Читать книгу Unwrapping The Rancher's Secret - Lauri Robinson - Страница 13

Chapter Five

Upon spying him, Bugsley turned a crimson shade of red, and Crofton almost cracked a smile. Instead, to prove who was in charge, he gave a single nod. “Morton.”

Bugsley’s nostrils flared, but he managed to hide anything else as he turned to Sara. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“We’re fine,” she said.

“I see you have company,” Bugsley said.

Crofton caught a chortle before it expelled. If Bugsley thought that attitude would get, or perhaps keep, him on Sara’s good side, he was a buffoon. From what he’d encountered so far, a man would have better odds going up against a cross-eyed bull with a lasso than using that condescending tone with her.

“Yes, we do,” she said coldly. “Have you met...Crofton?”

He didn’t miss the pause before she said his name, almost as if saying it grated her nerves down to the last one.

“I’ve had the...pleasure,” Bugsley answered.

Crofton did let out a laugh. Turning to Sara, he explained, “Mr. Morton was at the lumber mill when I stopped by there earlier, and I saw him again at the saloon.”

Her frown let him know what she thought of Bugsley being at the saloon. The only woman he’d ever met that didn’t mind a man stopping by a saloon was June. Thinking of her made him think of Mel, June’s brother, his best friend, and that brought his full attention right back to where it should be. “I hope my toast to my father didn’t interrupt your business with those railroad men and their gunman.”

While Bugsley glared at him, Sara glared at Bugsley. “What railroad men?”

“They were in town for the funeral,” Bugsley answered with an annoyed tone.

Crofton knew all about being annoyed, and this man increased every ounce of it in him. He also knew a liar when he saw one.

“I didn’t see them at the funeral,” she said.

“Perhaps they didn’t want to intrude,” Crofton offered, knowing that would get even more of a rise out of her.

He hadn’t realized Amelia was nearby until she jabbed him in the back.

“We’ve just finished eating, Bugsley,” Amelia said, skirting around Crofton as she walked out of the dining room. “But are about to have dessert if you’d care to join us.”

“Thank you,” Bugsley answered. “But I just need to speak with Sara for a moment and will then be on my way.”

Like the mother hen Crofton remembered, Amelia stopped directly in front of Sara and shook her head. “Not tonight. Sara just buried her mother and father. There is nothing you need to speak to her about that can’t wait until tomorrow, or the next day.”

Crofton was holding his breath, waiting for Sara to spout off, but as the seconds ticked by he realized that wasn’t going to happen. Surprisingly. Then again, perhaps not. Amelia’s hand was only heavy when it was loaded with love. He remembered that, and the woman’s words caused an inkling of guilt to tickle his stomach. Sara had loved her mother and Winston, and the day had to have been a hard one for her.

“Now, as I said,” Amelia continued, “you’re welcome to join us for dessert if you’d like.”

That clearly was not what Bugsley would like, and Crofton never took his eyes off the man.

Bugsley was staring back, and a challenge appeared in his eyes when he said, “Thank you, dessert sounds wonderful.”

“Right this way, then,” Amelia said, hooking her arm through Bugsley’s.

It was clear the other man would much prefer to escort Sara, but obviously had no choice. With a nod toward Morton, Crofton pushed off the wall and moved forward, making a clear point that he would assist Sara into the dining room. Anticipating she might not approve, he walked around her and closed the inside door, and then rather than take her arm, merely waved toward the dining room.

She gave him a solid glare, and then with her chin in the air, walked toward the arched doorway. He lagged a step behind. In this instance, he’d rather have her for an ally than an enemy. His gut had signaled an instant dislike of Morton from the first time he’d seen the man leading Sara down the steps of the mortuary. If you asked him, Morton could easily be behind Mel’s death, but a gut feeling wasn’t proof, and that was what he needed. Proof.

When Sara paused in the dining room doorway, he gently laid a hand against her back to move her forward. Understanding the reason for her hesitation, he stepped around her and grasped the back of the chair Bugsley was about to pull out. The head of the table had purposefully been left empty while they ate, and would remain so. Call it respect for his father, or empathy for Sara, either way, Crofton placed a foot against the chair leg, making sure it wouldn’t be pulled out.

There was a brief showdown of eyes only before Bugsley stepped to the side of the table. Amelia hustling through the door to the kitchen with a tray may have been the reason, but Crofton preferred to take pleasure in the fact the other man had conceded because of him.

Sara had entered the kitchen and returned with a second tray. Hers contained a silver coffeepot, four cups with saucers, cream and sugar containers. Amelia was already setting out the four plates holding slices of pie. Crofton stood on one side of the table, with Bugsley straight across from him. They were still sizing up one another. The man may have been Winston’s right-hand man, but something said he hadn’t been as welcome in the family home as he had been in the lumber mill. Or at least he hadn’t had free rein in the home. Perhaps he hadn’t at the lumber mill, either. Until lately that is, which, in itself, was interesting.

Amelia pulled out a chair next to the other man, and though Crofton could tell Sara wasn’t impressed, she walked around the table. He held her chair, and once she was settled, sat down next to her.

“I must say, Amelia,” Crofton started while she poured coffee for all four of them. “Your fried chicken was even better than I remembered, and I’d lay bets this pie is going to be beyond that even.”

Her cheeks flushed as she scooted his cup closer to him. “I’ve had practice. Fried chicken is Sara’s favorite, too.”

He lifted a brow as he glanced toward Sara. She made no comment, in fact, barely glanced his way.

“Apple pie is her favorite, too,” Amelia said.

He picked up his fork. “I guess we have a lot in common.”

“I’d surmise that fried chicken and apple pie are favorites for many people,” Sara said. “Including Winston.”

If she was trying to get his goat, it didn’t work. He remembered many things about his father, including his likes and dislikes. “Did he still sprinkle a teaspoon of sugar over the top of his pie?”

He’d addressed the question toward Amelia, and the way she giggled and glanced across the table had him turning toward Sara in time to see her drop the spoon back into the sugar dish. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll take it when you’re finished. It always adds the perfect touch, don’t you think?”

She quickly took the spoon and sifted sugar across the top of her pie before setting the spoon back in the dish and passing it to him.

“I don’t believe Sara needs such reminders this evening,” Bugsley said.

“Oh, I disagree,” Amelia piped in. “Wonderful memories are exactly what she needs.”

Crofton didn’t take the time to consider whether he agreed that’s what Sara needed or not. His mind was set on disagreeing with whatever Bugsley said or did. The man needed to understand who had the upper hand. “Did Winston still like his beef red, not pink?” he asked Amelia.

“Oh, yes, the redder the better, and that was hard sometimes, timing things so precisely,” Amelia answered.

“Did he alter his six o’clock meal time?” Crofton asked, slicing off the end of the triangle-shaped piece of pie with his fork.

“No,” Sara supplied. “The evening meal was always served at six.”

“And lunch at noon,” Crofton added before lifting his fork to his mouth. The pie was as good as he remembered, just as the chicken had been. He hadn’t been exaggerating about that, nor had he forgotten Amelia’s cooking. The first few years in England he’d thought he might starve. Nothing had compared to the meals she’d prepared. He gave an inflated groan, just to let her know his appreciation.

Amelia giggled and turned toward Bugsley. “Is the pie not to your liking?”

“No—yes,” he said, taking a bite. “It’s very good. I just haven’t had much of an appetite.”

Crofton bit back a grin at how Amelia frowned.

“Not eating isn’t good for the body, or the mind, no matter what the circumstances,” she said.

Perhaps he hadn’t given Amelia enough credit all these years. He may have been only a child, but he never recalled Amelia speaking ill of anyone, nor openly reproofing them. Hearing how she’d spoken about his mother earlier today had surprised him, except for the fact his mother deserved the scorn considering her actions. However, it appeared Amelia had a bushel of contempt for Bugsley Morton, and that increased his curiosity.

While taking another bite of pie, he let his gaze wander to Sara, wondering what her feelings were towards Bugsley. They had appeared friendly toward one another at the mortuary yesterday, but considering the circumstances, she’d needed a friend. Bugsley would have put himself into that roll as easily as he had put himself into Winston’s office at the lumber mill.

Counting on Amelia to put him in an even closer position, Crofton asked her, “Remember when you brought Sampson home for me?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes, but I didn’t exactly bring him home. He followed me. Poor thing was practically starved to death.”

“Who was Sampson?” Sara asked.

“A dog,” he answered. “The best one ever.”

“And biggest,” Amelia said. “He ate more than Crofton, which I didn’t think was possible. And goodness but that dog had hair. Long black hair that stuck to everything.”

Crofton laughed. “Good thing it was black and not white, otherwise we’d never have made it to church in time.” Turning to Sara, he explained, “She used to pick the hair off my clothes the entire way to town.”

“I swear that dog slept on your Sunday clothes—it was as if he thought that might keep you at home come Sunday morning.” Glancing at Sara, Amelia continued, “That dog went everywhere with Crofton. He’d walk him to school every morning, and then come home and lie on the porch until it was time to go back and walk him home. But I put my foot down when it came to church. He was so big he scared the daylights out of people.”

“He was big,” Crofton said. In all his years and travels, he’d never seen another dog as big as Sampson had been.

“And thank goodness he was,” Amelia said. “You would have drowned if not for that dog. Remember that?”

With his mouthful of pie, he could only nod.

“I should never have agreed to take you fishing. That river was much too high.” Once again including Sara in the conversation, Amelia said, “His hook got caught in the weeds and rather than break the line, he jumped in the water to unhook it. You know I can’t swim, and was scared to death. Crofton was only about seven. He was a good swimmer, but the current was strong because of the high water and before I knew it, he was heading downstream. Sampson ran along the bank until he was ahead of Crofton and then jumped in, swimming out for Crofton to grab a hold of him.”

“I did more than grab a hold,” Crofton said, having forgotten the incident until she brought it up. “I leaped onto his back.”

“He must have been a large dog,” Sara said.

“He was,” Crofton assured.

“Winston claimed the dog was bigger than a pony,” Amelia said. “He always joked about putting a saddle on him.”

Crofton had forgotten that, too. “We did once,” he said. “Father said not to tell you because you’d take a switch to both of us. Sampson wasn’t impressed so we never did it again.”

“Oh, you two,” Amelia said with a giggle. “What one of you didn’t think of, the other did. I said it was like having two children at times.” Shaking her head, she added, “No wonder that dog wouldn’t sleep in the barn.”

“That and my bed was far more comfortable.”

“Oh, and did your mother go into a tizzy over that. Every time she returned home, she’d have a conniption fit over that dog being in the house,” Amelia said.

That was something else Crofton had forgotten about. His mother’s ire at Sampson. All of a sudden, he could hear his father’s voice, Leave the boy and his dog alone, Ida.

“Return home?” Sara said with brows knit together. “Where was your mother?”

Crofton shrugged, he didn’t remember much about his mother back then, considering she was never around, but he had heard her side of things. “Baltimore, usually,” he said. “Her father worked for the B & O Railroad, the Baltimore and Ohio, and was ailing. She had to make several trips to see to his care.”

Though she hid it well, Crofton heard the huff that Amelia let out and saw the tightness of her lips. Bugsley, who had remained quiet the entire time, saw it, too, and Crofton was sure the man made a mental note of that.

The man pushed away from the table. “The pie was excellent, thank you.”

Amelia rose to her feet at the same time Bugsley did. “You two finish your coffee,” she said. “I’ll see Mr. Morton to the door.”

Crofton waited for Sara to protest, while considering if he should offer to walk Morton to the door. Amelia hadn’t changed much over the years, and he could tell she wanted the man gone without speaking to anyone. He wondered if that included him.

When Sara offered no protest, Bugsley said, “You and I will need to discuss a few things, Sara. Perhaps I could stop by tomorrow?”

“That will be fine,” she answered.

The other two left the room, and though his plate was empty and his coffee cold, Crofton didn’t attempt to rise.

“More coffee?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” he replied, wondering what his next steps should be. In his mind, he’d planned on being offered lodging at the house, but at the moment was feeling a bit intrusive. Perhaps it would be better if he got a room at the hotel. However, considering he wanted the entire town to view him as Winston’s son, staying here was an important factor.

The subtle silence that hovered over the table was broken when Sara asked, “What happened to Sampson?”

Crofton had wondered about that for years. He’d felt utterly abandoned that day all those years ago. Hadn’t understood why his father had taken Sampson. With a shrug, he said, “He came West with my father and Amelia and Nate.”

“No, he didn’t.” Having wasted no time in seeing Bugsley to the door, Amelia was already walking back into the dining room. “We left him with you—your father insisted upon it.”

Memories flowed stronger than they had in years, and he clearly remembered coming home from school that day to find Sampson gone. He also recalled that his father had driven him to school in the buggy that morning, telling him all about Colorado during the ride. How they were going there to start another lumber mill, larger than the one in Ohio, and that as soon as the house was built, he’d be back to get him and his mother. Sampson had trotted along beside the horse. The memory of the last time he’d seen his father and Sampson was as clear right now as it had been back then. He’d stood in the school yard, watching his father drive away with Sampson running alongside the buggy. From then on, he had few memories. Sadness had clouded his young mind, along with train rides and hotels, and eventually the long ship ride to England. After arriving there, he’d chosen to forget more than he chose to remember. He lifted a shoulder. “I guess he must have died. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” Sara asked.

He shook his head.

“Did he die in the fire?” she asked.

Having learned his mother had informed Winston he’d died when their Ohio house caught fire, he shook his head. “There was no fire. At least not while we lived there. I did stop by the old place on my way West. The barn was the same, but the house wasn’t.”

“Yes, there was a fire,” Amelia said. “It burned the house to the ground. Winston traveled back there and spoke to people about the fire. He also saw your grave, had a big headstone made for it.”

Having seen it himself, he told Amelia, “The headstone is in Baltimore.”

“Because that is where Ida claimed you were buried. She said you’d been burned in the house fire and she sent you to Baltimore for medical help, and that’s where you died. She buried you next to her father. Your grandfather.” Amelia sat back down at the table. “Where were you during that time?”

Crofton only had fragments of memories during that time, and his mother hadn’t enlightened him even when he’d asked. “I honestly don’t know.” Having strolled down memory lane—a place he rarely liked to visit—long enough, Crofton stood. “I thank you ladies for a wonderful,” nodding toward Amelia, he added, “and delicious, evening.”

Frowning, Amelia asked, “Where are you going?”

No longer wanting an invitation, he said, “I must acquire accommodations for the night at the hotel.”

“You will not,” Amelia stated. “You’ll be staying here. We have plenty of room, don’t we, Sara?”

She’d risen and was gathering dishes from the table. “Mr. Parks may find the accommodations at the hotel more hospitable.”

“He will not,” Amelia said. “There are three extra bedrooms upstairs, and he will use one of them. No arguments.” Piling dishes on the second tray, she added, “From either of you.”

Sara felt Amelia’s glare and Crofton’s curious stare on her back, and ignored them both as she carried the tray into the kitchen. She also heard Amelia continue insisting Crofton stay at the house. At the moment, her mind was too full of other things to care where he slept. He was part of what was dancing about inside her head—especially why his mother would have told Winston he’d died when he hadn’t. The other part of her was wondering about Bugsley. He’d seemed nervous tonight, and subdued. Of course the conversation and Amelia’s attitude could have been part of it. Amelia hadn’t liked Bugsley since he’d taken Nate’s place as Winston’s right-hand man.

Bugsley had worked for Winston before Nate had died during the rail road wars, but had become more essential afterward. Therefore, Sara could understand a small portion of Amelia’s dislike, but she’d never made it quite as obvious before.

Scraping clean the plates, her mind shifted once more—to that of Sampson. She’d often thought having a dog would be fun, but had never asked for one. Mother would never have approved. Life should focus on what was needed not wanted.

It was still that way.

“Well, that’s settled,” Amelia said, setting down the other tray. “Crofton will stay in the room at the end of the hall.”

Sara crossed the room to the stove to dip hot water from the reservoir into the washing bowl. Arguing wouldn’t solve anything; furthermore, he had more right to be in Winston’s house than she did, a fact that truly didn’t settle well.

“Now who could that be?”