UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET

  “Winston wouldn’t have cared about that. He would have been proud of you just for being you.”

  She was so innocent, so naive. He, on the other hand had been hardened by life, and that was hard to explain, especially when a part of him felt extremely vulnerable. What was it about her that brought up things inside him he barely recognized? For whatever reason, she did, and she made him want to tell her things he normally wouldn’t have shared with anyone. Tell her how his mother had convinced him, alive or dead, Winston wanted nothing to do with him. How that had driven him to prove he didn’t need a father, didn’t need Winston Parks. That’s what had been behind his ranch. The drive to be successful despite all the stumbling blocks life had shoved in his path.

  “That may be true,” he said, “but there was no reason for me to believe it. So, I started working my way West. I got a job with the railroad, but there wasn’t a future in that for me. I wanted more. Something of my own. Cattle are what I chose. I ended up at a ranch in Texas and that’s where I met Mel. We worked for the same outfit. When we heard about the promised railroad tracks heading down into Arizona, we gathered up the few head of cattle we’d both managed to acquire and headed West. After claiming neighboring plots in Arizona, we focused on building our herds.”

  “Winston certainly would have been proud of all you’ve accomplished.”

  He stood and crossed the room again to look out the balcony door. Another hummingbird—or maybe the same one—fluttered near the bowl. He sighed. “We’ll never know if Winston would have been or not.” Turning about, a truth he’d never let known—had barely admitted to himself—came forth. “I never shied away from using my name.”

  “You hoped Winston would hear about you.”

  Not certain he wanted to believe that was true, he instead chose to admit, “Someone heard about me.” Frustrated, he didn’t let the thought stop there. “And I’d bet a week’s wages it was Bugsley Morton, and now he’s burned the rubbish pile so I can’t prove that someone had tampered with that buggy.”

  “T-tampered? Fath— Winston’s buggy? No.”

  Her stuttering hit him like a bullet. He hadn’t meant to tell her that. What was it about her that turned him into a blubbering idiot? Arriving at the bedside, he eased the pillows away from her back. “You’ve been up too long. A nap is in order.”

  “Don’t do this to me, Crofton,” she said. “Don’t treat me like—like I’m a child or...a china doll with no brain. Don’t treat me like everyone else does.”

  The sadness and frustration on her face struck yet another chord inside him. She’d lived most of her life as Winston’s daughter. Someone to admire, but not touch, not talk to. That couldn’t have been easy, and wouldn’t have been if she’d been a male.

  “Why do you say the buggy was tampered with? What did you see?”

  He rubbed his head, but couldn’t stop his lips from moving. “The right reach brace had been sawed, not in two, but enough that when the buggy took the first turn, the weight snapped it.”

  “How—”

  “A saw blade leaves marks.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t believe Bugsley—”

  “Yes, I can,” he said. “Think about it? Who else would gain from Winston’s death? Who else would want to make sure Winston never learned I was alive? You may think he’s your friend, but I—”

  A knock on the door stopped his rant, which was just was well. She wouldn’t believe his thoughts about Bugsley.

  The door opened and Dr. Dunlop walked in. “How are you feeling? Better after eating?”

  Sara glanced toward Crofton—what he’d said was swirling inside her head, but manners had her pulling up a smile for the doctor. “Yes, thank you.”

  “That’s good to hear,” he said. “I’m heading back down the hill now, but I’ll return this evening to check on you.”

  “Supper is served at six,” she told him.

  He grinned. “I know. I already obtained an invitation.”

  “That he did,” Amelia said from the doorway. “Now tell her about company.”

  “What about company?” Crofton asked before she could open her mouth. “What company?”

  “She’s had several people asking about her condition,” the doctor answered. “But Amelia sent them away. It’s best for Sara to remain in bed and rest today.”

  “It certainly is,” Crofton replied. “Who was here?”

  “Just a few callers,” Amelia said.

  “Who?”

  Crofton sounded overly harsh. She understood his frustration, and in part, why he thought what he did, but it couldn’t be true. Bugsley would never have purposefully kept Winston from knowing Crofton was alive, and he certainly wouldn’t have tampered with the buggy. Crofton must be mistaken.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Amelia said. “I sent them away.”

  “Damn good thing you did,” Crofton answered. “Fools. Did they think we’d let them come up here? Into her bedroom to ask for her hand in marriage? Is every man in the town a harebrained idiot?”

  “No,” Sara answered sternly. “They are not. And neither am I.”

  The room went completely silent and the air grew uncomfortable, but she never pulled her gaze off Crofton. He didn’t pull his off her, either. The connection didn’t scare her. It actually gave her insight, a strength she’d never acknowledged before. She’d prove him wrong. Wrong about Winston, wrong about Bugsley and the community and wrong about her.

  Amelia cleared her throat. “I think it’s time for Sara to take a nap. Crofton, will you walk the doctor out?”

  He didn’t answer verbally. Just gave a nod and started for the door. Dr. Dunlap bade them goodbye before following Crofton out the door.

  Sara waited until the door was closed and then told Amelia, “I am going to take a nap. You can leave, too.”

  “What’s wrong? What did Crofton say now?”

  “Nothing. I’m tired and going to take a nap. Rest. Just as the doctor suggested.”

  Amelia frowned but said no more as she removed the pillows. Sara didn’t wait for help. She eased herself down on the bed, noting the pain wasn’t nearly as bad as she expected. Maybe that was because she wasn’t thinking about her injury.

  She waited a few minutes after Amelia left before flipping back the covers and gingerly climbing off the bed. Her side was sore. More than sore. It hurt. But there was something she needed to do. Two somethings. A trip to the outhouse was the first. The second was to visit Winston’s office. He’d made notes about the railroad going south, and she had to find them again. She’d scanned through so many packets she wasn’t sure where she’d read it, or exactly what Winston had written, but when Crofton mentioned it, her mind recalled seeing a note about that southern route somewhere.

  Moving slowly and cautiously, she crossed the room and took a dressing gown off the hook on the inside of the armoire door. Getting fully dressed was out of the question. Both because of the amount of pain it might cause, and in the time restraints. Kitchen duties would only keep Amelia busy for so long.

  Upon entering the hall, she heard voices coming from the front foyer. Crofton’s and Amelia’s. Hoping they’d remain there for a time, she went in the opposite direction, taking the back staircase. By the time she exited the house, the stiffness was wearing off, and she’d adjusted her stride to compensate for the soreness of her side.

  The kitchen was still empty when she returned from the outhouse, and a quick surveillance of the front parlor revealed Crofton and Amelia were now on the front porch. He was walking down the steps with Amelia following. Thanking her lucky stars—at least she hoped they were her lucky stars—for if either Crofton or Amelia saw her she’d be shooed back up to bed, Sara made her way into the office.

  There she closed the door and took a moment to listen to the silence
before making her way to the desk. She pushed aside the leather-bound ledgers before opening the bottom drawer. The one that held correspondence with the railroad. Letters and telegrams, and several sheets of paper containing Winston’s handwriting.

  This had to be where she’d seen his notes on the southern track. Thinking it had nothing to do with his current contract, she hadn’t spent much time reading them before.

  She’d prove to Crofton that Winston hadn’t had anything to do with preventing the rails from going south. Perhaps then he’d be able to remember his father as the kind and loving man he had been. That’s how she would always remember Winston. He was as much a victim in what his first wife had done as Crofton. How someone could have done that to people they loved was inconceivable. His mother had though, and that explained why he’d think the worst of Winston. Trusting or believing the best of anyone must be difficult for him. Realizing that made her heart hurt. Hurt for Crofton.

  Settling into convincing him not all people were like his mother, Sara started reading.

  Her breath caught in her lungs several times, not because of what she was reading, but at the sound of someone knocking. A sigh of relief exhaled each time she realized it was on the front door and not the office door. Soon she didn’t even notice if the knocking had stopped or not. What she was reading wasn’t what she’d expected.

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  Sara snapped her head up so fast a sharp sting ripped down her side. Pressing a hand against a burning sensation that let her know where each stitch was located, she grimaced at Amelia storming across the room.

  Crofton wasn’t far behind.

  “I—”

  “You’re supposed to be in bed,” Amelia interrupted. “I couldn’t believe it when Crofton said you weren’t up in your room.”

  He hadn’t spoken yet. Didn’t need to. His eyes said it all. He was as mad as Amelia.

  Her thoughts instantly turned back to what she’d read and she quickly gathered the letters and telegrams. “I—I had to go to the outhouse and determined sitting up felt better than lying down, but I’m tired now.” Dumping everything into the still open drawer, she added, “I’ll go lie down.”

  “You better believe you will,” Amelia said. “And you won’t be getting out of your bed for the rest of the day.”

  Pushing the drawer closed, Sara gingerly stood. “I’ll just lie down on the sofa.”

  “No, you won’t,” Amelia insisted. “If you can’t manage the stairs, Crofton will carry you.”

  “I can manage the stairs just fine,” Sara stated. “I just don’t want to. I’ll need to go outside again shortly.”

  “We have chamber pots for such things,” Amelia said, taking Sara’s arm in a firm hold.

  Sara refused to take a step. “Which would be more uncomfortable than walking to the outhouse.” She hadn’t used a chamber pot for years, and had no desire to change that. Although her cheeks were burning at speaking about such things in mixed company, she wasn’t about to leave the office. Not when anyone could pull out the letters she’d just read. Namely Crofton.

  He was still staring at her, but his expression had changed, which made her swallow hard. There was no way he could know what she’d read, and she had to make sure he didn’t discover those letters until after she had talked with Bugsley. A letter to Winston suggested one of his men had accompanied the railroad on a survey of the southern route and ultimately it sounded as if that was why the track was canceled. Bugsley would know who had gone on the survey expedition, and why the route had been determined unfeasible.

  “Tell her, Crofton,” Amelia said. “Tell her she has to go up to her room.”

  After a lengthy and silent pause, he shrugged. “The sofa’s large enough. She can take a nap on it.”

  As relief flooded her, Sara nodded. “Thank you.” Hoping they would both leave her alone, she skirted around the desk and walked toward the sofa.

  “That sofa isn’t large—”

  “Will you go get Sara a pillow and blanket?” Crofton interrupted Amelia. “I’m sure that will make her more comfortable.”

  Sara lowered onto the sofa carefully because her side was throbbing, but watched the exchange between the other two. Amelia wasn’t happy, and Crofton, well, he was acting a bit strange. Secretive. It had been a few hours since she’d entered the office, and began to wonder what he’d been doing during that time.

  “Do you need anything else?” he asked. “A drink of water or something to eat?”

  “No,” Sara answered, growing uncomfortable in her own skin. “I’m fine.”

  He crossed the room and stopped near the sofa. “Need help lying down?”

  “No, I’ll manage,” she answered, folding the edges of her dressing gown tighter across her stomach.

  “Then swing around.” Without warning, he bent down and lifted her legs.

  “I can manage,” she repeated, but it was too late. He guided her legs onto the sofa and by default her body followed.

  After setting her legs on the sofa, he removed the leather-soled slippers she’d received for Christmas last year. Pale green and made of silk, they matched her dressing gown. Heat infused her skin from where he held first one and then the other ankle. She wasn’t only speechless; she was thoughtless due to the sensations rippling up her legs.

  “Aw, here comes your pillow and blanket.” His smile was far from genuine.

  Hesitant, Sara dragged her gaze toward the doorway to watch Amelia enter and walk to the sofa. Soon there was a pillow behind her head and a blanket covering her from chest to toes.

  “There now,” he said. “Are you comfortable?”

  Nodding was about all she could muster. There was something going on with him, but she had no idea what.

  “Good, then just take a nap,” he said. “Amelia and I will make sure you aren’t disturbed.”

  They were almost to the door before her sanity kicked in. “Wait. If Bugsley comes to visit, please wake me. I need to talk with him.”

  Far more compliant than she expected, Crofton said, “Of course.” He then pulled the door shut.

  The tingles now encompassed her head. Sleep was the last thing she could do.

  Chapter Eleven

  Amelia, still grumbling about how Sara needed to be upstairs, walked across the foyer and into the dining room. With his hand still on the doorknob, Crofton counted to thirty before he twisted the knob and pushed open the door.

  Just as he suspected, Sara was on her way across the room. She stopped and stared at him with guilt written across her face more boldly than a newspaper’s headline.

  “Suddenly not tired?” he asked.

  “I...”

  She clearly couldn’t come up with an excuse, so he gave her the truth. “Wanted to make sure no one discovers what you were reading?” It would be far easier to be mad at her if she wasn’t so adorable. She’d been caught red-handed and didn’t know what to do about it.

  He did.

  Taking her arm, he led her back to the sofa. “You can sit right here and tell me all about it.”

  She sat, but said, “I have nothing to tell.”

  Taking a seat in one of the chairs, he scooted it a bit closer to the sofa, making it difficult for her to escape. “You don’t?”

  She shook her head. There wasn’t as much fear in her eyes as worry, and that struck him. Made him wonder who she was so worried about. He had a good inkling. And that irritated him to the core. “Your friend Bugsley won’t be stopping by today.”

  That got a reaction. Her eyes narrowed. “What did you say to him?”

  “I didn’t say anything to him.” He sat back and took a moment to contemplate why she had such commitment to Bugsley when it was clear the other man wasn’t on her side. At least not for her ben
efit. “I would have said plenty to him,” Crofton replied. “If I’d found him. It appears he’s gone into hiding.”

  “Into hiding? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means he knows I’m onto him.”

  “There’s nothing to be onto,” she insisted. “Bugsley—”

  “Set the rubbish pile on fire last night,” he interrupted, in no mood to listen to her stand up for the man. “While you were digging into Winston’s desk drawers, I went to town. No one has seen Bugsley since last night, when he lit the pile on fire according to Walter, who by the way sends his utmost apologies for firing those shots yesterday. He hopes you forgive him.” The clerk was sincerely sorry for what had happened. There had been tears in his eyes when he spoke about it this morning.

  “Of course I forgive him,” she said. “It was an accident.”

  “Partially an accident.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You falling on that stick was an accident,” he explained. “Walter firing off those shots wasn’t. Bugsley had been upstairs, in Winston’s office, and shouted down that someone was snooping around the rubbish pile and ordered Walter to chase them off. Walter thought it odd, since people were always picking up the scrap lumber for kindling, but followed orders.” Crofton’s jaw tensed as he chose not to tell her more about that. He’d been in Winston’s office at the mill. Visited it again just today, and anyone looking out that window would clearly have seen her crossing that clearing. Bugsley may have been too busy watching him examine the buggy, but his gut told him that hadn’t been the case. Bugsley clearly hadn’t wanted her to get any closer to that pile. It may be because he didn’t want her to see the wreckage, but, if that was the issue, ordering Walter to scare her off with gunfire seemed a bit extreme.

  “Maybe he thought whoever it was might fall and get hurt.”

  Fueled by his own thoughts and fury, Crofton shot to his feet. “What is it about Morton that you can’t see beyond?”

  Bounding off the sofa, she asked, “What is it about Winston that you can’t see beyond?”