UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET

  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.”

&nbs
p; 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

  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.