Читать книгу Unwrapping The Rancher's Secret - Lauri Robinson - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Crofton rode into town with a chip on his shoulder. It had been there for years, but today it felt like a boulder. He popped his neck and arched his back, but the weight didn’t shift. He hadn’t expected it to. What he did expect was to get a pair of blue eyes out of his mind.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t she have been homely?” That was another trait his father had given him—the inability to ignore a beautiful woman.

It wasn’t Sara’s beauty that worried him. It was the intelligence in those blue eyes. She’d been sizing him up since the moment they met, and that told him being Winston’s son wasn’t going to be enough.

Burying those thoughts as much as he could, Crofton pulled up his reason for being here tackling all these old memories, and rode up the main street of town. Buildings of all sizes lined the street on both sides of him. Not a one was as large as the home he’d just left. Leave it to his father to build a home larger than even the hotel. It was only two stories. His father’s brick house had three, plus a basement. Imagine that, the owner of the lumber company building himself a brick house. Ironic.

There was plenty of wood in his father’s house, too. The trim, windows, door and large porch were all painted white, making it look even more impressive. So were the balconies off the second floor, and the two round turrets on the third.

It had taken plenty of wood to build the town. Businesses, the same as most towns, offered customers goods and services. As he scanned the stores—a mercantile, feed store, blacksmith, hotel, saloon, nothing out of the ordinary—he thought of other boom towns he’d seen. Here today. Gone tomorrow. Royalton didn’t have the look or feel of the others he’d seen, and he wasn’t sure whether he appreciated that or not.

He’d already visited the dry goods store, that’s where he’d purchased his suit yesterday, and this morning he’d bought a bath and shave. While scraping his face, the barber had seen exactly what Sara had: his resemblance to Winston. Others would, too. He’d planned on using that to his advantage, and now was as good a time as any. Actually, the sooner the better.

Riding to the edge of town, where the lumber mill was located, Crofton maneuvered his way through the busy yard. The noise was immense, and he couldn’t help but be impressed. Two huge water wheels provided some of the power needed for the numerous saws, but there was also a large steam shed that generated other saws. The heat was intense, but it didn’t slow down the workers. The mill was a town in itself, with traffic, wagons empty and full, maneuvering about, and men, far more than he could quickly count, went about completing various jobs. Laborious jobs. A locomotive whistle sounded where it slowly chugged its way down the hill behind the mill. The long logs it carried were so large only three fit on the flat car behind the engine.

His father had never done anything on a small scale, but this lumber mill went beyond that. He’d been young, but Crofton remembered the mill in Ohio, the one his father had built there to supply wood for the railroad expansion back then. He also remembered how his father had waved a hand at that mill, saying someday that it all would be his.

This may not be Ohio, but that day had come.

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.