’s funeral. He also attempted to keep the scorn out of his tone when he added, “I’ve always been the spitting image of my father.”
One arm was in his jacket sleeve when he paused, waiting for her reaction.
Her fair skin had turned whiter. Colorless. He dropped the coat just as her blue eyes disappeared behind her eyelids.
“Damn!”
Crofton made it around the desk in time to catch her before she hit the floor.
He’d picked up and carried calves that weighed more than she did. However, none of those critters ever smelled liked flowers and sunshine. She did, and all the other things women were supposed to smell like. Ignoring that, for it made no difference, he carried her to the long sofa covered in cowhide and situated near a massive stone fireplace on the other side of the room. There he set her down. On her bottom. She hadn’t passed out, not completely and was already squirming to get out of his hold.
As soon as she was free, she scooted along the seat, farther away from him. “You’re—you’re dead,” she whispered. “Dead.”
“I could apologize for that, but since I wasn’t the one to put that idea in your head, I won’t. As you can clearly see, I’m not dead. Never was.” A shred of guilt laced his gut at the way she trembled. He tried to ignore it, but in the end, he told himself she wasn’t to blame and holding his father’s faults against her wouldn’t be fair. Despite his parentage, that was one thing he did pride himself on: being a fair man. An honest one, too. It had taken him a long way in this life.
“How can that be?”
Crofton stopped his inner musings and shrugged. “Because it never was.”
“Fa—” She pinched her lips together for a second. “Winston said you died as a small child, back in Ohio, in a fire. He was devastated over it.”
“Was he?” The scorn slipped out before Crofton had a chance to conceal it.
“Yes,” she said. “He spoke of you often, especially—”
Her lips pinched tight and her thick lashes held teardrops when she lifted them. The sight was as unique as it was touching.
Once again Crofton had to detour his thoughts. “Especially when?”
“Before my little brother died. He was only four.”
“Your little brother?”
Looking up at him with moisture filled eyes, she nodded. “Yes, my little brother. Hilton. He died of the fever six years ago.”
Why that felt like a gut punch, Crofton wasn’t sure, but either way, he sat down. It would make sense that his father had gone on to have more children, but he’d never contemplated that aspect. Probably should have. “How many other children are there?” Wrestling a stepdaughter would be a simple enough feat; another blood son might not be. It wouldn’t stand in his way, though. Nothing would stand in his way of finding out why the railroad had pulled out of running a line south into New Mexico. He’d made promises on it, and he never broke a promise. There, too, he was nothing like his father.
“Other—” She shook her head. “None.”
“None?”
She wiped aside a teardrop sitting on her left cheek. “No, there were no more children, not before or after Hilton.”
Crofton withheld a grin, kept it hidden deep inside where only he knew it existed. “So it’s just you and me.”
After a lengthy hesitation, she met him eye to eye. “Yes. Just you and me.”
Chapter Two (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
The walls were closing in on her. She unbuttoned her cloak and shrugged it off her shoulders, but it didn’t help. The heavy black dress was just as suffocating. So was his nearness. Willing her legs to cooperate, she pushed off the sofa. She stumbled slightly, but caught herself. This was all impossible. Crofton Parks was impossible. He’d died years ago. Winston would never have lied about that. Not something that important. Actually, he wouldn’t have lied about anything. He was a good, honest man.
Gaining inner strength, she turned her attention to the stranger. He certainly resembled Winston. Dark brown hair, hazel-rimmed green eyes flecked with specks of gold. Tall. Broad at the shoulders and lean at the waist. He even had a dimple in the middle of his chin. However, he couldn’t possibly be Winston’s son. More like an impostor who was simply after her stepfather’s money. Winston’s wealth, the lumberyard he’d spent a lifetime building and his work with the railroad were well-known, perhaps nationwide or even worldwide.
Sara lifted her chin and tightened her neck muscles to keep her voice from quivering. “You, sir, are an impostor and I insist you leave immediately.”
He leaned back and swung a foot up to balance on his opposite knee. “I’m not an impostor, Sara—”
“I gave you no invitation to use my first name,” she snapped, unwilling to listen to anything he had to say. “If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll summon the sheriff.”
“And how will you do that?” he asked, crossing his arms. “You got a little bell you ring or something?”
His comment was so arrogant and smug that Sara wished she’d asked Bugsley to stay, or that Mrs. Long had returned. Something deep inside said she didn’t want to be alone with this man. He couldn’t be trusted, that was a given, but his uncanny resemblance to Winston was confusing her usual good sense.
Alvin Thompson who saw to the horses and other chores around the property lived just down the hill, but not within shouting distance. Nonetheless, she said, “I have men I will send to town.” A bluff, but he wouldn’t know that. “As a matter of fact, I have men who will take you to town. See you jailed for trespassing.”
Relief washed over her as he planted his foot back on the floor and stood. Without a word, he crossed the room and gathered his suit coat. She moved toward the open doorway, prepared to walk him all the way to the large front door, and lock it after he left.
Rather than putting on the coat, he pulled something out of a pocket and turned, holding an envelope out to her. “The sheriff’s out of town.”
Knowing Sheriff Wingard was out of town, and not wanting to dwell upon it, she asked, “What’s that?”
“An affidavit proving I am indeed Crofton Parks, son and heir of Winston Parks.” Still holding the envelope out for her to take, he added, “And Alvin won’t be any help. He’s at his job at the lumber mill.”
“How—” She bit down on her bottom lip, angry for allowing a word to slip out before she’d thought it through. Alvin did work at the mill, and had returned there upon leaving the church, so therefore, was not home.
“How do I know about Alvin? And Sheriff Wingard?” He laid the envelope on the desk as if it made no difference whether she read it or not. “I’ve made it my business to know.” Walking toward the windows framed by long olive-green drapes held back to let the sun in with gold rope ties, he said, “I also know everything about my father’s company and his deal with the railroad. And you. And your mother.”
The disdain in his voice was strikingly sharp. Out of defiance, Sara lifted her chin. “Why?”
“Because I’m his son.”
She wasn’t ready to believe that. Might never be. She did however want to know what he was doing here. “Anyone can have a piece of paper written up. That’s no proof whatsoever. Besides, if you truly were his son, you would have come to see Winston while he was alive. Any decent man would have.”
His back was to her as he stared out the window. The lumber mill was a distance down the mountainside, but large and visible from where he stood. So was the town of Royalton. Winston had often stood in that same spot, watching the hustle and bustle below. She’d stood there plenty of times herself.
“How do you know I didn’t?” he asked.
Sara didn’t know for sure, however there was one thing she knew for certain. “Because I knew Winston Parks. If his son was alive, and had contacted him, he would have told me. He would have told my mother. He would have shouted it from the rooftop.”
He turned. The smile on his face was false; the dullness of his eyes said so. Yet, at the same time, she couldn’t help but see Winston in him, and that was frightening.
“Maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought,” he said.
Sara was saved from responding by the sound of the front door being opened, as well as someone saying her name.
“Mrs. Long is calling for you,” he said. “The housekeeper.”
He was attempting to intimidate her—something she refused to let happen. “Anyone in town could have told you who lives here, including Mrs. Long, and that the sheriff is out of town, and that Alvin Thompson lives next door so there’s no need to pretend you’re full of family secrets. There aren’t any.”
“You’re wrong, Sara,” he said softly. “There are lots of family secrets when it comes to Winston Parks.”
As much as she didn’t want to believe his words, she couldn’t ignore the clarity of his gaze.
“Oh, there you are,” Amelia Long said. “I—Oh, I didn’t know we had company.”
Sara didn’t turn around to where the woman was obviously standing in the doorway. Instead, she kept her gaze on the man, and held her stance. “We don’t,” she said. “He was just leaving.”
“Land sakes,” Amelia gasped. “It can’t be. Can it? Lord have mercy! Is it? Is it you, Crofton? Crofton, oh, sweet Lord! Tell me it’s really you! Tell me! Please, tell me!”
The smile that appeared on his face was as bright as sunshine. “Yes, Amelia, it’s me.”
Sara had no time to react, not even when the man rushed past her and caught Amelia as she slumped.
Crofton once again carried a woman across the room, questioning if every woman in Colorado fainted on a regular basis. This one was much older, heavier and not nearly as firm or sweet smelling as the younger one he’d carried mere minutes ago. But, this one had carried him around when he was little, and he’d never forgotten her.
Placing Amelia gently on the sofa, he told Sara, “Get some water. Unlike you, she’s not pretending. She really fainted.”
“I—I didn’t pretend.”
Crofton knelt near the sofa. “Just get some water, would you?”
She hurried out the door, and Crofton laid a hand on Amelia’s cheek. Her face was soft, full of wrinkles, and her blond hair streaked with gray, but she was as lovely to him as she had been twenty years ago when he used to wish she was his mother. Amelia had always had time for him. Never shooed him from the room or scolded him for getting dirty. She even helped dig worms and would drop whatever she’d been doing to take him fishing. At least that was how he remembered it. Just like he remembered her cooking had been the best he’d ever eaten. Especially her fried chicken. Of all the people, all the things he’d missed when his mother had whisked him off to England, it had been Amelia Long and her fried chicken.
Amelia stirred, and Crofton leaned closer. “Shh,” he whispered. “Just lie still for a moment. You’re fine.”
“Here.”
He took the glass of water Sara held out and as Amelia’s eyes opened, he gently raised her head up with his other hand. “Take a sip,” he said. “It’ll help.”
Watching him closely, Amelia took several small sips, and then shook her head. He handed the glass back to Sara before asking, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes,” Amelia answered. “I was just so shocked to see you. She told us you were dead.”
“I’ve heard that,” he said. “But as you can see, she was wrong.”
Amelia popped up with all the speed of a spring chicken. “Why would she have done such a thing? Oh, if only Winston could have seen you.” Sniffling, she wiped her nose with the tip of one finger as tears dripped down her wrinkled cheeks. “Oh, Crofton, he would have been so joyous. He never got over your death. Never.”
Damn, she was making his nose burn, and his chest. He bit the inside of his bottom lip. He’d never gotten over his father’s death, either. That hadn’t been possible for an eight-year-old who’d believed his father had been the bravest, strongest man on earth. His father had been his hero, up until he turned eighteen and learned the truth.
“Oh, that Ida,” Amelia growled. “I’d like to give her a piece of my mind. I tell you that. She always was nasty, but this—you—it’s downright evil. Evil I say.”
“She had her reasons, Amelia,” he said quietly.
“Oh, and what would they be?” Without waiting for a response, she added, “Pure selfishness is what she had. No reason is good enough for what she did—for this. Not a single one. Winston was so sick over your death, so lost and...” Sniffling again, she shook her head. “We all were. My heart is breaking all over again. For Winston. Oh, your poor, poor father. He loved you so much.”
To his surprise, Sara sat down next to Amelia and put her arm around her.
“Hush, now,” she whispered. “He knows Crofton is here now. He knows.”
Crofton pretended he hadn’t heard her words, but he had, and it appeared it had taken less convincing for her to believe he was Winston’s son than he’d expected.
“I expect he does,” Amelia said. “He was probably searching all over the pearly gates for his baby boy. Just like he did back in Ohio all those years ago.” Wiping at the tears on her cheek, she whispered, “He didn’t believe the news and went back to see for himself.”
Crofton couldn’t take much more. Of course Amelia would side with his father. Nate, her husband, had been in on Winston’s first lumber deal. Nate had died during the railroad wars, back in ’78, when both companies had brought in hired guns to settle their dispute over laying westbound tracks out of Colorado. A judge finally settled things, but there was still plenty of fighting going on. Both sides had gained ground. The narrow-gage line was working its way west through the mountains, and the standard-gage was running along the south end of the state. That was the set to run a line down into New Mexico, give ranchers a way to ship cattle. A way for him to ship his cattle, but the railroad had withdrawn for no apparent reason. He knew the reason. His father.
The silence in the room tickled his neck, and Crofton lifted his head to find both women looking at him expectantly. Having no idea what they’d asked, yet noting they were clearly waiting for an answer, he shrugged and turned it back on them. “What do you think?”
“I think she’s dead,” Amelia said with more hatred than he’d ever have expected to hear from her. “Otherwise, she’d have been trying to get money out of your father. Just like she did when you di—when she claimed you’d died.”
So the topic was his mother. He’d expected that. There had been no love lost between her and anyone left on this side of the ocean. With a nod, he stood and walked over to the fireplace. The mantel was massive, as was the hearth, with a large area to stack wood built right in the stone. It was an impressive design, something his father had been good at. Anyone who knew Winston said he was a visionary, could see what he wanted and didn’t stop until he got it. That, too, Crofton had inherited.
“That’s you.”
He frowned at Amelia’s statement, and then scanned the mantle, wondering what she referred to. A photo of a child sat in the center, in a polished frame.
“The one next to it is Hilton, taken shortly before he died.”
Sara had said that, and he took a moment to examine the other picture of a boy child, no more than a baby actually. There was a certain family resemblance, which caused an odd pang inside him.
Turning about, he said to Amelia, “I’m assuming my mother is still alive, but I can’t say for sure. I haven’t seen her in eight years.”
“Eight years?” Sara asked, biting her tongue as soon as the words were out. Although Amelia was convinced of this man’s heritage, she wasn’t. But, even if he was Winston’s son, he wasn’t to be trusted. Any man who hadn’t seen his father in over twenty years, and his mother in eight, had to be a scoundrel. A selfish, no-good rascal.
“Yes,” he answered. “Eight years. Since I left England.” His cold stare turned to Amelia, where it warmed slightly. “I left the day I learned my father was alive.”
“Alive?”
Sara was glad Amelia asked that. It had been on the tip of her tongue, but the years of being told to only speak when spoken to had returned.
“Yes. Just as my mother told him I was dead, she told me he was dead. That you all were dead.”
“Oh, that bitter woman,” Amelia hissed. “She’ll have her judgment day. Lord forgive me, but she will.”
He turned away from the fireplace, and after gazing at both her and Amelia for what seemed like an eternity, he gave a subtle nod. “I have an appointment I must see to now. Good day, ladies.”
Amelia shot to her feet. “You can’t leave, Crofton, you can’t.”
“I’ll be back,” he said, patting the hand she’d used to grab his arm. “I just have to see a man about a horse.”
His answer struck Sara to the core. Winston had always used that saying. Crofton obviously knew that and was trying to get a rise out of her. So was Amelia, the way she turned a set of sad eyes her way.
“Sara, tell him he mustn’t leave,” Amelia pleaded. “Tell him.”
That was the last thing she’d do. “Mr. Parks...” She let her words linger, telling him she didn’t completely believe that was his name. “Can most certainly leave.” And not return, she added silently, but knew he understood.
“No, he can’t,” Amelia insisted. “We have so much—”
“I’ll return for the evening meal,” he said, drawing Amelia’s attention. “If I can wrangle an invitation.”
The look he gave the older woman was enough to make Sara throw up, or see red, which she was doing.
“You don’t need an invitation,” Amelia said. “You’re family.” With a sigh, and while hugging his arm, she added, “It’s a miracle. A pure Christmas miracle having you here. Sara needs family right now. We all do.”
His gaze, which went over Amelia’s head to meet her stare, was as clear as the words written in the Good Book. Just as she was reading his mind, he was reading hers, and neither one of them considered the other family, nor did they believe this was a Christmas miracle.
Amelia followed him out of the room, and Sara moved to the window, waiting to see him leave. Her stomach was churning and her mind was spinning. His arrival could change everything. Winston’s dream. The railroad’s success. The town of Royalton. She had no right to fight him, no claim to all that Winston had left behind, but he wasn’t here to further Winston’s dream. Intuition told her that, and her allegiance to Winston said she couldn’t let his dream die. Couldn’t and wouldn’t.
During the years since Winston had built his lumber mill, over a hundred buildings and homes had been built in Royalton. The town had been transformed from a lumber camp to a bustling city, complete with stage coach service, and more important, a railroad depot. The entire town depended upon Parks Lumber. Jobs. The railroad. Prosperity for all.
It was all up to her.
The air in Sara’s lungs burned as Crofton appeared outside the window. He made a point of stopping the big roan he rode at the top of the hill, and turned around to tip his hat directly at the window. At her.
She didn’t respond, or move, other than the sinking of her stomach.
He nudged the horse and rode away. Once again she was reminded of Winston. Of all the times she’d watched him ride down that hill.
When Crofton, if that truly was his name, disappeared amongst the bustle of Royalton, Sara turned and walked to the desk. Rather than anything of Winston’s, the item that caught and held her attention was the envelope Crofton had left behind. Burning it would be the smart thing to do, but her curiosity was too strong for that. Taking up the sharp knife Winston always used to slit open the mail, she eased it beneath the flap.
“I can’t believe it,” Amelia said from the open doorway. “Just can’t believe it. All these years we thought he was dead. All these years.”
Sara set the envelope and the knife down. “Don’t you find it odd that he learned Winston wasn’t dead eight years ago, but never once visited? Never once tried to make contact?”
With eyes sadder than they had been this morning, Amelia shook her head and sat in the chair in front of the desk. “We have no way of knowing what she told him.”
“Who?”
“Crofton’s mother. Ida.”
Sara wasn’t willing to believe there was anyone to blame except Crofton. “He doesn’t seem like the type of man to take someone else’s word.” Or orders, she supplied completely for herself.
“I’m sure he’s not, just like Winston wasn’t, but Ida had a way about her.”
“What sort of way?” Sara asked.
“A sneaky, conniving one. That woman wouldn’t stop until she got her way. Ever.”
Amelia’s tone held more scorn than Sara had ever heard her use, and that alone would have been enough to make her jittery, if she hadn’t been already. Like mother, like son.
Slapping her knees, Amelia jumped to her feet. “I’m going to go fetch that hen that’s been pecking at the others. Crofton always liked fried chicken. Oh, that boy could eat like no other. I think I’ll bake a pie, too.”
“A pie?”
“Yes. Make us a real celebration dinner.”
“We just left a funeral,” Sara pointed out. “A celebration dinner wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Waving a hand at the desk, and the rest of the room, Amelia asked, “Do you think Winston would mind? Or your mother? They wouldn’t want us sitting around moping. They’d expect us to get on with life. And they would expect us to give Crofton a proper welcome home. It truly is a Christmas miracle.”
“Christmas is weeks away.”
Amelia shrugged. “So it is.” While heading for the door, she added, “And we both have to eat. Fried chicken is your favorite, too.”
Sara waited until Amelia left the room before mumbling, “It won’t be after today.” The letter lying on the desk, the one she’d been prepared to slit open moments ago mocked her. She was still curious, but did she really want proof Crofton was Winston’s son? Did she need proof?
The answer was obvious. Amelia would not say he was if he wasn’t. Furthermore, he was too much like Winston not to be his son. Besides looks, he had the attitude, the swagger, even sat upon a horse the same way. Straight and tall. The only notable difference was that Winston had had a softness about him. He’d been loveable. Crofton wasn’t even likable.
Chapter Three (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
Crofton rode into town with a chip on his shoulder. It had been there for years, but today it felt like a boulder. He popped his neck and arched his back, but the weight didn’t shift. He hadn’t expected it to. What he did expect was to get a pair of blue eyes out of his mind.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t she have been homely?” That was another trait his father had given him—the inability to ignore a beautiful woman.
It wasn’t Sara’s beauty that worried him. It was the intelligence in those blue eyes. She’d been sizing him up since the moment they met, and that told him being Winston’s son wasn’t going to be enough.
Burying those thoughts as much as he could, Crofton pulled up his reason for being here tackling all these old memories, and rode up the main street of town. Buildings of all sizes lined the street on both sides of him. Not a one was as large as the home he’d just left. Leave it to his father to build a home larger than even the hotel. It was only two stories. His father’s brick house had three, plus a basement. Imagine that, the owner of the lumber company building himself a brick house. Ironic.
There was plenty of wood in his father’s house, too. The trim, windows, door and large porch were all painted white, making it look even more impressive. So were the balconies off the second floor, and the two round turrets on the third.
It had taken plenty of wood to build the town. Businesses, the same as most towns, offered customers goods and services. As he scanned the stores—a mercantile, feed store, blacksmith, hotel, saloon, nothing out of the ordinary—he thought of other boom towns he’d seen. Here today. Gone tomorrow. Royalton didn’t have the look or feel of the others he’d seen, and he wasn’t sure whether he appreciated that or not.
He’d already visited the dry goods store, that’s where he’d purchased his suit yesterday, and this morning he’d bought a bath and shave. While scraping his face, the barber had seen exactly what Sara had: his resemblance to Winston. Others would, too. He’d planned on using that to his advantage, and now was as good a time as any. Actually, the sooner the better.
Riding to the edge of town, where the lumber mill was located, Crofton maneuvered his way through the busy yard. The noise was immense, and he couldn’t help but be impressed. Two huge water wheels provided some of the power needed for the numerous saws, but there was also a large steam shed that generated other saws. The heat was intense, but it didn’t slow down the workers. The mill was a town in itself, with traffic, wagons empty and full, maneuvering about, and men, far more than he could quickly count, went about completing various jobs. Laborious jobs. A locomotive whistle sounded where it slowly chugged its way down the hill behind the mill. The long logs it carried were so large only three fit on the flat car behind the engine.
His father had never done anything on a small scale, but this lumber mill went beyond that. He’d been young, but Crofton remembered the mill in Ohio, the one his father had built there to supply wood for the railroad expansion back then. He also remembered how his father had waved a hand at that mill, saying someday that it all would be his.
This may not be Ohio, but that day had come.
Crofton frowned at his own thought. He wasn’t here to inherit a lumber mill. Why was he thinking that way? Because, no one but him needed to know that. That’s why. Convinced, he made his way toward the door on a large wooden structure that had the word Office painted in red. There he dismounted, tethered his horse and made his way to the open doorway. He entered the building, and took a deep breath.
The smell of fresh-cut wood filled his nostrils, and his mind, invoking more memories. Ones he’d long ago buried. How he’d loved visiting the mill with his father, and how the pride of walking beside him had puffed out his small chest back then.
The attention his slow ride through the yard had aroused wasn’t just outside, and Crofton pushed aside his childhood memories. The man standing before him was the one he’d seen with Sara at the mortuary yesterday and at the funeral today. Bugsley Morton wasn’t as old as Winston had been, but he was middle aged, maybe forty or so, and from the looks of him, considered himself in charge.
“If you’re here to place an order, Walter can help you,” Bugsley said, gesturing toward a counter.
Though he tried not to show it, shock was written all over Bugsley’s face. Much like the man standing behind the wide counter. Walter. He was as stiff as a corpse with eyes so wide they nearly popped out of his head.
Crofton glanced back to Bugsley. The man knew full well he wasn’t here to place an order, and was attempting to disguise his nervousness. He’d stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. The man saw exactly what Crofton wanted him to see. Exactly what Walter saw. A clear resemblance to Winston.
“We aren’t hiring, if it’s a job you’re after,” Bugsley said.
Crofton let a hint of a grin form while shaking his head. He didn’t know much about Bugsley Morton. The man hadn’t been a part of Winston’s pack back in Ohio, but Mel’s letters had said Morton was Winston’s right-hand man, had been for the past decade or so. That didn’t bother him. Neither a right-nor left-hand man meant anything compared to flesh and blood, and that was a card Crofton was more than prepared to use.
“I said—”
“I heard you.” Crofton kept one eye on the man while moving toward a set of stairs that led to the second floor.
“You can’t go up there.”
Crofton gave the man a solid once-over, from his shiny boots to his newly trimmed hair, but never detoured from walking toward the staircase. “Who’s going to stop me?” he asked. “You?”
“Matter of fact, yes. Me.” Bugsley stepped closer, but didn’t block the stairway.
Crofton had noticed the gun hanging on the man’s hip, and how Bugsley’s right hand hovered over the well-worn handle. That gun had known plenty of use, and the thought it may have been the one to end Mel’s life crossed Crofton’s mind. Briefly, for he knew that couldn’t have been possible. Mel had been shot from a distance, with a rifle.
“Go ahead then.” Crofton stepped onto the stairs and started to climb. Bugsley was far too curious to draw the gun or pull the trigger, and shooting a man in the back with witnesses nearby was the best way to get hanged.
A hallway led off the top step, was lit by a tall window at the far end and contained four doors, all closed. Crofton knew which one would have been his father’s, the last one on the left. It would host windows that not only looked over the back side of the mill, but up the hill, to where the view would show the big brick house.
He was right of course, but the room surprised him. There was the usual desk, shelves, table and chairs, a long sofa along the interior wall, a small stove in the outside corner and other necessities here and there, but things were out of place. Although it had been years, certain things about a man rarely changed. His father had been meticulous with his paperwork, and everything had always been put away, under lock and key when he left a room. That’s how his office back at the house had been.
Granted he had been dead for a few days, and it was expected someone else would need to take over the running of the business, but if that person respected the man Winston had been, they would have continued his practices.
A stack of maps were haphazardly spread across the table and several open ledgers sat on top of the desk, almost as if someone was searching through them for something particular, but had yet to find it. Whatever it was.
Bugsley was on his heels, so Crofton barely paused upon entering the room. He strode over to the sofa and took a moment to examine the pictures hanging along the wall. Family portraits of Winston, his wife and Sara, and again, there was the grainy photo of him as a child. It didn’t stir him as strongly as the one of Sara did. She’d been little, maybe five or six and looked like a cherub with her softly painted pink cheeks. The big picture hanging front and center had her in it, too, taken at the same time. In this one, she sat upon Winston’s lap while her mother stood behind them.
He let his gaze linger on his father in that portrait for a few minutes before he turned to Bugsley. “Uncanny resemblance, wouldn’t you say?”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Crofton took another glance at the picture before he moved toward the desk sitting at an angle in the corner. “You know who I am.”
“But that’s impossible,” Bugsley answered.
“Evidently not.” He walked around the desk to the window. It provided a spectacular view of the brick house on the hill. With the right eyepiece he’d be able to see inside the windows of the house. When thoughts of Sara, of which room was hers, attempted to wheedle their way into his mind, he shifted his gaze to the hillside.
“Winston said you were dead.”
“Perhaps I was,” Crofton answered. “To him.” He walked to the window on the other wall. This one overlooked the train tracks leading up the hill and into a thick forest. The trees were tall, and went on for as far as he could see. Winston had certainly picked out the right spot for his lumber mill. The mountainside appeared to have a never-ending supply of timber.
“Did he know?”
Crofton turned. Bugsley appeared more nervous. The truth must be hitting him, and he wasn’t liking it. “Know that I was alive?” Crofton asked.
“Yes.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Crofton took a step to the desk and flipped through a few pages of one of the open ledgers, not really seeing what was written on the pages, but pretending to. He’d wondered if his father had always known that he was alive. His mother claimed Winston knew and didn’t want anything to do with him, but she’d say most anything, truth or lie, depending on what suited her best. He’d long ago learned to never lay much on her word.
“I guess we’ll never know, will we?” Crofton closed the book, letting the snap of the cover echo through the room. He knew. Winston had known.
Bugsley stiffened. “Well, you can’t just waltz in here—”
“Yes,” Crofton said. “I can.”
Squaring his shoulders, Bugsley shook his head. “Winston left me in charge, every time he went out of town he left me in charge.”
“He’s not merely out of town this time, is he?” Crofton had seen enough to know what he was up against when it came to Bugsley Morton. The man was afraid of losing and wasn’t about to go down easily. The black hat that hung on the hook near the door was the same one he’d been wearing at the funeral. Winston may have left Bugsley in charge when he went out of town, but he obviously didn’t let the man in on every detail of his business. Some things never changed. Crofton had been counting on that.
Holding back a grin, he walked to the open doorway. “My lawyer will arrive later this week. Until then, business should continue as usual.”
“Whoa up there. You can’t—”
“Yes, I can.” Pausing long enough to tip the brim of his hat, Crofton said, “Good day, Mr. Morton.” Just because the opportunity was there, he added, “I expect you to put everything back where you found it.”
On the ground floor he nodded at Walter, who was still standing behind the counter, board stiff and staring at him like he was a ghost. In a sense he was. He hadn’t been Winston’s son in a long time, but it was time to reenter that role.
The weight on his shoulders seemed to lessen a bit as he stepped outside. The crisp mountain air was filled with the sweet smell of freshly cut wood, and more memories returned. For the first time in a long time, they didn’t make his gut tighten. The past no longer mattered nearly as much as the future.
Considering December had arrived, he’d expected snow this high up, and had appreciated the weather’s cooperation during his trek here. He hoped the warmer temperatures held out a while longer as he mounted his horse.
His next stop was the livery. He’d paid a few extra coins the past couple of nights to bed down in the hayloft. The owner had been more than happy to oblige, just as Mel had said in his letter.
While climbing the ladder into the loft, Crofton once again questioned if his father could have been behind Mel’s death. He’d gone back and forth with the idea for some time, and after meeting Bugsley Morton face-to-face, was leaning toward the possibility. Or maybe he was thinking Bugsley could be behind it. That would mean his father had been, too. Winston had always called the shots and that wouldn’t have changed.
He, however, had changed. He was no longer a kid being dropped at one school after the other, wishing his father hadn’t died. He was no longer a young man wondering why his father had abandoned him and why his mother lied about it, either. He was older and wiser, and knew his path had little to do with either parent. Once this railroad fiasco was over that is.
Crofton gathered his bundle of dirty clothes. He hadn’t worried about leaving them here, figured if someone took them, they needed an old shirt and pair of pants more than he did. But, he’d never left messes for others to clean up, and wasn’t going to start now. Perhaps because he’d been a product of someone’s mess his entire life.
After thanking the livery owner for his hospitality, who stared at him as if seeing double now that his face wasn’t covered with scraggly whiskers, Crofton made his way up the main street to Buster’s Saloon. Mel’s letter had said he was meeting a man there and would write more afterward. Of course, more never came. Instead of a letter, a week after his last post, Mel’s horse had wandered into the yard, still saddled. Gun still in the scabbard. A day later, Crofton had found Mel’s body. Halfway between home and Royalton. Shot in the back.
After tethering his horse to the hitching post, Crofton entered the saloon. Someone had preceded him. The silence that fell upon the crowded room told him who even before he saw Bugsley Morton at a table with three men dressed in suits. They could have been at the funeral, but his gut said they were dressed in suits because they were railroad men not mourners. The fourth stranger at the table wasn’t a mourner, nor a railroad man. He was a gunslinger. A well-known one. If rumors were correct, Woody Wilson was on the Santa Fe Railroad payroll.
Here for only one thing at the moment, Crofton walked to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. Holes were burning in his back, but he paid them no mind as the man behind the bar took the money he’d laid down and poured amber-shaded whiskey into a shot glass until it sloshed over the rim. After downing the whiskey in one gulp, Crofton set the glass down. “I’d like to buy a round.”
The barkeep frowned. “For who?”
Crofton twirled a finger in the air.
Frowning so deep his forehead had crevices, the barkeep asked, “The entire room?”
Crofton nodded.
“Why?” the man asked over the mumbling that circled the room.
Crofton slapped several bills on the counter, and pointed to his glass. “Line them up,” he said. “Just like that one.”
The barkeep shrugged and started setting out glasses. Like horses smelling water, men gravitated toward the bar. Crofton took his glass and stepped aside, making more room as the bartender poured whiskey into glasses from bottles in both hands.
“Step up, gentlemen,” Crofton said loudly. “I’d like to make a toast.”
Bugsley and the men at his table hadn’t moved. Crofton hadn’t expected them to, and made no point in singling them out until every other man in the saloon had made their way to the bar and now held a shot of whiskey.
“I’d like to make a toast.” Crofton held up his glass and looked at Bugsley. “To Winston Parks, may he rest in peace.”
Men shouting, “Hear, hear!” held up their glasses.
“He was one hell of a father!” Crofton tossed down his drink in one gulp again, and while others were choking and coughing, half because of the whiskey, half because of his toast, he walked over and set his glass on the table in front of Bugsley and then walked out the door.
Chapter Four (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
“Surely you aren’t going to wear that to dinner.”
“Of course I am,” Sara answered. Given a choice, she would have changed out of the black gabardine dress, but considering their dinner guest, she felt the dress she’d worn to the funeral was more than suitable.
Amelia opened her mouth, but must have changed her mind. After a heavy sigh, she muttered, “Suit yourself. Crofton should be here shortly.”
Glancing at the clock on the top shelf of the buffet that held the set of delicate china Winston had purchased for her mother several years ago, Sara said, “We’ll eat at six whether he’s here or not.”
Amelia finished setting the silverware on napkins beside all three plates before she glanced up. “It’s not his fault, you know.”
“I never said anything was his fault,” Sara pointed out. “I never said anything was anyone’s fault.”
“You’re acting like it is.”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Sara said, stepping forward to move the place setting from the head of the table to a chair on the side. Winston was not here, and no one, not even his son, would sit at the head of the table. “But I will tell you what I’m acting like. I’m acting like someone who just attended the funeral of her parents this morning and does not feel like having company for dinner.” The plate in her hand clattered against the table as she set it down. “Company of any kind.”
Her throat had thickened and no amount of swallowing helped ease the stinging. The pain inside wasn’t due to Crofton’s arrival, but blaming him for it would be easy. Anything would be easier than coming to grips with the idea of never seeing Mother again, of never seeing Winston.
The gentle touch of Amelia’s hand on her shoulder was more than she could take. The tears she’d been fighting to contain spilled forth. Sara spun around and hurried from the room. The air in her lungs burned as if she was suffocating, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t take a breath. She stumbled across the foyer, toward the door, needing air.
She opened the door, but blinded by tears, wasn’t sure what stopped her, not until firm hands gripped her upper arms.
“Hey there, slow down.”
The greeting and hold were so familiar that her knees wobbled and the tears came faster. Winston always said “Hey there,” and more than once he’d stopped her from running down the steps, telling her to slow down before she fell and broke something.
“Here, let’s go back inside.”
She shook her head against the tug on her arms. Air was once again entering her lungs, but her legs were too weak to move. The need to escape had left, but the pain hadn’t. So full of loss, she just wanted to collapse and cry. Cry until she couldn’t any more.
“Sit here then.”
She didn’t fight the help to move forward enough to step down onto the first step and sit on the porch floor. Wiping at the tears didn’t stop them from running down her cheeks, so she just covered her face with both hands and let them flow. At that moment in time, she truly didn’t care what Crofton Parks thought of that. Of her. Of anything.
He said nothing, but didn’t move, either. Just sat there beside her.
Eventually the heart-wrenching pain turned into a hollow ache, and her tears eased. She lifted her head, wiping at her cheeks with both hands. After blinking several times she could make out the barn and farther up the hill, the fenced-in area that held the fresh mound of dirt. The wave of sadness that washed over her was heavy, but she was too numb to react.
“It gets easier.”
“I know,” she replied. “Time heals.”
“In some ways,” he said quietly, “it does.”
Glancing sideways, just enough to see his profile, she said, “In other ways it doesn’t.”
He nodded.
She looked back over the yard and without the energy to do much more, simply stared up the hill. “I know that, too.” Not having anything in common with Crofton would have suited her, but not having an accident, a stupid, unbelievable accident, take the lives of her mother and Winston would have suited her, too. But she hadn’t had a choice, and still didn’t. In other words, this is what she had. A mound of dirt and a man who wanted Lord knows what.
The sigh that left her chest was thick and rather hopeless. However, her life had been worse. She and her mother hadn’t even had hope when Winston had arrived at their place back in Kansas. Although she couldn’t remember much about that time, her mother had said that with no money and very little food, they wouldn’t have made it through the month. Winston had been their miracle.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she told herself she did not need a miracle. Not like her mother had back then. The last thing she needed was a husband. She’d dreamed of getting married someday. Having children. But her mother had told her to be careful with those dreams. With her heart. That a wife’s duty was to be completely dedicated to her husband. To give up everything to follow him wherever he may lead her. That’s how she’d ended up in Kansas, alone, with a small child.
Sara had thought about that long and hard, and couldn’t imagine leaving home. Leaving Royalton, her parents, Amelia.
On that thought, she gave her face one final swipe with both hands and then slapped her knees. She had money, food, a home, and wouldn’t be giving any of that up. “Dinner’s getting cold.”
Without waiting for his help, she stood and stepped up onto the porch. He was just as quick, and was already holding open the door. Even that, his manners, irritated her. His presence did, too. Winston would have been so happy to see him, so happy to have him here, and knowing he’d prevented that happiness from ever happening went beyond irritation.
As soon as he walked in, he asked, “Is that fried chicken I smell?”
“Your favorite,” Sara seethed between her teeth. This would be a lot easier if Amelia didn’t welcome him so fully. Blame is what he deserved. Amelia should see that.
“That it is,” he said, pretending to sniff the air. “That it is.”
He wasn’t pretending. The smell of fried chicken filled the house. Amelia had probably stood over the pan with a towel, waving it about in hopes the scent would have made it all the way to town, telling him the meal was ready.
In the dining room he greeted Amelia with a hug, and if he thought it odd that they’d all be eating together, he didn’t comment. Amelia had eaten with the family ever since her husband Nate had died. Before then, the two of them had lived in the house between here and the mill. The one Alvin now lived in.
Sara took her seat on the one side of the table, and again, if Crofton found it odd that no one sat at the head of the table, he didn’t comment. He took the chair next to Amelia, and surprisingly, offered to say grace. Sara wasn’t sure why that surprised her, or why his heartfelt blessing, which wasn’t a rote one, was as equally surprising. Winston had never been a churchgoing man, but he had been God-fearing, so it was believable that his son was as well. If she wanted to believe such things, that is.
They’d no sooner passed around the platter of fried chicken and bowls of potatoes, gravy, beans, and bread when a knock sounded on the door.
Amelia set down her fork, “I’ll get it.”
Sara stood. “No, I will.” The other two had been visiting like old friends, which it appeared they were, and she’d already heard and seen enough to tell her there would be no convincing Amelia to agree with any notions of sending Crofton away. Back to where he came from, wherever that was.
With those thoughts filling her mind, Sara felt a scowl pulling on her brows by the time she opened the front door.
“Hello, Miss Parks,” Samuel Wellington said as she pushed open the screen door. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
For years everyone had assumed her last name was Parks instead of Johnson, and she’d never corrected them. Now wasn’t the time to start. “We have just sat down to eat,” she said. “Is there something you need, Samuel?”
He nodded, but didn’t apologize for the interruption. Instead, he shifted from foot to foot, much like he did when delivering things ordered from the general store his father owned.
Normally congenial to all, she wasn’t in an affable mood today. Might never be again. “Well, what is it?”
“Well...uh...I—I.” With a nod he spit out, “I’ve come to talk to you.”
His face had turned almost as red as his hair and his shuffling had increased.
“About what? Did Mother or Winston order something from your father? I can come by to pay for whatever it is tomorrow.”
“No, no, that’s not it. Not it at all.”
Growing frustrated, she asked, “Then what is?”
“Well, I...uh...well...uh...I’ve come to offer you my—my hand in marriage.”
He’d spit the last four words out so quickly it took her a second to decipher what he’d said. Once she did, a rattling shock raced through her so fast she didn’t have time to engage her brain before repeating, “Marriage?”
Samuel seemed to remember his hat at that moment and with a jolt, pulled it off his head to hold over his chest. “Yes, m-m-marriage.”
She recalled what Winston had told her about marriage—that any man trekking up that hill to ask for her hand had better be the best of the best. Samuel was not that—not at any stretch of the imagination. Except of course his mother’s. All Sara could think to say was, “Why?”
“Well, b-because folks are t-talking. Now that M-Mr. Parks is dead, y-you’ll n-need a husband.”
Winston’s statement about the best of the best had not been a guarded secret, and steam replaced her shock. “Folks are talking, are they?”
Tall and gangly, Samuel’s entire body seemed to nod, not just his head.
Although he was a couple years older than her, she’d always looked upon him as being much younger. Plenty of folks did. Therefore, she willed her nerves to remain calm. Drawing a deep breath helped. Gossipers had been talking since the accident, but she hadn’t imagined their topics would turn to her. Not in the sense of marriage. “Thank you, Samuel, but I can’t marry you. And...” She let the word stretch out while reminding herself to remain in check. People would naturally wonder what was to happen with the lumberyard and the railroad upon Winston’s death. The entire community depended upon them for their livelihoods. She couldn’t blame anyone for being anxious, or curious, however, her material status was not of their concern. “If you hear people talking, feel free to mention that I do not need a husband, and assure them they have no need to worry.”
“But you can’t—”
“I assure you I can.” Although she had no idea of what he’d been about to say she was unable to do, she was perfectly capable of many things. “And most certainly have no need for a husband.”
The way his shoulders slumped, she wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved.
“I—I’ll let you get back to your supper, then,” he said with barely a stutter. “B-but if you change your mind, I’d be obliged if you’d consider my offer.”
She bit the end of her tongue to stifle a promise she’d not be considering his offer now or ever. The fact Winston’s son sat at the dining room table did cross her mind. Briefly, for if by some cruel act of fate, Crofton did end up inheriting everything, she would not remain in Royalton. Watching him blunder Winston’s dream would be as devastating as the deaths she’d just experienced. A shudder made her tense her shoulder muscles. She had not considered that aspect—of what might happen to her if Crofton got what he came after. Where would she go? What would she do?
She hadn’t considered it, because it would not happen. “Goodbye, Samuel,” she said, spinning around to return to the dining room with the momentum of urgency. She would need to find a way to appease the townsfolk until she got herself on solid footing with the lumber mill, and despite Bugsley’s assurance that there was no need for her to speak with Winston’s lawyer, Ralph Wainwright, she would set up an appointment with him. Of course Bugsley hadn’t known about Crofton when he’d told Mr. Wainwright all was under control when the lawyer had come to the house to offer his condolences. None of them had known about Crofton.
Word traveled fast, and by morning she had no doubt everyone would know about Crofton. He had, after all, gone into town.
“Who was it?” Amelia asked as Sara entered the dining room.
“Just Samuel,” she said, taking her seat and waiting until Crofton sat back down before lifting her fork. His manners shouldn’t surprise her—he was Winston’s son. Maybe they irritated her more than surprised her. For that exact reason. That he was Winston’s son.
“What did he need? Had you ordered something?” Amelia asked.
Not answering, Sara turned a cold stare to their guest. “Where did you go this afternoon?”
He finished chewing and swallowed, before stating, “I told you, to see a man about a horse.”
This time around, hearing him use the line Winston often did lit a fireball in her stomach. Although she knew neither was the case, she asked, “What man? What horse?”
His stare remained steady. “The owner of the livery. I had to pay for my accommodations the past few days.”
“Your accommodations?” Amelia asked. “Surely you haven’t been staying at the livery stable.”
He offered Amelia a smile along with a glance. “I didn’t want to intrude, considering the circumstances.”
“Intrude?” Sara spat. “Circumstances?” Anger rarely got the best of her, but today was far from normal. She’d just buried her parents. “Do you think you aren’t intruding now? Do you think the circumstances have changed?”
“Sara!”
She didn’t so much as blink at Amelia’s admonishment. His eyes were locked on hers and she would not be the one to look away first.
“The circumstances changed the moment I rode into town and heard about Winston’s death,” he said.
Fully prepared to get to the bottom of his arrival, she asked, “Oh? Were you coming to see him?”
Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms and eyed her quizzically before eventually saying, “I was sure our paths would cross once I arrived.”
“Your paths would have crossed?” She repeated his answer as a question to let it roll around in her head for a moment. If he hadn’t been coming to see Winston, what had he come here for?
Amelia was more straightforward. “If it wasn’t to see your father, why did you come here?”
A smile tugged at Sara’s lips. It was about time Amelia questioned something about him. Sara lifted a brow, as he had earlier, and waited to hear his response.
His silence lingered so long she was just about to concede he wouldn’t answer when he opened his mouth.
“I came here to discover who murdered my friend.”
Regardless of the anger still fueling her system, the stone-coldness of his eyes and the gravel in his voice sent a chill up Sara’s spine.
“Murdered?” Amelia asked. “Here in Royalton? When? Who?”
The naturalness of how he laid a hand over the top of Amelia’s made Sara’s stomach churn. There was a clear connection between Amelia and Crofton. It might have lain sleeping beneath the surface for years, but had returned the moment the two had seen one another. Expecting anything less from Amelia would be impossible. She cared about people, even those she didn’t know, and inside Sara’s troubled mind, she knew Amelia more than cared for Crofton. She loved him. She’d spoken of him often, as if he’d been her own child. His death, or supposed death, had been as painful for Amelia as it had been for Winston.
That realization made Sara’s churning stomach sink. She would have no ally in Amelia when it came to fighting this man for Winston’s dream. Then again, she had no right to fight him. She had no claim to anything of Winston’s. Although she’d loved him like a father, and he’d loved her like a daughter, she wasn’t his rightful heir. Had no legal place to stand.
“Mel’s murder didn’t happen in Royalton,” he said, “but this was the last place he’d been.”
“Mel who?” she asked.
“Barton,” he said meticulously, almost as if it hurt. “Mel Barton.”
“I don’t know of any Bartons in the area,” Amelia said. “Do you, Sara?”
Never taking her eyes off Crofton, for his were still leveled on her, she shook her head. “No.”
“He wasn’t from around here,” Crofton said. “He was my partner. We share—shared several thousand acres of rangeland.”
Knowing the mountainous region around Royalton fairly well, Sara asked, “Where?”
“Arizona Territory,” he answered.
“Arizona!” Amelia squealed. “You live in Arizona and never once came to see me? How long have you been there?”
“About two years,” he answered. “I never came to see you because Winston didn’t want me to.”
A shiver rippled up Sara’s neck at the hint of anger in his tone, but it appeared Amelia didn’t notice it, or at least didn’t care. How could she be so blind to this man and his actions? He clearly didn’t care about her, or his father. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.
“That’s not true. Winston would have been overjoyed to see you,” Amelia said. “Purely overjoyed.”
Although no one had touched their food the last few minutes, Crofton pushed his plate toward the center of the table, as if signaling his appetite had left him. There was a twitch in the center of his cheek as he turned to look at Amelia. “Evidently not. I know you were committed to Winston, and don’t want to believe certain things about him, but my father did not want to see me. Did not want to acknowledge I was alive.”
Sara had her own opinion on that, but this conversation was clearly between Crofton and Amelia, so chose to remain silent. In her mind, though, she couldn’t ignore the fact that Winston would never have denied seeing his son. When Hilton had died she’d seen Winston cry and mourn the child’s death deeply. It had to have been that way when he’d heard of Crofton’s death, too.
With an unusual show of anger, Amelia threw her napkin on the table. “That’s impossible. I won’t believe it for a minute. Not a single one, I tell you. Your father loved you and would have wanted to see you. Don’t you dare sit here and tell me otherwise. I saw the anguish that man went through all those years ago, how it hung with him, and I know how happy he would have been to know you were alive.”
Crofton had remained quiet during Amelia’s fiery outburst, but had pulled a pocketbook out of the suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair, and as soon as she’d closed her mouth, he handed something to her.
Itching to know what was on the slip of paper, Sara leaned closer to the table. From the looks of the tattered edges, Crofton had been carrying it with him for some time.
“What’s this?” Amelia asked.
“Open it.”
She unfolded the paper and frowned as she read whatever it held. Slowly lifting her gaze to Crofton, she opened her mouth and then closed it.
“Speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”
Sara balled her hand into a fist to keep it from shooting across the table to snatch the paper from Amelia. Crofton must have sensed that because he waved a hand in her direction. Following his unspoken command, Amelia handed the piece of paper across the table. Suddenly apprehensive, not overly sure she wanted to know what it said, Sara took the paper gingerly.
Western Union Telegraph Company was printed in large letters across the top along with a paragraph of rules and regulations in much smaller print. Below that, someone had written on the printed lines, noting that the message had been received at 6:48 p.m. on the twelfth of April 1879—more than six years ago—in Baltimore, and that it had been sent from Royalton.
She had to swallow at the lump forming in her throat before letting her eyes go lower. The ink on the well-tattered and thin-at-the-folds note was faded, but readable. It was to M. Hammond, and the message below that was simple.
Impossible. Crofton Parks died years ago. Do not contact me again.
W. Parks.
Handing the paper back to Crofton, she said, “I’m assuming this is a telegraph in response to one sent to Winston. Who is M. Hammond?”
“A judge in Baltimore.”
“Why did a judge in Baltimore send a telegraph to Winston?”
Crofton was in the midst of reasoning how he wanted to answer that question when once again a knock sounded on the front door. He wasn’t so deep in thought he missed a flash of disgust in Sara’s eyes. She could have been disappointed to have their conversation disrupted, but he sensed it was more than that.
“Is that Samuel returning?” Amelia asked. “Did you order something from Wellington’s?”
“No,” Sara answered. “I didn’t order anything from Wellington’s.”
Wellington’s was the mercantile, but that didn’t explain why her hands shook when she laid her napkin on the table.
“I’ll go see who it is,” she said with a ragged sigh.
Crofton waited until she rounded the corner of the dining room before pushing away from the table. He paused in the arched doorway and everything inside him hardened at the sound of a man’s voice. Extending one arm, he braced himself against the narrow wall of the dining room archway and willed his muscles to relax while deliberately capturing Bugsley Morton’s gaze as the man entered the house.
Chapter Five (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
Upon spying him, Bugsley turned a crimson shade of red, and Crofton almost cracked a smile. Instead, to prove who was in charge, he gave a single nod. “Morton.”
Bugsley’s nostrils flared, but he managed to hide anything else as he turned to Sara. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“We’re fine,” she said.
“I see you have company,” Bugsley said.
Crofton caught a chortle before it expelled. If Bugsley thought that attitude would get, or perhaps keep, him on Sara’s good side, he was a buffoon. From what he’d encountered so far, a man would have better odds going up against a cross-eyed bull with a lasso than using that condescending tone with her.
“Yes, we do,” she said coldly. “Have you met...Crofton?”
He didn’t miss the pause before she said his name, almost as if saying it grated her nerves down to the last one.
“I’ve had the...pleasure,” Bugsley answered.
Crofton did let out a laugh. Turning to Sara, he explained, “Mr. Morton was at the lumber mill when I stopped by there earlier, and I saw him again at the saloon.”
Her frown let him know what she thought of Bugsley being at the saloon. The only woman he’d ever met that didn’t mind a man stopping by a saloon was June. Thinking of her made him think of Mel, June’s brother, his best friend, and that brought his full attention right back to where it should be. “I hope my toast to my father didn’t interrupt your business with those railroad men and their gunman.”
While Bugsley glared at him, Sara glared at Bugsley. “What railroad men?”
“They were in town for the funeral,” Bugsley answered with an annoyed tone.
Crofton knew all about being annoyed, and this man increased every ounce of it in him. He also knew a liar when he saw one.
“I didn’t see them at the funeral,” she said.
“Perhaps they didn’t want to intrude,” Crofton offered, knowing that would get even more of a rise out of her.
He hadn’t realized Amelia was nearby until she jabbed him in the back.
“We’ve just finished eating, Bugsley,” Amelia said, skirting around Crofton as she walked out of the dining room. “But are about to have dessert if you’d care to join us.”
“Thank you,” Bugsley answered. “But I just need to speak with Sara for a moment and will then be on my way.”
Like the mother hen Crofton remembered, Amelia stopped directly in front of Sara and shook her head. “Not tonight. Sara just buried her mother and father. There is nothing you need to speak to her about that can’t wait until tomorrow, or the next day.”
Crofton was holding his breath, waiting for Sara to spout off, but as the seconds ticked by he realized that wasn’t going to happen. Surprisingly. Then again, perhaps not. Amelia’s hand was only heavy when it was loaded with love. He remembered that, and the woman’s words caused an inkling of guilt to tickle his stomach. Sara had loved her mother and Winston, and the day had to have been a hard one for her.
“Now, as I said,” Amelia continued, “you’re welcome to join us for dessert if you’d like.”
That clearly was not what Bugsley would like, and Crofton never took his eyes off the man.
Bugsley was staring back, and a challenge appeared in his eyes when he said, “Thank you, dessert sounds wonderful.”
“Right this way, then,” Amelia said, hooking her arm through Bugsley’s.
It was clear the other man would much prefer to escort Sara, but obviously had no choice. With a nod toward Morton, Crofton pushed off the wall and moved forward, making a clear point that he would assist Sara into the dining room. Anticipating she might not approve, he walked around her and closed the inside door, and then rather than take her arm, merely waved toward the dining room.
She gave him a solid glare, and then with her chin in the air, walked toward the arched doorway. He lagged a step behind. In this instance, he’d rather have her for an ally than an enemy. His gut had signaled an instant dislike of Morton from the first time he’d seen the man leading Sara down the steps of the mortuary. If you asked him, Morton could easily be behind Mel’s death, but a gut feeling wasn’t proof, and that was what he needed. Proof.
When Sara paused in the dining room doorway, he gently laid a hand against her back to move her forward. Understanding the reason for her hesitation, he stepped around her and grasped the back of the chair Bugsley was about to pull out. The head of the table had purposefully been left empty while they ate, and would remain so. Call it respect for his father, or empathy for Sara, either way, Crofton placed a foot against the chair leg, making sure it wouldn’t be pulled out.
There was a brief showdown of eyes only before Bugsley stepped to the side of the table. Amelia hustling through the door to the kitchen with a tray may have been the reason, but Crofton preferred to take pleasure in the fact the other man had conceded because of him.
Sara had entered the kitchen and returned with a second tray. Hers contained a silver coffeepot, four cups with saucers, cream and sugar containers. Amelia was already setting out the four plates holding slices of pie. Crofton stood on one side of the table, with Bugsley straight across from him. They were still sizing up one another. The man may have been Winston’s right-hand man, but something said he hadn’t been as welcome in the family home as he had been in the lumber mill. Or at least he hadn’t had free rein in the home. Perhaps he hadn’t at the lumber mill, either. Until lately that is, which, in itself, was interesting.
Amelia pulled out a chair next to the other man, and though Crofton could tell Sara wasn’t impressed, she walked around the table. He held her chair, and once she was settled, sat down next to her.
“I must say, Amelia,” Crofton started while she poured coffee for all four of them. “Your fried chicken was even better than I remembered, and I’d lay bets this pie is going to be beyond that even.”
Her cheeks flushed as she scooted his cup closer to him. “I’ve had practice. Fried chicken is Sara’s favorite, too.”
He lifted a brow as he glanced toward Sara. She made no comment, in fact, barely glanced his way.
“Apple pie is her favorite, too,” Amelia said.
He picked up his fork. “I guess we have a lot in common.”
“I’d surmise that fried chicken and apple pie are favorites for many people,” Sara said. “Including Winston.”
If she was trying to get his goat, it didn’t work. He remembered many things about his father, including his likes and dislikes. “Did he still sprinkle a teaspoon of sugar over the top of his pie?”
He’d addressed the question toward Amelia, and the way she giggled and glanced across the table had him turning toward Sara in time to see her drop the spoon back into the sugar dish. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll take it when you’re finished. It always adds the perfect touch, don’t you think?”
She quickly took the spoon and sifted sugar across the top of her pie before setting the spoon back in the dish and passing it to him.
“I don’t believe Sara needs such reminders this evening,” Bugsley said.
“Oh, I disagree,” Amelia piped in. “Wonderful memories are exactly what she needs.”
Crofton didn’t take the time to consider whether he agreed that’s what Sara needed or not. His mind was set on disagreeing with whatever Bugsley said or did. The man needed to understand who had the upper hand. “Did Winston still like his beef red, not pink?” he asked Amelia.
“Oh, yes, the redder the better, and that was hard sometimes, timing things so precisely,” Amelia answered.
“Did he alter his six o’clock meal time?” Crofton asked, slicing off the end of the triangle-shaped piece of pie with his fork.
“No,” Sara supplied. “The evening meal was always served at six.”
“And lunch at noon,” Crofton added before lifting his fork to his mouth. The pie was as good as he remembered, just as the chicken had been. He hadn’t been exaggerating about that, nor had he forgotten Amelia’s cooking. The first few years in England he’d thought he might starve. Nothing had compared to the meals she’d prepared. He gave an inflated groan, just to let her know his appreciation.
Amelia giggled and turned toward Bugsley. “Is the pie not to your liking?”
“No—yes,” he said, taking a bite. “It’s very good. I just haven’t had much of an appetite.”
Crofton bit back a grin at how Amelia frowned.
“Not eating isn’t good for the body, or the mind, no matter what the circumstances,” she said.
Perhaps he hadn’t given Amelia enough credit all these years. He may have been only a child, but he never recalled Amelia speaking ill of anyone, nor openly reproofing them. Hearing how she’d spoken about his mother earlier today had surprised him, except for the fact his mother deserved the scorn considering her actions. However, it appeared Amelia had a bushel of contempt for Bugsley Morton, and that increased his curiosity.
While taking another bite of pie, he let his gaze wander to Sara, wondering what her feelings were towards Bugsley. They had appeared friendly toward one another at the mortuary yesterday, but considering the circumstances, she’d needed a friend. Bugsley would have put himself into that roll as easily as he had put himself into Winston’s office at the lumber mill.
Counting on Amelia to put him in an even closer position, Crofton asked her, “Remember when you brought Sampson home for me?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, but I didn’t exactly bring him home. He followed me. Poor thing was practically starved to death.”
“Who was Sampson?” Sara asked.
“A dog,” he answered. “The best one ever.”
“And biggest,” Amelia said. “He ate more than Crofton, which I didn’t think was possible. And goodness but that dog had hair. Long black hair that stuck to everything.”
Crofton laughed. “Good thing it was black and not white, otherwise we’d never have made it to church in time.” Turning to Sara, he explained, “She used to pick the hair off my clothes the entire way to town.”
“I swear that dog slept on your Sunday clothes—it was as if he thought that might keep you at home come Sunday morning.” Glancing at Sara, Amelia continued, “That dog went everywhere with Crofton. He’d walk him to school every morning, and then come home and lie on the porch until it was time to go back and walk him home. But I put my foot down when it came to church. He was so big he scared the daylights out of people.”
“He was big,” Crofton said. In all his years and travels, he’d never seen another dog as big as Sampson had been.
“And thank goodness he was,” Amelia said. “You would have drowned if not for that dog. Remember that?”
With his mouthful of pie, he could only nod.
“I should never have agreed to take you fishing. That river was much too high.” Once again including Sara in the conversation, Amelia said, “His hook got caught in the weeds and rather than break the line, he jumped in the water to unhook it. You know I can’t swim, and was scared to death. Crofton was only about seven. He was a good swimmer, but the current was strong because of the high water and before I knew it, he was heading downstream. Sampson ran along the bank until he was ahead of Crofton and then jumped in, swimming out for Crofton to grab a hold of him.”
“I did more than grab a hold,” Crofton said, having forgotten the incident until she brought it up. “I leaped onto his back.”
“He must have been a large dog,” Sara said.
“He was,” Crofton assured.
“Winston claimed the dog was bigger than a pony,” Amelia said. “He always joked about putting a saddle on him.”
Crofton had forgotten that, too. “We did once,” he said. “Father said not to tell you because you’d take a switch to both of us. Sampson wasn’t impressed so we never did it again.”
“Oh, you two,” Amelia said with a giggle. “What one of you didn’t think of, the other did. I said it was like having two children at times.” Shaking her head, she added, “No wonder that dog wouldn’t sleep in the barn.”
“That and my bed was far more comfortable.”
“Oh, and did your mother go into a tizzy over that. Every time she returned home, she’d have a conniption fit over that dog being in the house,” Amelia said.
That was something else Crofton had forgotten about. His mother’s ire at Sampson. All of a sudden, he could hear his father’s voice, Leave the boy and his dog alone, Ida.
“Return home?” Sara said with brows knit together. “Where was your mother?”
Crofton shrugged, he didn’t remember much about his mother back then, considering she was never around, but he had heard her side of things. “Baltimore, usually,” he said. “Her father worked for the B & O Railroad, the Baltimore and Ohio, and was ailing. She had to make several trips to see to his care.”
Though she hid it well, Crofton heard the huff that Amelia let out and saw the tightness of her lips. Bugsley, who had remained quiet the entire time, saw it, too, and Crofton was sure the man made a mental note of that.
The man pushed away from the table. “The pie was excellent, thank you.”
Amelia rose to her feet at the same time Bugsley did. “You two finish your coffee,” she said. “I’ll see Mr. Morton to the door.”
Crofton waited for Sara to protest, while considering if he should offer to walk Morton to the door. Amelia hadn’t changed much over the years, and he could tell she wanted the man gone without speaking to anyone. He wondered if that included him.
When Sara offered no protest, Bugsley said, “You and I will need to discuss a few things, Sara. Perhaps I could stop by tomorrow?”
“That will be fine,” she answered.
The other two left the room, and though his plate was empty and his coffee cold, Crofton didn’t attempt to rise.
“More coffee?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” he replied, wondering what his next steps should be. In his mind, he’d planned on being offered lodging at the house, but at the moment was feeling a bit intrusive. Perhaps it would be better if he got a room at the hotel. However, considering he wanted the entire town to view him as Winston’s son, staying here was an important factor.
The subtle silence that hovered over the table was broken when Sara asked, “What happened to Sampson?”
Crofton had wondered about that for years. He’d felt utterly abandoned that day all those years ago. Hadn’t understood why his father had taken Sampson. With a shrug, he said, “He came West with my father and Amelia and Nate.”
“No, he didn’t.” Having wasted no time in seeing Bugsley to the door, Amelia was already walking back into the dining room. “We left him with you—your father insisted upon it.”
Memories flowed stronger than they had in years, and he clearly remembered coming home from school that day to find Sampson gone. He also recalled that his father had driven him to school in the buggy that morning, telling him all about Colorado during the ride. How they were going there to start another lumber mill, larger than the one in Ohio, and that as soon as the house was built, he’d be back to get him and his mother. Sampson had trotted along beside the horse. The memory of the last time he’d seen his father and Sampson was as clear right now as it had been back then. He’d stood in the school yard, watching his father drive away with Sampson running alongside the buggy. From then on, he had few memories. Sadness had clouded his young mind, along with train rides and hotels, and eventually the long ship ride to England. After arriving there, he’d chosen to forget more than he chose to remember. He lifted a shoulder. “I guess he must have died. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?” Sara asked.
He shook his head.
“Did he die in the fire?” she asked.
Having learned his mother had informed Winston he’d died when their Ohio house caught fire, he shook his head. “There was no fire. At least not while we lived there. I did stop by the old place on my way West. The barn was the same, but the house wasn’t.”
“Yes, there was a fire,” Amelia said. “It burned the house to the ground. Winston traveled back there and spoke to people about the fire. He also saw your grave, had a big headstone made for it.”
Having seen it himself, he told Amelia, “The headstone is in Baltimore.”
“Because that is where Ida claimed you were buried. She said you’d been burned in the house fire and she sent you to Baltimore for medical help, and that’s where you died. She buried you next to her father. Your grandfather.” Amelia sat back down at the table. “Where were you during that time?”
Crofton only had fragments of memories during that time, and his mother hadn’t enlightened him even when he’d asked. “I honestly don’t know.” Having strolled down memory lane—a place he rarely liked to visit—long enough, Crofton stood. “I thank you ladies for a wonderful,” nodding toward Amelia, he added, “and delicious, evening.”
Frowning, Amelia asked, “Where are you going?”
No longer wanting an invitation, he said, “I must acquire accommodations for the night at the hotel.”
“You will not,” Amelia stated. “You’ll be staying here. We have plenty of room, don’t we, Sara?”
She’d risen and was gathering dishes from the table. “Mr. Parks may find the accommodations at the hotel more hospitable.”
“He will not,” Amelia said. “There are three extra bedrooms upstairs, and he will use one of them. No arguments.” Piling dishes on the second tray, she added, “From either of you.”
Sara felt Amelia’s glare and Crofton’s curious stare on her back, and ignored them both as she carried the tray into the kitchen. She also heard Amelia continue insisting Crofton stay at the house. At the moment, her mind was too full of other things to care where he slept. He was part of what was dancing about inside her head—especially why his mother would have told Winston he’d died when he hadn’t. The other part of her was wondering about Bugsley. He’d seemed nervous tonight, and subdued. Of course the conversation and Amelia’s attitude could have been part of it. Amelia hadn’t liked Bugsley since he’d taken Nate’s place as Winston’s right-hand man.
Bugsley had worked for Winston before Nate had died during the rail road wars, but had become more essential afterward. Therefore, Sara could understand a small portion of Amelia’s dislike, but she’d never made it quite as obvious before.
Scraping clean the plates, her mind shifted once more—to that of Sampson. She’d often thought having a dog would be fun, but had never asked for one. Mother would never have approved. Life should focus on what was needed not wanted.
It was still that way.
“Well, that’s settled,” Amelia said, setting down the other tray. “Crofton will stay in the room at the end of the hall.”
Sara crossed the room to the stove to dip hot water from the reservoir into the washing bowl. Arguing wouldn’t solve anything; furthermore, he had more right to be in Winston’s house than she did, a fact that truly didn’t settle well.
“Now who could that be?”
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Lauri Robinson
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A ghost of Christmas past…Heiress Sara Johnson is shocked when the step-brother she believed was dead returns to Colorado to claim his inheritance! It might be the season of good will, but Crofton Parks seems determined to destroy his late father’s empire.Sparks fly as Crofton and Sara are forced to work together, and soon she begins to uncover the secrets behind his disappearance and need for revenge. But a far more unsettling discovery is the desire he awakens in Sara…this roguish rancher might just claim her heart by Christmas!