UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET

by ROBINSON, LAURI

  Sara waited until Bugsley had left the room before saying, “Close the door please.” Her temper hadn’t exploded as it had wanted to, at least not in front of Bugsley. However, she wasn’t certain how much longer she could keep it under control.

  Crofton closed the door, and the smug look on his face as he crossed the room was almost her undoing. Remembering her manners, and all sorts of other things her mother had taught her, such as that a woman should never lose her temper, she closed her eyes for a moment of fortitude.

  Once her shoulders relaxed a touch, she said, “I understand that being Winston’s son gives you certain rights, however, interrupting a meeting is not one of them. Furthermore, it’s rude.”

  He merely lifted a brow while glancing her way as he walked toward the window.

  Mother had never met Crofton Parks, and as a result of that, her lessons weren’t sticking as well as they had in the past. This morning, while getting dressed, she’d considered wearing the black dress again, but had chosen a subtle gray one instead. Yes, she was in mourning, and would be for some time, perhaps forever, but questioning whether others would see that as weak and needing assistance—or a husband—had made her put on something other than black. She wasn’t weak, and Crofton needed to know that as much as everyone else. “It’s also rude to set up appointments for me without my knowledge, and to suggest that I may not be properly dressed for said appointments.”

  The chuckle he let out grated on her final nerve.

  “It’s not funny, Mr. Parks, nor will I allow such bad manners. Guest or not.”

  Turning from the window, he rested against the sill and crossed his legs at the ankles. “As you just pointed out, being Winston’s son provides me with certain rights, one of those being that I’m not a guest, but family.”

  “You are not family.”

  “I’m more closely related to Winston than you’ll ever be.”

  She swallowed against the burning sensation in her throat. He was making her madder than she could recall ever being. “That may be true, but you didn’t have the decency to attempt to see your father in years. I, on the other hand, lived with him for fifteen years.”

  He tapped a finger against his chin. “That may be true, but, blood is thicker than water.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. After listening to Bugsley insist they find a way to claim Crofton was an impostor, she didn’t need him standing there repeating quotes Winston used on a regular basis to convince her he was indeed Winston’s son. What she needed was one person focused on the mill. The railroad contracts. That’s what the people of Royalton needed. She’d told Bugsley that, but he’d said that wasn’t her concern. That the mill and railroad weren’t her concerns. “What appointment did you set up?” she asked.

  “Giving up so easily?” he said. “I was just starting to have fun.”

  “Fun? Is that what this is to you?” Flustered, she slapped a hand on the desk. “Nothing about any of this is fun. My parents are dead. Bugsley doesn’t care about that, or the town, which will shrivel up to nothing without the mill, which you know nothing about, nor do you seem to care about it. If you want fun, you’ve certainly come to the wrong place.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said, pushing off the windowsill. “I had fun this morning sending those men away, once it was two at a time.”

  She held her breath to keep from spouting off about that.

  “And I know far more about the lumber mill than you give me credit for.” He flipped open the ledger sitting atop the desk. “See these numbers right here? That’s where Winston was figuring his cost per tree harvested in relationship to the price charged to the railroad, including variants due to the thickness of the different types of lumber needed. When a tree is cut down, the amount of lumber it will provide is estimated through surface and lineal calculations. Meaning its diameter and height. These are rather simple, both surface and lineal feet are calculated without regard to width. Some believe the taller the tree the longer the boards and therefore the more lumber it will provide. That’s not always the case. Long narrow boards do not have the strength needed for the major construction the railroad is doing. Bridges and trestles take thick, solid boards, and railroad ties are very specific in length, width and density. For them, surface and lineal measurements won’t provide the estimates needed. Therefore,” he flipped the page to the next one. “Winston was using board measurement calculations to make those estimates. Thickness, times width, times length.”

  For the first time since she’d opened the ledgers something made sense. “No wonder there are so many pages of calculations.”

  Crofton leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. “For each tree cut down, Winston had to calculate the cost of harvesting that tree, of sawing it into lumber, of transporting it, and his margin of profit.”

  She hadn’t been so naive as to believe the railroad had simply said they needed a certain number of trees, but she hadn’t thought it was quite so complicated, either.

  “Of course, he also had to be able to estimate how long it would take him to harvest the trees, have them produced into lumber and hauled to the corresponding location at the precise time the railroad would need it,” Crofton said. “The railroad doesn’t want their men standing around waiting on lumber, nor is there a way to stockpile it. They are building on the move. They want what they need, when they need it. One miscalculation can break even the best deal.”

  A lump formed in her throat, and she was almost afraid to look at Crofton, and to ask, “Is that why you are here? To break the deal he had with the railroad?”

  Rather than answering right away, he walked back to the window and looked out of it for a stilled moment. She had no idea what she’d do if he said yes, or, in truth, what she’d do if he said no. Although the explanation he’d provided about the calculations had given her an insight she hadn’t had, it also made the task at hand more complex.

  “Is that what Morton told you?” he asked. “That I was here to break Winston’s deal with the railroad?”

  If she wanted the truth from him, she had to provide the same. “No, he told me you were an impostor.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “That you aren’t an impostor.” She let the air out of her lungs slowly, for it still seemed hard to admit, to understand. “That you truly are Winston’s son.”

  He turned around and folded his arms across his chest, and once again she was reminded of just how much he was like Winston.

  “It appears, Sara, for the first time, we have agreed on something.”

  She wasn’t certain that had ever been a disagreement. From the moment she’d seen him, she’d known the truth. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it, because she didn’t know what to do about it. Still didn’t.

  Considering there weren’t a lot of options, she leaned back in her chair. “Bugsley says you have a lawyer coming to town to prove you are Winston’s son. When will he arrive?”

  “I have no idea,” Crofton said.

  “You have no idea?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t have a lawyer.”

  Totally confused, she shook her head. “What?”

  “I just told Morton that.” He turned back toward the window. “I came here to discover who killed my friend, not to prove my parentage.”

  Compelled by something she couldn’t quite name, she stood and walked to the window. Gazing out at the mill and the puffs of white steam rising high into a sky that appeared bluer because of the white peaks on the mountain ridge on the other side of the valley, she stood silent, unsure what to say. A moment hadn’t gone by since the accident that she hadn’t wished Winston and her mother hadn’t died, and right now wished it more than ever. Not just for herself, but for Crofton. She didn’t have to like him in order to know it was unfair that he and Winston had been s
eparated for so many years. No matter who was at fault, it wasn’t right. Just wasn’t right.

  “Winston built quite an empire, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Was the mill in Ohio this large?”

  “No.”

  “The mountains around here are full of mines,” she explained, “not big ones, but large enough they needed a way to get their ore to the smelters. The mill provided most of the lumber for the railroad from Denver to here, and now it’s providing the lumber to build it West. The tracks will reach the coast someday.”

  “Yes, they will,” he answered. “Winston created his own gold mine. It’s just called a lumber mill. He told me about it before he left to come West, how he was going to build a sawmill in the middle of nowhere and how people would flock to it. Lumber, he said, is what is going to build America. Businesses and homes and railroads. He was right.”

  Over the years, she’d stood here many times, and instinctively knew when someone was looking up the hill—from the window of Winston’s office. She had that feeling now, and knew who was looking out that office window. Bugsley wasn’t going to stop at anything when it came to Crofton and she felt caught in the middle, unsure which route to take. Winston would want her to support Crofton, but if she did, Bugsley may not help her with the mill. The men wouldn’t respond to a woman boss. He’d told her that moments ago, too. Stepping away from the window, she asked, “What was the appointment you said we had?”

  Crofton walked away from the window and took a seat in a chair near the front of the desk. “I’m assuming Winston had a lawyer here in town.”

  Even though it wasn’t a question, she answered, “Yes, Ralph Wainwright.”

  “I think we should go see him.”

  She’d already figured on setting up an appointment, yet asked, “Why?”

  “I’m sure Winston had a will.”

  “Yes, he did.” Her knees trembled and she sat down in the chair behind the desk.

  “I would like to see what it says.”

  She could understand that, and had no intention of trying to stop him, but couldn’t help but wonder what all this meant for her. Elliott Cross’s visit was once again weaving its way into her thoughts. He’d been right, she had no recourse when it came to admitting she wasn’t Winston’s daughter, but he’d been wrong, too. She didn’t need assistance in fighting the will. There was nothing to fight about. “I can tell you where Mr. Wainwright’s office is.”

  Crofton stood. “I’d prefer you visit him with me.” Glancing toward the window, he added, “As soon as possible.”

  Sara pulled open the desk drawer and lifted out the envelope she hadn’t opened. “You may need this during our visit.”

  Chapter Seven

  Winston had been adamant about maintaining the road, and because of the steep grade he’d built a switchback halfway up the hill. Crofton guided the horse around the curves with the ease of someone who’d done so many times. “Are there mountains where you live?” Sara asked, more in order to break the silence that had hovered between them since leaving the office than out of curiosity.

  “No,” he answered. “Not really. There’s some high ground, but it’s nothing like this. Why?”

  “No reason.” She pointed toward a road that intersected with the main one. “You’ll turn left, and then another left on the next road. Mr. Wainwright’s home is at the end of that road.”

  “He doesn’t have an office in the business district?”

  “No, I don’t believe he ever has.”

  If Crofton thought that odd, he made no comment as he followed the directions she’d given. People stepped out of doorways to watch the buggy roll along the route and an odd sense overcame Sara. She’d always sat straight and tall while riding through town, but with Crofton sitting beside her, she didn’t need to remind herself to do so. It was as if she felt pride in sitting next to him.

  He drove them directly to the Wainwright home. Ralph had five children, therefore the house was large. The oldest, Ben, was ten, and his four sisters were six, five, four and two. Sara saw them regularly at church, and thought they were all adorable with their curly blond hair. They’d all been at the funeral yesterday, following along behind their father like baby ducks.

  She waited until Crofton had climbed down and walked around to help her, but as soon as his hands touched her, she wished she’d already climbed down. The skin at her sides, where his hands grasped her, as well as her palms as she touched his shoulders, tingled as if she was too close to a fire. He released her as soon as her feet touched the ground and she had to tighten her muscles against an odd fluttering that rippled through her insides. Instincts, she suspected. A warning of some sort.

  “Would you rather wait in the buggy?” he asked quietly.

  “No.” Putting one foot in front of the other, she focused on walking past him and up the walkway to the house.

  Tall and thin with hair as blond and curly as his children’s, Mr. Wainwright opened the door before she stepped onto the porch. “Good day, Sara.” He held out a hand to Crofton. “Mr. Parks.”

  The lawyer’s greeting didn’t surprise her. One look and people could figure out who Crofton was, even without how word of his arrival had spread.

  “I’m sorry to arrive unannounced,” Crofton said. “But we would like a moment of your time.”

  “Of course. I’m glad to see you, both of you. Do come in.” Ralph Wainwright waved a hand for them to enter before stating, “Mrs. Hughes was ailing this morning, but it will only take me a moment to put Ben in charge of the girls.” With another wave of his hand, he added, “You can wait in my office, if you don’t mind.”

  “We don’t mind waiting,” Sara said, “but if this is a bad time...” She wasn’t sure when might be a good time. For any of them.

  “No, this is fine.” Ralph gestured toward a double set of open doors. “I won’t be but a minute. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Crofton followed as she walked into the office. Sara took a moment to admire how the collection of books sitting upon the shelves were dust-free before she removed her black cloak and sat in one of the leather chairs near a window that was framed with a white lace curtain. “Mr. Wainwright’s wife died shortly after their youngest daughter was born. Deloris Hughes lives just up the road. We passed her place. It has a white picket fence around a flower garden. She takes care of the children when he needs help. I do hope she isn’t seriously ill.” She was babbling, but couldn’t help it. A pit had formed in her stomach.

  Crofton took her cloak and hung it on the coat rack before he sat in the chair beside her. “Was she at the funeral yesterday?”

  “I believe so, but I can’t say for sure. There were so many people I truly don’t remember who I spoke with and who I didn’t.”

  He nodded. “That’s understandable.”

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” Ralph Wainwright said as he entered the room. “And thank you for coming to see me. I’d told Mr. Morton I would need to see you as soon as possible, but didn’t want to intrude upon you during this time.”

  The welling in her throat kept her from responding with more than a nod.

  “I’m assuming my father had a will, Mr. Wainwright,” Crofton said. “And I’m also assuming his holdings will now revert to Miss—Sara.”

  She wondered if he didn’t say Miss Parks because he didn’t want her to be called that, or because he didn’t know her true last name. Few people did.

  Busy with the dial on a safe in the far corner behind his desk, Ralph didn’t answer right away. Once he had a large envelope in his hand, he left the safe door open and walked across the room. “Yes, Winston had a will. I have it right here, but first, I must have some sort of proof that you are indeed his son. It was my understanding that you had died as a young child. Perished in a f
ire if my memory is correct.”

  “That is correct, the story that is,” Crofton said. “The one my mother told my father. In truth, I didn’t die. She took me to England, where I resided until I was eighteen and learned that my father hadn’t died. Around the same time my mother fabricated my death, she told me Winston had died while traveling to Colorado.”

  Sara was amazed he could recite the tale without any emotion reflecting upon his face. It may have all been a long time ago, but he had to hold hurt or anger, or at least frustration. She certainly would if someone had treated her so heinously.

  Ralph sat in the chair opposite Crofton. “Why didn’t you try contacting your father once you learned the truth?”

  “That’s a long story, Mr. Wainwright,” Crofton answered.

  Setting the large envelope on the short table between his chair and Crofton’s, Ralph nodded. “I can believe it is, Mr. Parks, but, as your father’s legal counsel, it is also one I need to hear.”

  Sara wanted to hear it, too. All of it.

  Crofton leaned back in his chair. “I thought about sending him a letter, but decided I’d come to America and see him. It took a while, but eventually I hired on as a deckhand. Unfortunately for me, the captain of the ship wasn’t as honest as he claimed. The merchandise we delivered to the Port of Baltimore had been acquired through unsavory ways and shortly upon docking, the cargo was seized. Through a line of misdeeds and lies, the captain led the authorities to believe the deckhands were responsible for specific items. I was arrested along with several others. All innocent, I should add.”

  Comparing every word to what he’d told her and Amelia earlier, Sara asked, “Is that when you sent Winston that telegram?”

  “Yes,” he said to her. “I’d thought, considering my grandfather had lived in Baltimore, and my father had at one time, the connection might assist me in proving my innocence.” He pulled the worn telegraph from his pocket and handed it to the lawyer. “The judge overseeing the case had a wire sent to Winston, and received this reply, which led the judge to discovering my gravesite in Baltimore, complete with a large stone grave maker. Which also led to my deportation back to England.”