She obeyed and didn’t budge an inch, not even when the silence grew so thick he eased off her to glance around the edge of the buggy. Whoever had fired the shot hadn’t been too close. It had been a rifle, not a handgun, and he surveyed the buildings, checking the rooftops of the general direction the bullet had to have come from. There was no sign of anyone or anything out of the ordinary—other than the flutter of a curtain in a top-story window. He counted off the buildings, trying to recall what they’d driven past and guessed it to be a saloon. Not the one he’d visited the night before.
“Was that a gunshot I heard?”
Crofton maneuvered about until sitting on the seat, and while helping Sara onto the seat responded to Ralph. “Yes. Someone took a shot at us.”
“Are you sure?”
He wanted to growl. How sure does one need to be around here? “Yes,” he replied while climbing out of the buggy. “Wait here,” he told Sara. Stopping near the horse, he rubbed its neck as Ralph joined him there. “What’s that building?” he asked. “The third one on the left.”
“The Day’s End,” Ralph replied. “It only has a set of bat wing doors on the front since it never closes. Not even on Sundays. Why?”
“That’s where the shot came from,” Crofton answered. “A window on the second floor.”
“Maybe it was someone happy with the dove he’d just purchased,” Ralph said with a flippant tone that didn’t match the worry on his forehead.
Crofton followed the direction of the other man’s gaze. Sara was leaning over the dashboard, clearly trying to hear their conversation. “I don’t think so,” he said under his breath.
Ralph leaned down as if checking the tug buckle connecting the girth beneath the horse’s belly. “I don’t, either, and I wasn’t going to say anything,” the man whispered. “But in light of what just happened, and between you and me, I don’t think your father’s death was an accident.”
The hair on the back of Crofton’s neck quivered. “Oh?”
“Winston traveled that road every day. Summer and winter. I don’t believe his horse was simply spooked. Or if it was, I’d like to know by what.”
“No one investigated it?”
“The sheriff’s been out of town for two weeks,” Ralph said.
The trace bar connecting the buggy to the harness shifted and both men stood, knowing Sara had climbed out. “Get back in the buggy,” Crofton told her. “We need to head home.”
“What about the gunfire?” she asked.
“It’s probably just what Ralph said.”
Crofton watched Sara climb back in the buggy while he lifted the wheel lock off the ground. “When’s the sheriff due back?”
“Next week,” Ralph answered.
“I’ll be in touch soon,” he told the lawyer and then carried the wooden block to the buggy, where he set it on the floorboard beneath his feet. He waited for Sara to arrange the long folds of her black cloak before he released the brake and turned the rig around. He kept an eye on that one window as the horse broke into a trot, as anxious to get out of the area as him.
“Do you really think that’s all it was?” Sara asked. “An accident? That someone wasn’t really shooting at us?”
“No one with a lick of sense would shoot at someone in the middle of the day, in town,” he offered, although he wasn’t convinced of that at all.
“I’d suspect not,” she said. “But there are plenty of strangers in town with the railroad expansion. They know Sheriff Wingard is out of town. He helped the state marshal escort some prisoners to Kansas. Elliott wrote about it in the newspaper.”
Crofton nodded as they turned the corner. The desire to go the opposite direction, past the front of the saloon was strong. Had he been alone he would have, and he would have entered the building, to see who had been in that room, but with Sara along, he had to think of safety first. Furthermore, in his mind, he had a pretty good idea of who he’d find in the saloon. Bugsley Morton was not going to get rid of him that easily. The man needed to know that, and he needed to know putting Sara in that kind of danger would not be tolerated.
The ride home was quiet. The shooting incident seemed to have eased her antagonism over the will and how he didn’t want any of it. He didn’t. Yet, he couldn’t help but think of her. Men would be after her like hounds on a fox. He wanted to curse his father for putting her in such a predicament. Or himself for sending those suitors away two at a time. She was going to need a protector. Someone who would protect her with their very life.
He certainly didn’t need another hitch in all that was happening. All he wanted was a southern line of the railroad. The track that had been promised. The one that would make his ranching enterprise as successful as his father’s lumber mill.
At the house, he stopped the horse near the front door. “I’ll put away the buggy.”
The thoughtfulness of her gaze worried him for a moment, but then she nodded and climbed out.
Crofton drove the buggy to the barn and proceeded to unhitch the horse and let it loose in the corral before pushing the buggy into the stall he’d pulled it out of earlier. There was a second stall that sat empty, but the ruts in the hard-packed dirt said a second buggy had been stored there. The very one his father had driven to his death no doubt.
Things certainly would be different if that hadn’t happened. It had though, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
He was in the process of hanging the harness on the hook for that purpose when someone entered the barn.
“I could have done that for you, sir.”
Crofton recognized Alvin Thompson by the fact his left hand was cut off at the wrist.
“Lost it ten years ago at the mill,” Alvin said, raising the arm Crofton had just pulled his gaze off. “I would have bled to death if not for your father.”
Crofton gave a slight nod as the man stepped closer, with his right hand extended outward.
“Name’s Alvin Thompson. I take care of the barn chores around here, and other things. Wood for the house and such.” As they grasped hands, the man added, “But you already know that, don’t you, Mr. Parks?”
There was a cleverness to the man’s gaze, but no hostility. At least none that shone through. “Yes, I do,” Crofton answered. “And I know you work at the mill and live in the old house.”
Alvin nodded. “It was the first thing built out here. Your father and Nate Long put it up that first winter. After Nate died and Amelia moved into the big house, Winston asked me to move into the old place and take over the barn chores. Nate did most of them before that, and Amelia still sees to the chickens and garden and such. Winston just hired me to take care of the heavier chores. I agreed, but only if I could continue working at the mill, too. I can accomplish as much as anyone with two hands.”
“I’m sure you can,” Crofton answered, taking credit of the man’s chip. He didn’t begrudge him for that. He had his own chip. Furthermore, if he’d lost a hand, he couldn’t rightly say how he’d react to it even fifteen years later.
The notion Ralph Wainwright had put in Crofton’s head had been gathering credence, and he moved closer to the buggy in order to lay a hand on the wheel. “Do you service the rigs?”
“Sure do, regularly. Something up with this one?” Alvin asked.
It was a complete fabrication, but Crofton said, “I noticed a wobble on the left. The front axle might need some grease.”
“Could be,” Alvin answered. “Those rubber washers wear out. I’ll have a look-see.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Crofton answered as he started for the door. Then, pretending the thought just came to him, he turned around. “I’m assuming you’ll be the one to repair the other buggy.”
“What other buggy?”
“The one from the accident,” Crofton said.
<
br /> Alvin huffed and shook his head. “There weren’t nothing left to fix. When that horse got spooked, the buggy went over the side of the cliff.”
He’d heard that, but also knew even the worst wrecks left salvageable parts. Especially out here, where everything had to be shipped in, which was expensive and time-consuming. “What about the horse?” he asked.
“Had to shoot it. It was as mangled as—” Alvin stopped and gave the wheel he now stood beside a hard shake. “It wouldn’t have survived.”
“That’s too bad,” Crofton said.
“It certainly was,” Alvin said. “The entire accident was too bad.” Shaking the wheel a second time, he asked, “How is Miss Sara doing?”
The way she’d shaken during the reading of the will had caused something to shift inside Crofton, as had her anger at him afterward. She’d loved Winston, and hated Crofton for not loving him as well. That wasn’t his fault, but dang it, if it didn’t make him feel a bit guilty. He’d get over it. And so would she. Someday. Probably long after he was gone. “Good, considering all,” Crofton finally answered.
Hitching a pant leg, Alvin bent down. “I’ll see to this here wagon, but you tell her if there’s anything she needs, to just give me a shout.”
Crofton gave a nod. “I will.”
“That goes for you, too,” Alvin said.
Not exactly sure how to respond, Crofton settled for, “Thank you.”
“It’s a good thing you showed up when you did,” Alvin said. “She’ll need some looking after.”
Several questions came to mind, but Crofton chose to hold them for now. After another nod, he turned and left the barn. His intention had been to gather his horse and return to town. To the saloon, but, if whoever had shot at them had any wits, they’d have already left. He could go to the mill and find out if Bugsley had been there during that time or not, but it wouldn’t prove anything.
Pondering that, and more, he walked up the hill toward the house. Winston had built the place on a set of natural terraces. The older home on the lowest, the barn on the next, then the house on the next, and the last, smaller terrace, was where the graves were. Near a natural grove of trees. The entire town of Royalton had been built on a large mesa, with the large mountains, their peaks covered in snow, surrounding the town on all sides.
Halfway up the hill, Crofton altered his path. Rather than following the road, he walked through the grass to the cliff ledge. The view was similar to the one from Winston’s office. Crofton shifted slightly to scan the hillside, where the road started up the hill. It disappeared from view where it made the switchback and then reappeared for the second turn and the rest of the incline. The road would have taken some significant engineering and hard work to get it in the condition it was today. That didn’t surprise him. His father had believed anything could be accomplished. What did surprise him was that there hadn’t been an accident on this road until the fatal one that took Winston’s life.
Accidents were called accidents because that’s what they were. Mishaps. Events that caught you by surprise. It could have been that. The horse could have been spooked, which is what he’d been told and had believed. Until now. Who would have known Winston was going to see Wainwright that day and why did they stop it from happening?
He turned his gaze back to the lumber mill. All signs pointed to Bugsley Morton.
Glancing toward the road again, he scanned the hillside at the corner of the switchback. That was where the accident had happened. On impulse, he started down the hill. Within a few steps, he figured it would have been easier to take the road, but he was already committed. The brush and trees that somehow grew straight up out of the angled ground gave him aid as he made his way downward.
Chapter Eight
From her bedroom window, Sara watched Crofton disappear over the hill. She shouldn’t care what he was doing, or why he was doing it, but she did. He’d said differently, but he didn’t believe that shot had been fired by some happy customer at The Day’s End. It was the rowdiest of places in town. Rumor had it they offered free meals just to keep the men drinking all hours of the day and night. Other rumors were about the girls who worked there. Mother had forbidden her to even look at those women. She’d agreed, but had stolen a peek every chance she’d gotten.
When Crofton didn’t reappear, her curiosity took control and she tiptoed to the door and down the back set of stairs. Amelia had insisted it was time for a nap after hearing what had taken place, and would not be happy about being disobeyed.
Sara paused briefly on the bottom step when it creaked, and then peeked around the stairwell wall into the kitchen to assure Amelia wasn’t nearby before quickly crossing the room. She opened the back door slowly, to keep the hinges from squeaking and shut it just as quietly.
She jutted around the chicken coop and hurried into the trees that lined the edge of the cliff, then onto the small pathway that led to the clearing a short distance down the hillside. It was where they disposed of things no longer needed, empty cans, bottles and rags that couldn’t be used for anything else. From there, she peered down the hill to where she’d seen Crofton disappear. Although some of the trees and bushes had lost their leaves, the fir trees were still too thick to see through.
Frustration grew, and she was about to believe he must have returned to the road when she caught sight of something moving. She set her gaze on an open area ahead of the movement and felt a sense of elation when she recognized him moving downhill.
He was walking sideways due to the incline, and using branches when the hill was overly steep. The direction he was headed would take him to the back side of the mill. As that thought occurred, so did a smile. Few knew about it, but there was a much faster way down the hill.
She spun around and ran across the clearing, jumping over cans and bottles and then ducked between the bows of two large pine trees. When the road was too snow-covered to travel upon, Winston would use this foot trail to go to and from the mill when absolutely necessary. He’d carried her through the snow on this path, when she’d been seven and had fallen and broken her arm. She’d used it a few times after that, but it had been years. Winston had told her it was an animal trail, one deer and elk used to go down the mountain to drink from the river, and that she shouldn’t use it. Therefore she hadn’t. Until today.
Pines, and a few aspen framed the sides of the trail, and the way the fallen leaves were crushed told her Winston was right. The trail was well used. She had to swallow against the lump that formed at the idea of coming upon a wild critter. Deer didn’t worry her, but elk were common in the area and the unseasonably warm weather they’d been experiencing meant the bears might not have gone into hibernation yet, either. Neither bears nor elk were as docile as deer.
Her heart was racing and every sound made her jump by the time the trees gave way to the open area behind the mill. The big trees had long ago been cut down between here and the mill, but saplings had taken their place, leaving the ground uneven and difficult to walk through. The wind blew freely, too, making her wish she’d grabbed her winter cloak.
Between the wind and the relief of not encountering a wild animal, it was a moment before she recalled her mission and looked around for any sign of Crofton. Movement once again caught her attention. He seemed to be digging through the pile of old lumber.
Not worried if he saw her or not, she separated the saplings with both hands as she hurried toward him.
He spun around before she arrived, but didn’t stand up. Just as she opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, a gunshot sounded. It was immediately followed by another, and another. Startled and unsure what was happening, it was the sight of Crofton rushing toward her that she reacted to. Hitching her skirt, she jumped to run, but tripped. Unable to catch herself, she fell backward, hitting the ground with such force the air left her lungs in a swoosh.
Fighting to breathe, and to sit up enough to see if Crofton was all right, she was pushed back down as soon as she lifted her head.
“Damn it, stay down.”
He was covering her with his body like he had in the buggy and that had her heart pounding. Or maybe it pounded so hard because she still fought to breathe; then again it could be the searing pain shooting up her side. She twisted slightly, and hissed as the pain sharpened.
Most of the weight shifted off her, but he was still atop her, with eyes blazing. “Damn it, chasing off rustlers is safer than bringing you to town.”
Irritated by his glare and attitude, she replied, “You didn’t bring me to town.” She’d have liked to say more, but her side hurt too much.
“You, there! Get up. With your hands in the air. No sudden movements!”
The pain in her side dulled as she recognized Walter Porter’s voice. “It’s me, Mr. Porter. Sara.”
“Miss Sara? What on earth are you doing out here?” Mr. Porter asked. “Who’s that with you?”
“Crofton Parks is with me,” she said as loudly as possible while flinching as the pain renewed.
“What’s wrong?” Crofton asked. “Were you hit?”
She opened her mouth, but the pain turned so sharp she couldn’t speak.
Crofton instantly jumped off her and crouched beside her, running his hands over her sides and down her legs. “Where? What hurts?”
“My back, no my side,” she managed between the shooting pains. Nothing had hurt like this before, not even her broken arm.
“Lie still,” he said, which was in complete contradiction to how he slid his hands beneath her back and rolled her toward one side.
She hissed at the pain, and again at the shock on Walter Porter’s face as the man slid to a stop beside her.
“Oh, dear Lord,” Walter said. “A bullet couldn’t have hit her, could it?”
Fear raced through her and she twisted about to look at Crofton, and the hand he had used to touch her side. The one covered with blood.
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