UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET

  It was as if she had two people battling inside her when it came to Crofton. One who wanted to dislike everything about him, and one who understood he had more right to be in this home, to claim everything of Winston’s far more than she did. That part of her was also drawn to him. Admired how much he was like his father. How strong and admirable, and kind and caring.

  She didn’t know what to do about either person inside her.

  “Feeling better today?”

  Her breath caught at the sound of his voice, and the sight of him standing in the office doorway made her heart tumble. The effect he had on her, inside and out, was as hard to understand as the two invisible people inside her.

  “You certainly have more color,” he said before lifting the glass in his hand to his lips.

  Finding the ability to speak, or at least the manners her mother had instilled upon her, she said, “Thank you. I am feeling much better. Dr. Dunlop says the stitches can come out in a day or two.”

  “He told me that.”

  “When?”

  “Today. He stopped at the mill after seeing you this morning. He’s very impressed with his handiwork. Says you’ll hardly have a scar.”

  Her face heated up at the idea of Dr. Dunlop discussing her body with Crofton.

  “But only if you continue to follow his orders.”

  He would have to include that, even though he knew she’d followed the doctor’s orders on all accounts. Amelia tattled to him constantly. Changing the subject to something she did want to talk about, Sara said, “It appears the rebuilding of the mill office is going well.”

  His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his dark hair was brushed back from his face, indicating he’d washed before entering the house, but the sawdust clinging to the bottom of his pants said he’d been working all day.

  “It is.” He nodded toward the dining room before taking a step toward her. “And I’m starving. Whatever Amelia has cooked smells delicious.”

  “Beef stew.” Sara’s insides were acting up again, fluttering about as he walked closer. “A-and buns, and candied apples.”

  “Yum.” He took a hold of her elbow. “Shall we?”

  She nodded, unable to do much more.

  “Is your side hurting?”

  “No,” she answered honestly, while also trying to make her feet cooperate.

  “Aw, so you’re that stiff because you’re still mad at me.”

  Sara bit on her bottom lip to keep from replying as they arrived in the dining room. She certainly was still angry, but couldn’t say it was at him. Everything seemed to upset her. And confuse her.

  Not having done anything that would have built up an appetite, she pushed her food around on her plate and listened with only one ear as Amelia and Crofton talked about the food, the weather that was still unseasonable and old memories. That bothered her, too. She was tired of this. Tired of not having any idea of what to do, how to do it or how to feel about it.

  “You’ve barely touched your food,” Amelia said. “You’ll never heal if you don’t eat.”

  Would it matter if she did heal? Not really. Crofton had taken over the mill. Amelia had the house as clean and neat as ever, meals on the table, even had started putting up Christmas decorations. Alvin took care of the outside chores and hauling in wood. There was truly nothing here that needed her. Then again, nothing ever really had.

  “Sara, do you not like the stew?”

  Glancing at Amelia, Sara set her fork down. “It’s delicious. I’m just not hungry.”

  With a thoughtful expression, Crofton set his napkin on the table. “In that case, would you mind joining me in the office? I need to talk to you.”

  Not sure she wanted to talk to him, or anyone, she asked, “About what?”

  “The lumber mill,” he said.

  Of course that’s what it was about. What had she expected him to say? She did want to know what was going on, or at least should, but if being completely honest, she didn’t. Yet, this wasn’t about what she wanted. Nodding, she pushed away from the table.

  “Why don’t you two talk on the porch instead?” Amelia asked. “We won’t have weather like this much longer. The fresh air would be good for Sara. I’ll bring you out some tea.”

  Crofton looked at her, and Sara shrugged, not really caring.

  He once again took her arm, causing her insides to quiver and her knees to quake. Tired of that, too, she wondered if she needed to talk to Dr. Dunlop. Maybe something else had happened to her when that stick poked her.

  The sun was dropping behind the mountaintops in the western skyline, giving off a breathtaking view. She used to like that, sitting out here after the evening meal, watching the sun set. Mother and Winston would sit at the table and she’d sit on the settee, usually stitching on one of the embroidery pieces mother insisted she restitch until getting it perfect.

  “You know what I’ve been thinking about today?” Crofton asked.

  “No,” Sara answered. “I’ve been here all day.”

  He grinned, but then his expression grew solemn. “I’ve been thinking about my first trip to England.”

  “When you were little?”

  “Yes, I don’t remember much about it, not just because I was only eight—I remember plenty of other things from back then, before then. I don’t remember much about that trip because I didn’t care. I didn’t care where we were going, what I ate, if I ate, who talked to me, who didn’t. Things that used to matter didn’t. My entire life had changed, and I didn’t like anything about it.”

  Sara wasn’t totally sure why he was telling her this, but considering how she felt, was inclined to know more. “When did things change—I mean when did things become normal again?”

  A small table was between them and he reached across and laid his hand on top of hers resting on the arm of the chair. His touch was warm and made her skin tingle, but there was also comfort in it.

  “What’s normal? Life is always changing, and in many ways, it’s what we want.”

  More confused than ever, Sara asked, “It is?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Take Winston for instance, he didn’t want things to stay the same. He wanted to build the biggest lumber mill in Colorado, so he worked toward that. Made changes, did things, so it happened.”

  She hadn’t thought of things in that way, and it made sense, but she shook her head as another realization formed. In this, too, he was an awful lot like his father. Unlike her mother, Winston never told her what to do or how to do it. He always gave her things to think about. “You’re saying all this to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged.

  “It’s not the same, Crofton. Winston didn’t want to die. My mother didn’t want to die.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t,” he answered. “And there isn’t a lot we can do about it.”

  Growing even more heavyhearted, she said, “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Sara.” He rolled her hand over so their palms touched. “When I first arrived, you were ready to take over the lumber mill, make Winston’s dream come true. I know a lot has happened since then, and I’m not making light of your injury, but the woman I came home to tonight would never have followed me down the hill, and I want to know where she is.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m right here.”

  “Then why aren’t you demanding to know what’s happening at the mill? Who started the fire? Why aren’t you still searching through Winston’s office, trying to figure out how much lumber they’ll need to fulfill the contracts?”

  She’d thought about doing those things today, but the desire wasn’t there. Not like it had been. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.”

 
“No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do,” he repeated louder this time.

  Goaded, she said yet again, “No, I don’t.”

  He pulled her hand onto the table, and forcefully held it there. “Yes, you do, and I want to know what it is. Have you seen Morton? Do you know where he is?”

  She tried to pull her hand away, but he was too strong. “No, I haven’t seen Bugsley.” Her heart was beating fast, and she told herself it was because Crofton was making her angry. Pretending to care about her, how alone and confused she felt, when in fact he only cared about finding Bugsley. “Even if I did see him, it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t tell me any more than you do. That’s why I haven’t continued to search through Winston’s office, because it won’t matter. There’s nothing I can do that will matter.”

  “So instead of trying, you’re just going to sit around and let everyone else do whatever they want?”

  “Dr. Dunlop ordered me to sit around—”

  “That didn’t stop you that first day,” he said. “Why now? If you haven’t spoken to Bugsley, then what’s changed?”

  Fury made her heart race, but her mind had shifted slightly, as if trying to figure out what had changed. When something clicked, she spoke without thought. “You. The mill was on fire and you didn’t even wake me, or come back to tell me about it. Instead you took control of it all, without asking or telling me anything.”

  “I did what had to be done.”

  Telling him he’d been the one to say they were in this together was on the tip of her tongue, but suddenly she was hearing herself in her mind. How foolish she sounded. To hear Amelia say that if not for him the entire mill would have burned to the ground. “Why did you do that?” she asked. “Do what had to be done? You keep saying you didn’t want anything of Winston’s, but you not only fought the fire, you’re working as hard as he ever did rebuilding the mill. Why?”

  He let go of her hand and ran his fingers through his hair before saying, “For you.”

  Warmth flooded her. “Me?”

  “Yes, and for the town, and maybe for Winston.” Leaning back in his chair, he waved a hand toward the barn and surrounding property. “You were right when you said this entire town depends on the mill. It does. And it depends on that railroad track being built. Without it, the town will dry up and blow away. Everything Winston created will be for naught. I don’t want to see that happen. Not for me. I have my ranch that I will return to, therefore, it has to be for you. For my father’s legacy.” Resting an elbow on the arm of his chair, he placed a thumb under his chin and turned to look at her. “The entire town of Royalton is worried, Sara, and you have to show them they don’t need to be.”

  Disappointed, and confused, she asked, “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You are Winston’s daughter. They’ve always looked upon you as, well, somewhat of a princess, and they’re worried about whether you can take over where Winston left off.”

  A shiver tickled her spine. She had told herself that shortly after Winston had died, but hearing him say it made it real. “What if I can’t?” she asked. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t arrived when you did.”

  He nodded slightly. “Things would have been different. You might have married one of those men who’d come knocking.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have.” That much she knew for certain.

  “We’ll never know for sure,” he said. “Because I did arrive. What we have to do now is focus on what we do know.”

  Not exactly sure what that even was, she asked, “Such as?”

  “That someone shot at us when we were leaving the lawyer’s office, that Winston’s buggy had been tampered with and that someone set fire to the mill.”

  Having those things pointed out to her sent a shiver up her spine. “Set fire? I thought embers from the rubbish pile started the fire.”

  “Who told you that? Morton?”

  Flustered, she said, “I haven’t seen or spoken to Bugsley since my accident, and considering no one told me how the fire started, I just assumed it was from the rubbish pile.”

  “It wasn’t. I checked that pile hours before the fire started. There were no embers.”

  While his answer was still settling in, Amelia arrived with a tray of tea and sugar-glazed cookies.

  “Oh, it’s a beautiful evening,” she said. “The fresh air is already doing you good, Sara. The shine is back in your eyes.”

  Heat flushed into Sara’s cheeks, and she diverted her gaze to the barn, and beyond. Something unfamiliar caught her attention, and she turned back to Crofton. “What’s in the middle of the road down by Alvin’s house?”

  He waited until Amelia had reentered the house before saying, “A guard.”

  “A guard.”

  He nodded.

  “What for?”

  “I don’t want men traipsing up the hill when I’m not home.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You might say yes to one of their proposals. Where would that leave me?”

  “Leave you?” Fury returned. Prior to the accident no one had wanted to marry her, and they still didn’t. They just wanted the mill. “I have no intention of marrying anyone. And I have lived here almost my entire life, and never once have there been guards on the road.”

  “You’d never been shot at before, either,” Crofton answered. A smile itched his lips. He withheld it, but allowed a keen sense of delight to ripple his insides. He was getting what he wanted. The past couple of days had been busy. He’d left early and arrived home late, and hoped Sara was simply getting the rest she needed. However, Amelia had voiced other concerns. How Sara moped around all day. He understood all she’d been through, and didn’t begrudge her for being under the weather, but, considering all that was happening, it couldn’t last any longer. There was too much at stake. Furthermore, he liked seeing the fire in her eyes.

  “No, I hadn’t,” she said, “and we don’t know for certain that we were shot at.”

  “I do,” he said. “And Morton still hasn’t shown up. I want to know when he does, and I believe the first person he’ll want to see is you.”

  “So you’re setting a trap for Bugsley?”

  How she still had compassion for Morton irritated him. Keeping her angry, so angry she felt a fire in her belly that would offset all her other emotions, he said, “Yes.” Before she could open her mouth, he continued, “He’s behind all this. The one with the most to gain, and I’ll prove it.”

  “What if he’s not? What if the real culprit gets away while you’re focusing on Bugsley?”

  “They won’t.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “How?”

  He had no proof, but from the day he’d seen Morton escort her away from the mortuary, dislike for the man had settled deep in his gut. A feeling that strong, that deep, couldn’t be wrong. “I just do.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” she said, rising to her feet. “And I’ll prove that.”

  He waited until she’d stomped past him before grinning.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rebuilding of the office was completed and the entire operation was up and running within a few days. The continuation of lumber being milled for the railroad hadn’t been interrupted. Crofton had made sure of that. The other thing he made sure of was that Sara wasn’t pulled back down into a slump. After the fire he’d had the safe from the mill hauled up the hill and put in Winston’s office, and had gladly provided her with the combination. He kept his fingers crossed that as she scoured through every sheet of paper, she’d find the evidence that would finally make her see Morton was behind it all.

  Even though many maps and other records had been lost in the fire, they’d been able to piece together what was needed betw
een the safe and what Winston had kept at home. However, Sara hadn’t discovered what Crofton had hoped she would. He could question that she might hide any information she’d discovered about Morton, but inside knew that wasn’t Sara’s way. If she’d found something, she’d have told him. If for no other reason than to prove she was right and he was wrong.

  He wasn’t. There hadn’t been any other events since the fire. No one shooting at him, no additional accidents or fires. Because Morton was still in hiding.

  Her searching had provided the contracts with the railroad, and she’d deciphered Winston’s notes and recorded them into a new ledger that specified exactly how much lumber was to be harvested, the proportions of each cutting and delivery dates, taking into account the progression the railroad made each day. She had enlisted Walter’s assistance with some of it. The clerk made regular treks up and down the mountain each day.

  Crofton was proud of all her hard work, and of her, but couldn’t tell her that. She was driven again, and needed to remain so to keep vigilant. Just because nothing had happened recently, didn’t mean it wouldn’t at any moment.

  Returning from one of his daily trips to the house, Walter entered the mill office and set a basket on the newly varnished counter. “Your lunch,” he said. “Amelia asked that I remind you to bring the basket home with you tonight.”

  “What is it?” Crofton asked, not really needing to know. Whatever Amelia cooked was delicious, just as it had been when he was a child. He could still remember waiting for lunch break back at school in Ohio. It had been his favorite time of the day and his lunch pail had always contained the best meals of any of the other children.

  He was remembering more than lunches lately. Especially with Christmas growing nearer each day. Amelia had always decorated long before the actual day, and was doing so again. Each evening, entering a house filled with the scent of pine and cinnamon made him remember how much his father had enjoyed the season. The one thing he couldn’t remember was if he’d received a Christmas gift since his father had died. He’d remained at school over the holidays. At first because his mother hadn’t wanted him underfoot, later by choice.