UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET

by ROBINSON, LAURI

  “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 schoo
l 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?”

  Lost in thought, Sara hadn’t heard a knock until it sounded again. “Here,” she said, handing over the washbowl, “I’ll go see.”

  “If it’s Mr. Morton, tell him you’re tired, and—”

  “I’ll tell him,” Sara interrupted. Or talk to him. That might help clear her mind a bit. It was so full of Crofton Parks that thinking straight was becoming difficult. Rather than wondering what had happened to a long-haired dog and why someone would lie about the death of their child, she needed to be thinking about the amount of wood promised to the railroad, and by when, and assure it was delivered. If she’d paid more attention she might know how much it took to build trestles and bridges and tunnels. Different types of wood were needed for each, and also for the ties. That much she remembered from one of Winston’s conversations, but unfortunately, he didn’t believe in talking about work at home.

  Her mind was well and focused on such details when she arrived at the front door, and the knocking on the other side caused a hint of irritation. When she’d asked Bugsley about those details, he’d said not to worry about it. That he’d handle everything.

  Expecting Bugsley, seeing Elliott Cross on the porch confused her. He’d already interviewed her for the article he’d published in his paper about the accident.

  “Good evening, Sara,” he said while removing the glasses from his face with ink-stained fingers.

  “Mr. Cross,” she greeted, before asking, “Is there something you need?”

  He tucked the glasses in his shirt pocket. “Why, yes there is, Sara.”

  Baffled, she opened the screen door. “What would that be?”

  He waved a hand toward the chairs on the porch. “Perhaps we could sit out here. It’s a particularly lovely evening for December. Usually we have snow by now.”

  She wasn’t interested in how lovely the evening was for December, or the lack of snow, but a thud overhead from the second floor had her crossing the threshold. The news of Crofton staying here would spread fast enough without Elliott Cross’s help. “What is it you need?” she asked once they were both seated.

  Squinting, as if he couldn’t quite see her without his glasses, he leaned a bit closer. “It has come to my attention that you are now open to seeking a suitable partner, and—”

  “Partner?” She shook her head. “The lumber mill does not need a partner.”

  “I do not mean the lumber mill, my dear Sara. I’m speaking about you. Now that Winston has passed on, God rest his soul, you—”

  “No,” she growled through clenched teeth. “Mr. Cross, I am not interested in a partner of any kind.”

  “Well, now, hear me out, dear—”

  “No,” she said, jumping to her feet. “I will not hear you out.” The look of shock on his face had her taking a deep breath. From the time they’d moved in with Winston, her mother had been extremely clear on how they had to behave. Actually, she’d insisted on being polite to everyone even before then, and those manners had been instilled deep. “I do not wish to be rude, but in this instance, I may appear so in order to make it clear that I am not interested in marriage to anyone. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week or next month, or even next year. Now, if you will kindly take your leave.”

  He snatched his glasses from his pocket and hooked them over both ears before standing. “How will you manage?”

  “I will manage just fine.”

  “Not with Winston’s son in town,” he said.

  Her intention had been to leave him standing on the porch, but his statement froze her feet to the porch boards.

  Pulling a little notepad out of his pocket, the exact kind he’d used to take notes for the article about the accident, Elliott said, “He was at the mill and the saloon, and the barber shop and livery. As a matter of fact, he’s been in town for a few days.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” she said.

  “If he truly is Winston’s son, as many already believe due to his uncanny resemblance, then you must realize anything bestowed upon you because of Winston’s death will be taken away, unles
s of course, you have the wherewithal to go against this man in court. By wherewithal, I mean the financial backing and support of a husband. You must understand, Sara, whether the people of this town thought of you as Winston’s daughter or not, the fact is that you weren’t and this will be held against you in a court of law. You, my dear, are Sara Johnson, not Sara Parks.”

  “I am well aware of that as well.”

  “Then you must also realize that married to a man of the community, a well-standing citizen who could vouch for the years you lived with Winston, your chances of inheriting at least a portion of Winston’s holdings will be greatly increased.”

  Her head was spinning and her stomach was turning the pie she’d eaten into applesauce.

  “The timing of this man’s arrival was quite perfect, don’t you agree, Sara? Winston’s long-lost son, believed to be dead for years, arrives in town the day after Winston dies in a tragic accident? It sounds rather fictional, don’t you agree?”

  She didn’t want to agree with anything he’d said, and had to squeeze her hands together to stop them shaking. They’d done that earlier today, when she’d walked into Winston’s office and found Crofton sitting there.

  “I see you have a lot to think on, Sara, including my proposal. A union between the two of us would be very beneficial, because you see, I would not only be able to obtain the legal assistance you will need, I will be able to unearth the truth behind Crofton Parks and Winston’s untimely accident—or timely, depending on who’s perspective one sees it through.”

  The hair on her arms was slowly standing up, making her skin shiver as if a goose had just walked over her grave. Fighting to remain calm, she lifted her chin. Defying Elliott, as badly as she’d like to, could have consequences she didn’t need right now. Though he proclaimed to only report the truth, plenty of people disagreed. Unfortunately, they never seemed to fare well. With a nod, and a deep breath, she said, “Good night, Mr. Cross.”