UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET

  “This is no longer about Winston,” he shot back. “It’s about Bugsley Morton.”

  “A man Winston hired. A man he trusted. No one knows more about Winston’s business than Bugsley. If we want to know why Winston decided against the southern route, we need to ask Bugsley.”

  Prepared to argue Bugsley had the most to gain by Winston’s death, Crofton’s mind stalled momentarily at her words. Although he suspected it, a part of him hadn’t wanted to believe it. “How do you know Winston decided against the southern route?”

  Slowly, as if exhausted, she lowered onto the sofa. “Because I read the correspondence he had with the railroad. It appears he sent a man with the surveyors, and afterward said he wouldn’t have anything to do with a southern line.”

  “What correspondence?”

  She pressed her hands onto the sofa as if to stand again.

  Remembering her injury, he grasped her wrists. “Stay there. I’ll get them. They’re in the desk drawer, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, the lower left.”

  Her sorrowful expression aroused something deep inside him. Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead. “We aren’t enemies, Sara. We’re in this together. My arrival has opened a can of worms, a dangerous can, and that danger won’t end until I—we discover who is behind all this.”

  She frowned. “You truly believe you—we are in danger?”

  “Yes, I do, and I don’t believe Winston’s death was an accident.”

  “But that was before you arrived.”

  “Someone knew I was on my way.” Having said more than he should have, for she was injured and didn’t need more to worry about, he took a hold of her shoulders. “Lie down. You do need to rest.”

  “No—”

  “Yes,” he insisted. “Amelia will have my scalp if she comes in and you aren’t resting. Lying down, resting.”

  She gave in with a heavy sigh, reclining against the pillow.

  He covered her with the blanket before telling her, “I’m going to get those letters out of the desk, but I’ll bring them over here so you can look through them, too.”

  It may have been a peace offering, or just a way to make sure she did rest for a bit, he wasn’t exactly sure. Either way, that’s what he did, and together they spent the afternoon reading through Winston’s stack of correspondence with the railroad.

  Amelia had delivered lunch to them in the office. Shortly after eating and receiving a reprimand from Amelia—who gave him one, too—Sara dozed off.

  Crofton rose and walked to the window to stretch his legs. The letters hadn’t provided much information. Just that one of Winston’s men had surveyed a proposed route for the southern tracks and, as she’d said, Winston then said he wouldn’t be a part of it. There wasn’t an explanation of any sort. The ranchers hadn’t been given one, either. Just told that the railroad had changed its mind.

  Placing both palms on the windowsill, his gaze landed on the lumber mill. Could it just be a coincidence? That the railroad pulling out of the southern line really had nothing to do with him? That his father hadn’t known about his ranch? That no one knew he was Winston’s son?

  If that was the case, why was Mel killed?

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather all the bits and pieces that didn’t seem to fit together correctly. His gut told him he’d have to find Morton to solve the puzzle.

  As he opened his eyes and his gaze once again fell upon the mill, he squinted to pinpoint on what he’d thought was a cloud of steam. It was growing rather than dissipating and turning blacker by the second.

  Cursing beneath his breath, he spun and ran from the room.

  “What’s wrong?” Amelia asked as he darted around her in the foyer.

  “The mill’s on fire.”

  “Oh, dear!” She grabbed his arm just as he opened the front door. “There’s a trail behind the chicken coop. The one Sara used yesterday. It’ll get you there faster than a horse.”

  He rushed out the door, down the steps and around the house. He easily found the trail. It was wide enough he didn’t need to worry about tree limbs smacking him, but thoughts of Sara using this trail yesterday filtered in and out. It was steep in places, with downed trees and ruts. She could have been injured—worse than she had been.

  The farther downhill he ran, the stronger the smoke smell grew. Small critters, squirrels, raccoons and several families of rabbits scampered up the trail, dodging into the woods when they encountered him on their pathway. Crofton ran faster, fearing the entire mill was already engulfed in flames.

  Shouts filled the air as he entered the clearing and through the growing smoke he could make out a water brigade forming. Arriving at the mill, he shouted at several men too stunned to move. “Get shovels, axes, anything you can find to break up the dirt and throw it on the flames! The office is already on fire! The mill itself will be within minutes if we don’t hold it back!”

  As those men scrambled, he yelled at others near the stables, “Get those horses out of here!”

  Black smoke rolled through the air like an ocean wave, burning his eyes and throat, and the heat was enough to scald the hair off a hog. The clanging of a bell had him squinting through the smoke and then rushing toward the horse-drawn fire wagon rolling into the yard. “Over there! Next to the water wheel! Water down the mill first!”

  Crofton continued shouting commands, putting order to the chaos of men not sure where to start, and soon they were all working together, like a colony of ants. They fought the fire with dirt, water, shovels and axes. During his time sailing, he’d learned men didn’t become as fatigued if they rotated duties, therefore, he shouted for the water brigade to switch with those using shovels and axes, and for those manning the pump atop the fire wagon to swap with those holding the hose.

  He took turns at each job, until his back, arms, legs or hands began to cramp and then ordered another rotate. Each swap became smoother, and not a single man slowed down—everyone continued pushing themselves to the limit.

  His muscles burned, his eyes stung and watered so profusely he could barely see, but he pushed harder, even though it seemed they weren’t making any progress, that the flames would win. It felt as if hours had passed, when, almost as if someone had turned the page in a picture book, the flames began to subside.

  “She’s dying!” he shouted. “She’s dying!”

  Renewed by the sight, and the idea victory was close at hand, Crofton had the energy to pump the hand pump atop the fire wagon faster and harder. Others were rejuvenated as well. Their shouts of triumph filled the air until the very last flicker was snuffed.

  Crofton’s eyes still stung, but the air that had been black a short time ago was once again clear, full of sunshine. He hopped off the top of the wagon and once on the ground, took a long moment to survey the damage.

  He twisted about when someone slapped his back. Other than the whites of his eyes and teeth, the man’s face was black with soot. It wasn’t until the man spoke that he recognized Walter’s voice. “The office is gone, but we saved the mill.”

  “That’s nothing shy of a miracle.”

  Crofton had no idea who the man was that had said that. Like Walter, and him, everyone was soot covered. “What happened?” he asked. “Where’d the fire start? How’d it start?”

  Walter shook his head. “I don’t know. One minute all was fine, the next flames were shooting in the window above my desk.”

  “From the back side of the building?” Crofton clarified.

  Walter nodded. “Think it was an ember from the rubbish pile? There was nothing else back there.”

  “No,” Crofton answered. “I checked that over this morning. There wasn’t even a warm ash.”

  Covered in soot, sweat, and in some cases, dripping wet from the water they’d pumped and bailed o
ut of the river, others gathered around, assessing the damage and asking how it had started.

  “Good job, gentlemen,” Crofton said, praising their efforts. It had taken all of them to salvage what they had, and he appreciated each and every one of them. “The entire mill would be gone if not for all of you. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “What caused the fire?”

  Turning to see who asked the question, Crofton scanned the crowd of townspeople gathered near the entrance of the mill. One walked forward with a pad of paper in one hand and a pen ready to start writing in the other. Not so much as a speck of dust darkened Elliott Cross’s suit.

  Crofton walked toward the newspaper man. “We haven’t had time to discover that yet, Mr. Cross, but I’m sure you’ll learn what it was as soon as we do.”

  “Where’s Bugsley Morton?” Cross asked, scanning the group of men. “He wasn’t in the office building, was he? Trapped inside the blaze?”

  “No,” Walter answered. “No one was trapped inside the building.”

  “Then where is he?” Cross asked.

  Crofton couldn’t think of one reason why that would be Cross’s top concern, and as mutterings from the others surrounding them started to grow, he said, “Bugsley’s whereabouts are the least of our worries right now, Mr. Cross.” Speaking loud enough for all to hear he continued, “Unless you’re willing to get dirty, I suggest you take your pen and paper back to your office.” Turning about, he then gestured toward several men. “Start rummaging through the debris. Make sure there aren’t any hot spots.” Pointing out several others, he said, “Inspect every inch of the mill, top to bottom. Make sure there aren’t any embers smoldering.”

  Just like when he’d arrived, no one questioned his authority, and scattered, other than the newspaper man.

  Lifting his chin, Cross said, “I’ll need an interview as soon as you know anything. The citizens of Royalton will expect a full report.”

  “And you’ll give it to them,” Crofton answered. He had no reason to dislike the man, but he did. Cross was one of several who’d offered their hand in marriage to Sara. The desire to turn about and glance up the hill hit Crofton, but he kept his gaze on Cross.

  “Of course I’ll give it to them. That’s my job. Your father appreciated both me and my newspaper.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Crofton lied. A businessman rarely appreciated a newspaper man like Cross. One who wrote to sell papers, not to tell the truth.

  Tucking his pad of paper and pen in his pocket, Cross nodded. “I’ll be at the newspaper office when you’re ready for that interview.”

  Crofton didn’t bother with a response. He spun around, found Walter among the men shoveling aside burnt boards and made his way in that direction. There was nothing left of the office other than a heap of charred remains. He began kicking into the rubble, looking for any signs of embers, but stopped when a wire caught on the toe of his boot.

  The wire was still connected to a frame that had been burned to nothing more than a single corner. It had to have been one of the pictures that had hung in Winston’s office.

  A gut-wrenching fireball landed in the very base of Crofton’s spine and spun there, tearing up more emotions than he’d experienced in years. Not since he’d been a child. Not since he’d said goodbye to his father that fateful morning years ago.

  Blinking against the sting in his eyes, he glanced up the hill. The brick mansion stood there, as pristine and audacious as ever, but for the first time since arriving in Royalton, a profound loss filled him. His father was dead. Gone. It wasn’t a lie this time. It was the cold, hard truth.

  He glanced back down at the wire still caught on his boot. If he could be thankful for one thing, it was that Winston hadn’t lived to see this. Didn’t know someone was out to sabotage all he’d worked so hard to build.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sara wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact she’d slept through the burning of the mill office, not being able to go assess the damage for herself, or how Crofton had barely been home the past two days.

  Her side was doing much better, but Dr. Dunlop still refused to allow her to travel even as far as town. He claimed the bouncing of a wagon could rip out her stitches, as could walking that far. And of course, whatever the doctor said, Amelia enforced.

  “I think we’ll wait supper a few minutes tonight, until Crofton arrives. He’s had cold meals the past couple of days.”

  Turning and giving Amelia a glare, Sara said, “No, we won’t. The evening meal has always been served at six o’clock in this house and will continue to be. Crofton knows that. It’s his choice to miss meals.”

  Puckering her lips, Amelia hissed and shook the wooden spoon in her hand. “You sure have become snippety the past couple of days. It would do you a bit of good to remember if not for Crofton, you wouldn’t have a mill right now. The entire town realizes that. Why don’t you?”

  Holding in a sigh, Sara said, “He didn’t put the fire out by himself.”

  “Practically,” Amelia insisted. “Ask anyone. Walter told you how Crofton ran down that hill and started shouting orders. So did Dr. Dunlop.”

  “I know what people told me,” she said. “And I know how someone let me sleep through it.”

  Turning about to stir the pot of stew, Amelia said, “There wasn’t anything you could do about it, and you needed the rest. It was only a day after you’d been stitched up.”

  “I remember exactly when it happened, and whether I could do anything or not isn’t the point.”

  “Then what is? That Crofton saved the day? You should be glad you have a brother like that.”

  “He’s not my brother!” she snapped. Walter had called Crofton her brother when visiting her and it goaded her like nothing ever had. “And he didn’t save the day.”

  “Think what you want.” Amelia set the spoon down and grabbed a potholder to open the oven door. “Your mother certainly wouldn’t approve of the attitude you’ve had lately.”

  Sara ignored the flash of guilt that bubbled inside her stomach, and finished loading the tray with plates and bowls.

  “Don’t think about lifting that,” Amelia said, pulling a pan of yeast rolls from the oven.

  The idea of doing just that, if for no other reason than she was tired of being told what not to do, crossed her mind. So did the idea of Dr. Dunlop lecturing her once he heard about it. “I wasn’t going to lift it,” she said. “Lord knows I don’t want to be held hostage in this house any longer than necessary.”

  Amelia huffed as she picked up the tray.

  Grabbing the butter dish and napkins, Sara followed Amelia into the dining room. The guilt in her stomach had grown. It wasn’t like her to be so aggravated or rude, and her mother certainly wouldn’t approve of it. “I’m sorry to be so grumpy,” she said. “It’s just frustrating. Not knowing what’s happening.”

  “You know what’s happening,” Amelia said. “How they’ve already cleaned up the debris and have started building the new office building. You can see it from the window.”

  She could, and had. She’d watched both the clearing away of burned boards and the framework of the new one going up from the window in the office and from her balcony. It didn’t satisfy her, though.

  “It’s not like you could do anything down there,” Amelia said.

  “I know.”

  “If you want to know more, ask Crofton.”

  “When am I supposed to do that?” she snapped. “He comes home after I’m asleep and leaves before I’m awake.”

  “So that’s what’s bothering you.”

  “Yes. No.” Confused, she shook her head. “I’m responsible for carrying out Winston’s dream. How can I do that if I don’t know what’s going on?”

  Amelia shook her head.

  “Wh
at?” Sara asked.

  “Winston would not have expected you to carry out his dream,” Amelia said. “He’d already done that. That mill was his dream.”

  “His first dream,” Sara said. “Building the railroad all the way to the border and beyond was his new dream. That’s the one I’m talking about.”

  “Honey, that mill wasn’t Winston’s first dream. He had many, and fulfilled them. One of which was to see you and your mother happy. That’s what he would still want. For you to find your own dream and make it come true.”

  “Maybe that’s my dream then, to see his final one come to fruition.”

  Amelia shook her head again. “You’re too much like your mother.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sara said, following Amelia back into the kitchen.

  “Because in this instance, it is,” Amelia answered. “Don’t live your life making someone else happy. Make yourself happy.”

  “Who says I’m not happy?”

  After lifting down a platter for the yeast rolls, Amelia turned around, but just as she opened her mouth, the sound of the front door opening made her close it. With a smile, she said, “Crofton’s home. Go tell him supper will be on the table in a few minutes.”

  “I’m sure he knows that,” Sara said, mainly because she was trying to tell her insides to calm down. A part of her wanted to run and greet him much like she used to Winston, which was utterly ridiculous.

  “Then go see if he wants a drink or something before we eat,” Amelia said. “A man returning home after a long day at work deserves to be greeted upon his arrival.”

  A jarring memory flashed inside Sara’s mind, of how her mother always hurried to meet Winston as soon as he walked through the door. She’d kiss his cheek and ask him how his day was.

  “Go on,” Amelia said. “Remember your upbringing. Who you are.”

  Sara remembered who she was, and what she needed to do. She just wasn’t overly happy about any of it right now.

  Crofton wasn’t in the foyer when she arrived, but in Winston’s office. The clank of the glass stopper said he was helping himself to a drink.