UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET

“Good.”

  After propping the pillows behind her, he pulled the quilt back up, and while folding the top edge over her lap, the back of one of his hands bumped one of her breasts. The connection was brief, but sent a fiery sensation through her so fast she gasped.

  He stepped away from the bed. “Now I’ll open the door to the balcony.”

  Heat burned her cheeks, and she was more than thankful that he pretended nothing had happened. His touch had been accidental, but her heart was racing nonetheless.

  While he opened the door and stepped onto the balcony, she drew a deep breath and held it for several seconds, trying to gain control of her body and thoughts.

  “What’s the bowl and the glass for?” he asked.

  She let the air out slowly, feeling far more relaxed, mainly because of his change of subject. “The hummingbirds. That’s how I feed them.”

  From where he stood near the railing, he turned around to cast a quizzical gaze her way.

  “I put sugar water in the glass and turn it upside down in the bowl. I like watching them while I’m—” Heat once again filled her cheeks at the idea of saying getting dressed. “Making my bed.” She brushed her fingers over both sides of her face while adding, “They sit on the side of the bowl and drink the water that seeps out from beneath the glass.”

  “Hummingbirds?”

  “Yes, hummingbirds. You do know what they are, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen hummingbirds,” he said. “I’ve just never heard of someone feeding them before.”

  “Well, now you have. They won’t come while you’re standing out there, though. They’re a bit skittish.”

  “It’s winter,” he said. “Don’t they fly south?”

  “Yes. They are usually gone by this time of the year, but not this year. One pair hasn’t left yet.” She did enjoy those tiny little birds, and didn’t mind telling him about them. “I’m hoping one of them isn’t injured and can’t fly as far as they need to. They will come and eat while I’m out there, but not when anyone else is.”

  He frowned slightly as he returned to the room, closing the door behind him. “Do you have other friends? Besides hummingbirds?”

  Stung, she replied, “I have lots of friends.”

  He gave one of those nods people use when they really don’t believe what has been said.

  Sara wasn’t sure why the need to defend herself became so strong. “I do. Amelia’s my friend, so is Bugsley and Dr. Dunlop. And Walter and Alvin.”

  “Those are people who work for you, or worked for Winston, I should say. I’m asking personally. Don’t you have friends your age?”

  “Of course I do. Why?”

  He shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason.”

  He had a reason—she just didn’t know what it was. That was irritating. Her friends were no concern of his, either. She had friends. Lots of them. It was just most of the girls her age had already married and were busy with their husbands and new babies. A few had moved away. Janis Wellstone had. She’d joined a traveling theatre troop that had performed in Royalton last year. Crofton would have thought Janis was pretty. All the boys in school had thought so. Janis had been pretty. Thinking of Janis’s long blond hair, Sara ran a smoothing hand over her mass of brown hair. It had a tendency to look a mess—that’s why her mother insisted on braiding it all the time as she got older, making sure it was secured in a tight bun. Her mind shifted to how Crofton had pushed stray hairs away from her face yesterday, and again last night.

  “What did I smell burning last night?” she asked.

  He lifted a brow, most likely at her complete change of topic.

  “I smelled smoke, and you said it was just some brush, but it’s not the right conditions to burn right now. What was burning?”

  “The rubbish pile.”

  That made no sense. “Why? People gather the scrap wood to burn.”

  He sat in the chair and crossed his arms while gazing out the window. “I believe it was burned so I wouldn’t be able to inspect it any further.”

  “Inspect what?”

  The length of his silence made her think he wasn’t going to answer, but then he turned and met her gaze. The contemplation in his eyes made her stomach gurgle.

  “The carriage Winston and your mother were in.” He sighed heavily. “It had been dragged to the rubbish pile from the accident site. I followed the trail that had been left.”

  Her heart thudded and her throat grew dry. “I didn’t know where it had been taken,” she said, as much to herself as him. “I was told the horse had to be put down on the spot, and never questioned where anything had been taken.”

  “There was no reason for you to,” he answered.

  There was a hint of condolence in his tone, and that made her nose sting and her eyes burn. A part of her wanted to pull the sheet over her head and let the tears flow. She couldn’t imagine a day would come when she didn’t feel the loss of her mother and Winston so strongly, even when she told herself that time would eventually come. “But I should have,” she said. “I’m the one responsible for everything now, and I should have at least questioned...”

  “You didn’t need to be concerned with the details.”

  Sara blinked away the tears before shifting her gaze back to him. “But you did. Why? What didn’t someone want you to see?” Her thoughts altered briefly. “Who burned the pile?”

  He shrugged.

  Thinking aloud, she said, “Bugsley is the only one who could have ordered that, or burned it without...”

  The way he nodded caused her to let the rest of her thought remain unspoken. Bugsley would have stopped anyone else from burning it. If only Winston was here—

  In an attempt to avoid another rush of loss, she said, “What did you find? And don’t lie to me. I don’t need any more of that.” Along with everything else, a sense of frustration welled inside her. “I don’t need any more of anything.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said, pushing to his feet. “Except sleep. That you do need.”

  “No, I don’t.” She had no idea what had transpired inside her, but all of a sudden she was mad. “Sit down.”

  He looked at her cautiously while lowering back onto the chair.

  “I’ve just lost my parents, my entire family, and I’m in bed with my side stitched up, and you, Crofton Parks, are going to start answering my questions. I want to know what you found in that rubbish pile. I want to know why you never came to see your father, why you hate him so badly, a man who loved you so much, and...” Her eyes were stinging again and she had to stop long enough to sniffle, before finishing, “I want to know what happened to that big black dog of yours.”

  Pity filled his eyes as he shook his head. “Sara—”

  “Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t Sara me. I’ve been told to keep quiet my entire life, and I’m tired of it. I want answers. I want to know what’s going on around me. I want...” She truly didn’t know what she wanted, but there was a powerful force inside saying it was something, and that he had the answers. “I deserve that much, Crofton,” she said. “Don’t you think I deserve to know?”

  Tears blurred her vision, and continued to trickle from her eyes as fast as she wiped them off her cheeks. Blinking past the blurriness, she was surprised to see him nodding.

  “Yes, Sara,” he said quietly. “I believe you deserve to know.”

  The quick clip of footsteps made her wipe away the tears and look the other way when Amelia walked through the open doorway.

  “Did I hear shouting? Oh, goodness,” Amelia continued without pausing for an answer. “Are you crying, Sara? Why? Are you hurting? What’s wrong, honey?”

  Sara couldn’t do more than shake her head.

  “It’s my f
ault,” Crofton answered.

  “What did you do to her?” Amelia asked while plopping a tray on the bed.

  The tray wasn’t heavy, but the force with which it was set down, and due to already being skittish toward pain, Sara bit her lips against the idea of more pain. She’d been about to say it wasn’t his fault. That he needed to quit taking the blame for everything, but was glad the words hadn’t been spoken. Letting him take the blame was easier. Letting him have everything would be easier.

  “I told her about the rubbish pile being burnt.” Crofton arrived at the side of the bed and removed the tray from her lap.

  Always the sensible one, Amelia said, “That’s nothing to cry over.”

  Crofton set the tray on the table between the two upholstered chairs all the while drawing a deep breath to calm the commotion inside him—his head and chest. “She’s just lost her parents and is stitched up from her hip bone to her ribs.” He hadn’t realized he’d used almost the same words Sara had until they echoed in his head. “She’s hurting and in pain. Just about any news could make her cry, and rightfully so.” Taking Amelia’s arm, he turned her toward the door. A part of him said he was the one who should leave, but the other part of him said he had to stay and protect Sara from any additional pain. “Go see to Dr. Dunlop. I’ll make sure Sara eats her breakfast.”

  As good as she was at giving orders, Amelia was not good at taking them, and dug in her heels. “I—”

  “Go,” he insisted, while tugging on her arm harder. Lowering his voice, he whispered, “Your fussing will only make her feel bad.”

  With a humph, Amelia pulled out of his hold.

  He followed her into the hallway.

  “Don’t go saying anything else to make her cry, or you’ll answer to me,” Amelia hissed.

  “I won’t.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “I brought you up a plate, too,” she said, glancing back into the room. “The two biscuits you took out of the warming oven won’t be enough to tide you over until lunch.”

  “Thank you.”

  She shot him a glare that only held a small portion of anger, and then marched down the hall.

  He rocked on his heels for a moment, not quite ready to return to the bedroom. That meek little hummingbird lying in the bed had the fortitude of a hawk when she wanted to. She’d just never been allowed to show it, and he couldn’t help but wonder why. Winston had never held anyone back. Walter had proved that when he admitted to barely knowing how to add when Winston hired him. Intrigued, Crofton turned and entered the room.

  Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry as she looked up at him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He transferred one plate, cup and silverware from the tray to the table and then carried the tray to the bed. “But you do have to eat.” Nodding at the plate, he added, “All of it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Crofton upheld his threat, watching until Sara had swallowed the last bits of her food. He’d eaten his plate clean, too, and stacked her empty one atop his before setting everything on the tray. Leaving it on the table, he moved a chair closer to her bed.

  “Feel better?”

  She nodded. “Yes, thank you. Amazing how food does that, isn’t it?”

  “I suspect that’s because it takes our mind off other things for a time,” he answered.

  Her grin was small and fleeting. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  “Don’t be,” he said, meaning it. She’d probably never lost her temper on anyone and he didn’t mind being the first. “I can’t say how I’d behave if I was in your position.”

  “But you are in my position. Well, you’re not in bed with stitches, but your father died, leaving you responsible for...” Her sigh echoed across the room.

  “Half of everything he owned,” he finished for her.

  She squirmed a bit as if uncomfortable, on the inside. Where her soul lived. He recognized it because his was giving him a bit of trouble. There wasn’t time for him to worry about this girl. He’d been in town five days and wasn’t any closer to discovering who’d killed Mel, and wouldn’t learn much today. If the four men who’d trekked up the hill asking about Sara were any indication, going even as far as town was out of the question.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said, glancing toward the balcony door, to where the bowl and glass sat on the rail.

  Through the glass panes he saw the bowl and glass and had to grin. Leave it to her to figure out a way to feed hummingbirds. In December no less.

  “I don’t deserve to inherit any of Winston’s holdings. You’re his son. His blood relative and I’m—”

  “Not up to the challenge?” he asked.

  Her expression turned harsh, and for a minute he wondered if she’d snap again. He wouldn’t mind battling with her, but considering her condition, would rather not. He barely knew her, yet the desire to help her was overriding just about all of his other thoughts. He could understand why so many had trekked up the hill asking for her hand. She was easy to like, and any man would be proud to have her on his arm.

  After a thoughtful gaze that ended with a slight shake of her head, she said, “There is no challenge, and I don’t want anything. I’ll sign whatever I need to sign.”

  “There’s nothing to sign.” He rested an elbow on the arm of the chair and set his chin on his fist. “I don’t want anything, not half, not all, but, considering what the lawyer said, neither one of us has a choice.”

  “But Winston would have wanted you to have it,” she said with an exuberant amount of passion. “I know he would have.”

  Crofton ran both hands over his thighs. When she got all emotional he wanted to wrap his arms around her, but couldn’t. If he did that, he might kiss her. Not a peck on the cheek, but really kiss her. Where the hell had these yearnings come from? He’d never been known for his chivalry, and had kissed more than his fair share of maidens, but this was out of the ordinary even for him. As was the misery it provided. She was a young innocent girl with more on her plate than she could handle, and all he could think of was her. Kissing her. Holding her. Protecting her.

  “You know it, too,” she whispered. “Deep down, you know Winston did. Why can’t you admit that?”

  Crofton stood and walked to the door leading to the balcony, where to his surprise, a hummingbird darted around the bowl. “Maybe he did, and maybe I do.” The bird sped away. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? He’s gone, and I have a ranch that I need to return to. I don’t have time for a lumber mill or railroad contracts.” Turning about, he added, “And, just as you pointed out to me, let me point out that Winston would have wanted you to inherit his holdings. Perhaps not the mill, or at least the work and responsibilities that go along with it, but he would have wanted you to have the money. To be financially set. Don’t try to deny that.”

  Along with a heavy sigh, she nodded. “You’re right.” Meeting his gaze, she said, “I guess we’re both stuck with it all, whether we want it or not.”

  Bracing a hand on the door, he nodded in agreement. “Looks that way.” The irony of it all had him running his other hand through his hair. “I came here to find who murdered my friend, and he had come here to find out why the railroad pulled the route they’d promised. One that would go down into New Mexico and then west to the coast. It would give all the ranchers down there a way to get their cattle to markets.” This wasn’t the topic he’d planned on mentioning, but it just shot out, and as long as he’d started, he saw no reason to end. “That had been the plan, but suddenly, that plan changed. With no explanation. Mel had ridden up here, knowing Winston had won the bid to provide the lumber, and hoped there would still be time for some additional negotiations. Rumor had it that the plans had changed due to the lack of lumber in our region. Which did
n’t make a lot of sense. Winston’s bid included shipping the lumber no matter where the tracks led.”

  She’d been listening closely, and he saw the moment she latched on to the same thing he had. “You thought he changed the route because it would benefit you. Benefit your ranch. Didn’t you?”

  “Seems as likely as any other reason.”

  “He didn’t know you were alive,” she said. “Ralph said there was no way Winston could have responded to that telegram. As far as he knew, you had died in Ohio.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “I do,” she insisted. “I lived with Winston. If you had been alive, he would have told us. Me, Mother, Amelia. There’s no way he would have kept that a secret. I know that with all my heart and soul. And you do, too, if you’d get over your anger at him.”

  “I hold no anger toward him.”

  “Yes, you do.” Compassion filled her eyes. “He didn’t desert you. Deep down, you know that. He was as much a victim as you were. Winston didn’t know about that telegram, I’m convinced of that, and he had no idea you were alive.”

  “Well, someone knew,” he said. “Someone knew I was Winston’s son, and...” His thoughts faltered briefly, in a direction he hadn’t gone down before, yet had to.

  “And what?” she asked.

  It was just a hunch, but a solid one. “And that same someone wanted to make sure Winston didn’t discover it.” Conviction rolled inside him like a boulder let loose atop a hill. “Someone didn’t want him to know I was alive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He held up a hand, giving his mind a chance to play out. Things were falling into place and he needed a moment to let them settle. It made too much sense. Way too much sense. Crossing the room, he sat in the chair and scratched at his tingling scalp. This was something he hadn’t considered until now.

  “When I returned to America after being deported, after confronting my mother and learning the whole truth, or as much of it as I could believe, I considered coming straight to Royalton, but I didn’t want to show up with no money, no future. I wanted...” Frustrated, he stood. “I wanted to be someone my father could be proud of.”