UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET Page 2

  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

  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 f
or 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.