Unwrapping The Rancher's Secret

Crofton frowned at his own thought. He wasn’t here to inherit a lumber mill. Why was he thinking that way? Because, no one but him needed to know that. That’s why. Convinced, he made his way toward the door on a large wooden structure that had the word Office painted in red. There he dismounted, tethered his horse and made his way to the open doorway. He entered the building, and took a deep breath.

The smell of fresh-cut wood filled his nostrils, and his mind, invoking more memories. Ones he’d long ago buried. How he’d loved visiting the mill with his father, and how the pride of walking beside him had puffed out his small chest back then.

The attention his slow ride through the yard had aroused wasn’t just outside, and Crofton pushed aside his childhood memories. The man standing before him was the one he’d seen with Sara at the mortuary yesterday and at the funeral today. Bugsley Morton wasn’t as old as Winston had been, but he was middle aged, maybe forty or so, and from the looks of him, considered himself in charge.

“If you’re here to place an order, Walter can help you,” Bugsley said, gesturing toward a counter.

Though he tried not to show it, shock was written all over Bugsley’s face. Much like the man standing behind the wide counter. Walter. He was as stiff as a corpse with eyes so wide they nearly popped out of his head.

Crofton glanced back to Bugsley. The man knew full well he wasn’t here to place an order, and was attempting to disguise his nervousness. He’d stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. The man saw exactly what Crofton wanted him to see. Exactly what Walter saw. A clear resemblance to Winston.

“We aren’t hiring, if it’s a job you’re after,” Bugsley said.

Crofton let a hint of a grin form while shaking his head. He didn’t know much about Bugsley Morton. The man hadn’t been a part of Winston’s pack back in Ohio, but Mel’s letters had said Morton was Winston’s right-hand man, had been for the past decade or so. That didn’t bother him. Neither a right-nor left-hand man meant anything compared to flesh and blood, and that was a card Crofton was more than prepared to use.

“I said—”

“I heard you.” Crofton kept one eye on the man while moving toward a set of stairs that led to the second floor.

“You can’t go up there.”

Crofton gave the man a solid once-over, from his shiny boots to his newly trimmed hair, but never detoured from walking toward the staircase. “Who’s going to stop me?” he asked. “You?”

“Matter of fact, yes. Me.” Bugsley stepped closer, but didn’t block the stairway.

Crofton had noticed the gun hanging on the man’s hip, and how Bugsley’s right hand hovered over the well-worn handle. That gun had known plenty of use, and the thought it may have been the one to end Mel’s life crossed Crofton’s mind. Briefly, for he knew that couldn’t have been possible. Mel had been shot from a distance, with a rifle.

“Go ahead then.” Crofton stepped onto the stairs and started to climb. Bugsley was far too curious to draw the gun or pull the trigger, and shooting a man in the back with witnesses nearby was the best way to get hanged.

A hallway led off the top step, was lit by a tall window at the far end and contained four doors, all closed. Crofton knew which one would have been his father’s, the last one on the left. It would host windows that not only looked over the back side of the mill, but up the hill, to where the view would show the big brick house.

He was right of course, but the room surprised him. There was the usual desk, shelves, table and chairs, a long sofa along the interior wall, a small stove in the outside corner and other necessities here and there, but things were out of place. Although it had been years, certain things about a man rarely changed. His father had been meticulous with his paperwork, and everything had always been put away, under lock and key when he left a room. That’s how his office back at the house had been.

Granted he had been dead for a few days, and it was expected someone else would need to take over the running of the business, but if that person respected the man Winston had been, they would have continued his practices.

A stack of maps were haphazardly spread across the table and several open ledgers sat on top of the desk, almost as if someone was searching through them for something particular, but had yet to find it. Whatever it was.

Bugsley was on his heels, so Crofton barely paused upon entering the room. He strode over to the sofa and took a moment to examine the pictures hanging along the wall. Family portraits of Winston, his wife and Sara, and again, there was the grainy photo of him as a child. It didn’t stir him as strongly as the one of Sara did. She’d been little, maybe five or six and looked like a cherub with her softly painted pink cheeks. The big picture hanging front and center had her in it, too, taken at the same time. In this one, she sat upon Winston’s lap while her mother stood behind them.

He let his gaze linger on his father in that portrait for a few minutes before he turned to Bugsley. “Uncanny resemblance, wouldn’t you say?”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Crofton took another glance at the picture before he moved toward the desk sitting at an angle in the corner. “You know who I am.”

“But that’s impossible,” Bugsley answered.

“Evidently not.” He walked around the desk to the window. It provided a spectacular view of the brick house on the hill. With the right eyepiece he’d be able to see inside the windows of the house. When thoughts of Sara, of which room was hers, attempted to wheedle their way into his mind, he shifted his gaze to the hillside.

“Winston said you were dead.”

“Perhaps I was,” Crofton answered. “To him.” He walked to the window on the other wall. This one overlooked the train tracks leading up the hill and into a thick forest. The trees were tall, and went on for as far as he could see. Winston had certainly picked out the right spot for his lumber mill. The mountainside appeared to have a never-ending supply of timber.

“Did he know?”

Crofton turned. Bugsley appeared more nervous. The truth must be hitting him, and he wasn’t liking it. “Know that I was alive?” Crofton asked.

“Yes.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Crofton took a step to the desk and flipped through a few pages of one of the open ledgers, not really seeing what was written on the pages, but pretending to. He’d wondered if his father had always known that he was alive. His mother claimed Winston knew and didn’t want anything to do with him, but she’d say most anything, truth or lie, depending on what suited her best. He’d long ago learned to never lay much on her word.

“I guess we’ll never know, will we?” Crofton closed the book, letting the snap of the cover echo through the room. He knew. Winston had known.

Bugsley stiffened. “Well, you can’t just waltz in here—”

“Yes,” Crofton said. “I can.”

Squaring his shoulders, Bugsley shook his head. “Winston left me in charge, every time he went out of town he left me in charge.”

“He’s not merely out of town this time, is he?” Crofton had seen enough to know what he was up against when it came to Bugsley Morton. The man was afraid of losing and wasn’t about to go down easily. The black hat that hung on the hook near the door was the same one he’d been wearing at the funeral. Winston may have left Bugsley in charge when he went out of town, but he obviously didn’t let the man in on every detail of his business. Some things never changed. Crofton had been counting on that.

Holding back a grin, he walked to the open doorway. “My lawyer will arrive later this week. Until then, business should continue as usual.”

“Whoa up there. You can’t—”

“Yes, I can.” Pausing long enough to tip the brim of his hat, Crofton said, “Good day, Mr. Morton.” Just because the opportunity was there, he added, “I expect you to put everything back where you found it.”

On the ground floor he nodded at Walter, who was still standing behind the counter, board stiff and staring at him like he was a ghost. In a sense he was. He hadn’t been Winston’s son in a long time, but it was time to reenter that role.

The weight on his shoulders seemed to lessen a bit as he stepped outside. The crisp mountain air was filled with the sweet smell of freshly cut wood, and more memories returned. For the first time in a long time, they didn’t make his gut tighten. The past no longer mattered nearly as much as the future.

Considering December had arrived, he’d expected snow this high up, and had appreciated the weather’s cooperation during his trek here. He hoped the warmer temperatures held out a while longer as he mounted his horse.

His next stop was the livery. He’d paid a few extra coins the past couple of nights to bed down in the hayloft. The owner had been more than happy to oblige, just as Mel had said in his letter.

While climbing the ladder into the loft, Crofton once again questioned if his father could have been behind Mel’s death. He’d gone back and forth with the idea for some time, and after meeting Bugsley Morton face-to-face, was leaning toward the possibility. Or maybe he was thinking Bugsley could be behind it. That would mean his father had been, too. Winston had always called the shots and that wouldn’t have changed.

He, however, had changed. He was no longer a kid being dropped at one school after the other, wishing his father hadn’t died. He was no longer a young man wondering why his father had abandoned him and why his mother lied about it, either. He was older and wiser, and knew his path had little to do with either parent. Once this railroad fiasco was over that is.

Crofton gathered his bundle of dirty clothes. He hadn’t worried about leaving them here, figured if someone took them, they needed an old shirt and pair of pants more than he did. But, he’d never left messes for others to clean up, and wasn’t going to start now. Perhaps because he’d been a product of someone’s mess his entire life.

After thanking the livery owner for his hospitality, who stared at him as if seeing double now that his face wasn’t covered with scraggly whiskers, Crofton made his way up the main street to Buster’s Saloon. Mel’s letter had said he was meeting a man there and would write more afterward. Of course, more never came. Instead of a letter, a week after his last post, Mel’s horse had wandered into the yard, still saddled. Gun still in the scabbard. A day later, Crofton had found Mel’s body. Halfway between home and Royalton. Shot in the back.

After tethering his horse to the hitching post, Crofton entered the saloon. Someone had preceded him. The silence that fell upon the crowded room told him who even before he saw Bugsley Morton at a table with three men dressed in suits. They could have been at the funeral, but his gut said they were dressed in suits because they were railroad men not mourners. The fourth stranger at the table wasn’t a mourner, nor a railroad man. He was a gunslinger. A well-known one. If rumors were correct, Woody Wilson was on the Santa Fe Railroad payroll.

Here for only one thing at the moment, Crofton walked to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. Holes were burning in his back, but he paid them no mind as the man behind the bar took the money he’d laid down and poured amber-shaded whiskey into a shot glass until it sloshed over the rim. After downing the whiskey in one gulp, Crofton set the glass down. “I’d like to buy a round.”

The barkeep frowned. “For who?”

Crofton twirled a finger in the air.

Frowning so deep his forehead had crevices, the barkeep asked, “The entire room?”

Crofton nodded.

“Why?” the man asked over the mumbling that circled the room.

Crofton slapped several bills on the counter, and pointed to his glass. “Line them up,” he said. “Just like that one.”

The barkeep shrugged and started setting out glasses. Like horses smelling water, men gravitated toward the bar. Crofton took his glass and stepped aside, making more room as the bartender poured whiskey into glasses from bottles in both hands.

“Step up, gentlemen,” Crofton said loudly. “I’d like to make a toast.”

Bugsley and the men at his table hadn’t moved. Crofton hadn’t expected them to, and made no point in singling them out until every other man in the saloon had made their way to the bar and now held a shot of whiskey.

“I’d like to make a toast.” Crofton held up his glass and looked at Bugsley. “To Winston Parks, may he rest in peace.”

Men shouting, “Hear, hear!” held up their glasses.

“He was one hell of a father!” Crofton tossed down his drink in one gulp again, and while others were choking and coughing, half because of the whiskey, half because of his toast, he walked over and set his glass on the table in front of Bugsley and then walked out the door.

Chapter Four

“Surely you aren’t going to wear that to dinner.”

“Of course I am,” Sara answered. Given a choice, she would have changed out of the black gabardine dress, but considering their dinner guest, she felt the dress she’d worn to the funeral was more than suitable.

Amelia opened her mouth, but must have changed her mind. After a heavy sigh, she muttered, “Suit yourself. Crofton should be here shortly.”

Glancing at the clock on the top shelf of the buffet that held the set of delicate china Winston had purchased for her mother several years ago, Sara said, “We’ll eat at six whether he’s here or not.”

Amelia finished setting the silverware on napkins beside all three plates before she glanced up. “It’s not his fault, you know.”

“I never said anything was his fault,” Sara pointed out. “I never said anything was anyone’s fault.”

“You’re acting like it is.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Sara said, stepping forward to move the place setting from the head of the table to a chair on the side. Winston was not here, and no one, not even his son, would sit at the head of the table. “But I will tell you what I’m acting like. I’m acting like someone who just attended the funeral of her parents this morning and does not feel like having company for dinner.” The plate in her hand clattered against the table as she set it down. “Company of any kind.”

Her throat had thickened and no amount of swallowing helped ease the stinging. The pain inside wasn’t due to Crofton’s arrival, but blaming him for it would be easy. Anything would be easier than coming to grips with the idea of never seeing Mother again, of never seeing Winston.

The gentle touch of Amelia’s hand on her shoulder was more than she could take. The tears she’d been fighting to contain spilled forth. Sara spun around and hurried from the room. The air in her lungs burned as if she was suffocating, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t take a breath. She stumbled across the foyer, toward the door, needing air.

She opened the door, but blinded by tears, wasn’t sure what stopped her, not until firm hands gripped her upper arms.

“Hey there, slow down.”

The greeting and hold were so familiar that her knees wobbled and the tears came faster. Winston always said “Hey there,” and more than once he’d stopped her from running down the steps, telling her to slow down before she fell and broke something.

“Here, let’s go back inside.”

She shook her head against the tug on her arms. Air was once again entering her lungs, but her legs were too weak to move. The need to escape had left, but the pain hadn’t. So full of loss, she just wanted to collapse and cry. Cry until she couldn’t any more.

“Sit here then.”

She didn’t fight the help to move forward enough to step down onto the first step and sit on the porch floor. Wiping at the tears didn’t stop them from running down her cheeks, so she just covered her face with both hands and let them flow. At that moment in time, she truly didn’t care what Crofton Parks thought of that. Of her. Of anything.

He said nothing, but didn’t move, either. Just sat there beside her.

Eventually the heart-wrenching pain turned into a hollow ache, and her tears eased. She lifted her head, wiping at her cheeks with both hands. After blinking several times she could make out the barn and farther up the hill, the fenced-in area that held the fresh mound of dirt. The wave of sadness that washed over her was heavy, but she was too numb to react.

“It gets easier.”

“I know,” she replied. “Time heals.”

“In some ways,” he said quietly, “it does.”

Glancing sideways, just enough to see his profile, she said, “In other ways it doesn’t.”

He nodded.

She looked back over the yard and without the energy to do much more, simply stared up the hill. “I know that, too.” Not having anything in common with Crofton would have suited her, but not having an accident, a stupid, unbelievable accident, take the lives of her mother and Winston would have suited her, too. But she hadn’t had a choice, and still didn’t. In other words, this is what she had. A mound of dirt and a man who wanted Lord knows what.

The sigh that left her chest was thick and rather hopeless. However, her life had been worse. She and her mother hadn’t even had hope when Winston had arrived at their place back in Kansas. Although she couldn’t remember much about that time, her mother had said that with no money and very little food, they wouldn’t have made it through the month. Winston had been their miracle.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she told herself she did not need a miracle. Not like her mother had back then. The last thing she needed was a husband. She’d dreamed of getting married someday. Having children. But her mother had told her to be careful with those dreams. With her heart. That a wife’s duty was to be completely dedicated to her husband. To give up everything to follow him wherever he may lead her. That’s how she’d ended up in Kansas, alone, with a small child.

Sara had thought about that long and hard, and couldn’t imagine leaving home. Leaving Royalton, her parents, Amelia.

On that thought, she gave her face one final swipe with both hands and then slapped her knees. She had money, food, a home, and wouldn’t be giving any of that up. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

Without waiting for his help, she stood and stepped up onto the porch. He was just as quick, and was already holding open the door. Even that, his manners, irritated her. His presence did, too. Winston would have been so happy to see him, so happy to have him here, and knowing he’d prevented that happiness from ever happening went beyond irritation.

As soon as he walked in, he asked, “Is that fried chicken I smell?”

“Your favorite,” Sara seethed between her teeth. This would be a lot easier if Amelia didn’t welcome him so fully. Blame is what he deserved. Amelia should see that.

“That it is,” he said, pretending to sniff the air. “That it is.”

He wasn’t pretending. The smell of fried chicken filled the house. Amelia had probably stood over the pan with a towel, waving it about in hopes the scent would have made it all the way to town, telling him the meal was ready.

In the dining room he greeted Amelia with a hug, and if he thought it odd that they’d all be eating together, he didn’t comment. Amelia had eaten with the family ever since her husband Nate had died. Before then, the two of them had lived in the house between here and the mill. The one Alvin now lived in.

Sara took her seat on the one side of the table, and again, if Crofton found it odd that no one sat at the head of the table, he didn’t comment. He took the chair next to Amelia, and surprisingly, offered to say grace. Sara wasn’t sure why that surprised her, or why his heartfelt blessing, which wasn’t a rote one, was as equally surprising. Winston had never been a churchgoing man, but he had been God-fearing, so it was believable that his son was as well. If she wanted to believe such things, that is.

They’d no sooner passed around the platter of fried chicken and bowls of potatoes, gravy, beans, and bread when a knock sounded on the door.

Amelia set down her fork, “I’ll get it.”

Sara stood. “No, I will.” The other two had been visiting like old friends, which it appeared they were, and she’d already heard and seen enough to tell her there would be no convincing Amelia to agree with any notions of sending Crofton away. Back to where he came from, wherever that was.

With those thoughts filling her mind, Sara felt a scowl pulling on her brows by the time she opened the front door.

“Hello, Miss Parks,” Samuel Wellington said as she pushed open the screen door. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

For years everyone had assumed her last name was Parks instead of Johnson, and she’d never corrected them. Now wasn’t the time to start. “We have just sat down to eat,” she said. “Is there something you need, Samuel?”

He nodded, but didn’t apologize for the interruption. Instead, he shifted from foot to foot, much like he did when delivering things ordered from the general store his father owned.

Normally congenial to all, she wasn’t in an affable mood today. Might never be again. “Well, what is it?”

“Well...uh...I—I.” With a nod he spit out, “I’ve come to talk to you.”

His face had turned almost as red as his hair and his shuffling had increased.

“About what? Did Mother or Winston order something from your father? I can come by to pay for whatever it is tomorrow.”

“No, no, that’s not it. Not it at all.”

Growing frustrated, she asked, “Then what is?”

“Well, I...uh...well...uh...I’ve come to offer you my—my hand in marriage.”

He’d spit the last four words out so quickly it took her a second to decipher what he’d said. Once she did, a rattling shock raced through her so fast she didn’t have time to engage her brain before repeating, “Marriage?”

Samuel seemed to remember his hat at that moment and with a jolt, pulled it off his head to hold over his chest. “Yes, m-m-marriage.”

She recalled what Winston had told her about marriage—that any man trekking up that hill to ask for her hand had better be the best of the best. Samuel was not that—not at any stretch of the imagination. Except of course his mother’s. All Sara could think to say was, “Why?”

“Well, b-because folks are t-talking. Now that M-Mr. Parks is dead, y-you’ll n-need a husband.”

Winston’s statement about the best of the best had not been a guarded secret, and steam replaced her shock. “Folks are talking, are they?”

Tall and gangly, Samuel’s entire body seemed to nod, not just his head.

Although he was a couple years older than her, she’d always looked upon him as being much younger. Plenty of folks did. Therefore, she willed her nerves to remain calm. Drawing a deep breath helped. Gossipers had been talking since the accident, but she hadn’t imagined their topics would turn to her. Not in the sense of marriage. “Thank you, Samuel, but I can’t marry you. And...” She let the word stretch out while reminding herself to remain in check. People would naturally wonder what was to happen with the lumberyard and the railroad upon Winston’s death. The entire community depended upon them for their livelihoods. She couldn’t blame anyone for being anxious, or curious, however, her material status was not of their concern. “If you hear people talking, feel free to mention that I do not need a husband, and assure them they have no need to worry.”

“But you can’t—”

“I assure you I can.” Although she had no idea of what he’d been about to say she was unable to do, she was perfectly capable of many things. “And most certainly have no need for a husband.”

The way his shoulders slumped, she wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved.

“I—I’ll let you get back to your supper, then,” he said with barely a stutter. “B-but if you change your mind, I’d be obliged if you’d consider my offer.”

She bit the end of her tongue to stifle a promise she’d not be considering his offer now or ever. The fact Winston’s son sat at the dining room table did cross her mind. Briefly, for if by some cruel act of fate, Crofton did end up inheriting everything, she would not remain in Royalton. Watching him blunder Winston’s dream would be as devastating as the deaths she’d just experienced. A shudder made her tense her shoulder muscles. She had not considered that aspect—of what might happen to her if Crofton got what he came after. Where would she go? What would she do?