Читать книгу Unwrapping The Rancher's Secret - Lauri Robinson - Страница 12

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?

She hadn’t considered it, because it would not happen. “Goodbye, Samuel,” she said, spinning around to return to the dining room with the momentum of urgency. She would need to find a way to appease the townsfolk until she got herself on solid footing with the lumber mill, and despite Bugsley’s assurance that there was no need for her to speak with Winston’s lawyer, Ralph Wainwright, she would set up an appointment with him. Of course Bugsley hadn’t known about Crofton when he’d told Mr. Wainwright all was under control when the lawyer had come to the house to offer his condolences. None of them had known about Crofton.

Word traveled fast, and by morning she had no doubt everyone would know about Crofton. He had, after all, gone into town.

“Who was it?” Amelia asked as Sara entered the dining room.

“Just Samuel,” she said, taking her seat and waiting until Crofton sat back down before lifting her fork. His manners shouldn’t surprise her—he was Winston’s son. Maybe they irritated her more than surprised her. For that exact reason. That he was Winston’s son.

“What did he need? Had you ordered something?” Amelia asked.

Not answering, Sara turned a cold stare to their guest. “Where did you go this afternoon?”

He finished chewing and swallowed, before stating, “I told you, to see a man about a horse.”

This time around, hearing him use the line Winston often did lit a fireball in her stomach. Although she knew neither was the case, she asked, “What man? What horse?”

His stare remained steady. “The owner of the livery. I had to pay for my accommodations the past few days.”

“Your accommodations?” Amelia asked. “Surely you haven’t been staying at the livery stable.”

He offered Amelia a smile along with a glance. “I didn’t want to intrude, considering the circumstances.”

“Intrude?” Sara spat. “Circumstances?” Anger rarely got the best of her, but today was far from normal. She’d just buried her parents. “Do you think you aren’t intruding now? Do you think the circumstances have changed?”

“Sara!”

She didn’t so much as blink at Amelia’s admonishment. His eyes were locked on hers and she would not be the one to look away first.

“The circumstances changed the moment I rode into town and heard about Winston’s death,” he said.

Fully prepared to get to the bottom of his arrival, she asked, “Oh? Were you coming to see him?”

Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms and eyed her quizzically before eventually saying, “I was sure our paths would cross once I arrived.”

“Your paths would have crossed?” She repeated his answer as a question to let it roll around in her head for a moment. If he hadn’t been coming to see Winston, what had he come here for?

Amelia was more straightforward. “If it wasn’t to see your father, why did you come here?”

A smile tugged at Sara’s lips. It was about time Amelia questioned something about him. Sara lifted a brow, as he had earlier, and waited to hear his response.

His silence lingered so long she was just about to concede he wouldn’t answer when he opened his mouth.

“I came here to discover who murdered my friend.”

Regardless of the anger still fueling her system, the stone-coldness of his eyes and the gravel in his voice sent a chill up Sara’s spine.

“Murdered?” Amelia asked. “Here in Royalton? When? Who?”

The naturalness of how he laid a hand over the top of Amelia’s made Sara’s stomach churn. There was a clear connection between Amelia and Crofton. It might have lain sleeping beneath the surface for years, but had returned the moment the two had seen one another. Expecting anything less from Amelia would be impossible. She cared about people, even those she didn’t know, and inside Sara’s troubled mind, she knew Amelia more than cared for Crofton. She loved him. She’d spoken of him often, as if he’d been her own child. His death, or supposed death, had been as painful for Amelia as it had been for Winston.

That realization made Sara’s churning stomach sink. She would have no ally in Amelia when it came to fighting this man for Winston’s dream. Then again, she had no right to fight him. She had no claim to anything of Winston’s. Although she’d loved him like a father, and he’d loved her like a daughter, she wasn’t his rightful heir. Had no legal place to stand.

“Mel’s murder didn’t happen in Royalton,” he said, “but this was the last place he’d been.”

“Mel who?” she asked.

“Barton,” he said meticulously, almost as if it hurt. “Mel Barton.”

“I don’t know of any Bartons in the area,” Amelia said. “Do you, Sara?”

Never taking her eyes off Crofton, for his were still leveled on her, she shook her head. “No.”

“He wasn’t from around here,” Crofton said. “He was my partner. We share—shared several thousand acres of rangeland.”

Knowing the mountainous region around Royalton fairly well, Sara asked, “Where?”

“Arizona Territory,” he answered.

“Arizona!” Amelia squealed. “You live in Arizona and never once came to see me? How long have you been there?”

“About two years,” he answered. “I never came to see you because Winston didn’t want me to.”

A shiver rippled up Sara’s neck at the hint of anger in his tone, but it appeared Amelia didn’t notice it, or at least didn’t care. How could she be so blind to this man and his actions? He clearly didn’t care about her, or his father. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.

“That’s not true. Winston would have been overjoyed to see you,” Amelia said. “Purely overjoyed.”

Although no one had touched their food the last few minutes, Crofton pushed his plate toward the center of the table, as if signaling his appetite had left him. There was a twitch in the center of his cheek as he turned to look at Amelia. “Evidently not. I know you were committed to Winston, and don’t want to believe certain things about him, but my father did not want to see me. Did not want to acknowledge I was alive.”

Sara had her own opinion on that, but this conversation was clearly between Crofton and Amelia, so chose to remain silent. In her mind, though, she couldn’t ignore the fact that Winston would never have denied seeing his son. When Hilton had died she’d seen Winston cry and mourn the child’s death deeply. It had to have been that way when he’d heard of Crofton’s death, too.

With an unusual show of anger, Amelia threw her napkin on the table. “That’s impossible. I won’t believe it for a minute. Not a single one, I tell you. Your father loved you and would have wanted to see you. Don’t you dare sit here and tell me otherwise. I saw the anguish that man went through all those years ago, how it hung with him, and I know how happy he would have been to know you were alive.”

Crofton had remained quiet during Amelia’s fiery outburst, but had pulled a pocketbook out of the suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair, and as soon as she’d closed her mouth, he handed something to her.

Itching to know what was on the slip of paper, Sara leaned closer to the table. From the looks of the tattered edges, Crofton had been carrying it with him for some time.

“What’s this?” Amelia asked.

“Open it.”

She unfolded the paper and frowned as she read whatever it held. Slowly lifting her gaze to Crofton, she opened her mouth and then closed it.

“Speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

Sara balled her hand into a fist to keep it from shooting across the table to snatch the paper from Amelia. Crofton must have sensed that because he waved a hand in her direction. Following his unspoken command, Amelia handed the piece of paper across the table. Suddenly apprehensive, not overly sure she wanted to know what it said, Sara took the paper gingerly.

Western Union Telegraph Company was printed in large letters across the top along with a paragraph of rules and regulations in much smaller print. Below that, someone had written on the printed lines, noting that the message had been received at 6:48 p.m. on the twelfth of April 1879—more than six years ago—in Baltimore, and that it had been sent from Royalton.

She had to swallow at the lump forming in her throat before letting her eyes go lower. The ink on the well-tattered and thin-at-the-folds note was faded, but readable. It was to M. Hammond, and the message below that was simple.

Impossible. Crofton Parks died years ago. Do not contact me again.

W. Parks.

Handing the paper back to Crofton, she said, “I’m assuming this is a telegraph in response to one sent to Winston. Who is M. Hammond?”

“A judge in Baltimore.”

“Why did a judge in Baltimore send a telegraph to Winston?”

Crofton was in the midst of reasoning how he wanted to answer that question when once again a knock sounded on the front door. He wasn’t so deep in thought he missed a flash of disgust in Sara’s eyes. She could have been disappointed to have their conversation disrupted, but he sensed it was more than that.

“Is that Samuel returning?” Amelia asked. “Did you order something from Wellington’s?”

“No,” Sara answered. “I didn’t order anything from Wellington’s.”

Wellington’s was the mercantile, but that didn’t explain why her hands shook when she laid her napkin on the table.

“I’ll go see who it is,” she said with a ragged sigh.

Crofton waited until she rounded the corner of the dining room before pushing away from the table. He paused in the arched doorway and everything inside him hardened at the sound of a man’s voice. Extending one arm, he braced himself against the narrow wall of the dining room archway and willed his muscles to relax while deliberately capturing Bugsley Morton’s gaze as the man entered the house.