UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET Page 3

  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 favo
rite, 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

  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.