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Sara’s throat swelled shut. Blinking back tears, she nodded and started for the house again. Bugsley was right. She didn’t need a house full of people. There wasn’t time to dwell on the fact that she was completely alone. She wasn’t. Mrs. Long wouldn’t leave. Amelia Long had been managing Winston’s house for decades and this morning promised to continue working here until she was too old to knead bread. Bugsley was here, too. He’d worked for Winston for years, and promised he’d help her with everything. She’d forever be grateful to him for being at her side the past few days. He’d kept her strong, and she’d needed that.
It was Bugsley who appeared at her elbow before she was all the way down the hill. Sara didn’t have to offer him a smile. He wouldn’t expect it, and that felt good.
“Come,” he said softly while tucking her arm through his. “You’ve had a rough day.”
His wool suit was as black as her gabardine dress and his boots recently shined. Something that probably hadn’t happened since the last funeral he’d attended.
Sara took a deep breath, drawing strength and resolve in understanding that she wasn’t the only person who’d experienced such devastating pain. The Williams children had lost their father just last week. Bugsley hadn’t gone to the funeral, but she and her mother had, and Winston, who had slipped into the recent widow’s hand an envelope containing a sum of money to help the family through their hard time. Sara was grateful that part wasn’t an issue for her. Just the opposite in fact. She had more money than she knew how to handle. That would soon change. She’d learn how to handle the money, and invest it for the future of Royalton.
Not entirely sure how she’d complete that daunting task, she said, “It was a lovely service.”
“Yes, it was,” Bugsley said. “I’ll have a donation sent to the church tomorrow.”
“I already made a donation for the services,” she said. “Yesterday, when I gave Reverend Borman the selection of songs for today.”
“I told you I’d take care of things for you,” Bugsley said.
“I know,” she answered. “And I appreciate your help, but there were some things I wanted to do myself. Needed to do.”
“All right,” he said, patting her arm. “But I’m here to handle everything else.”
There was no doubt she’d need his help. She didn’t have the knowledge it would take to run the lumber mill and negotiate the contracts with the railroad, but she was astute and a fast learner, and wasn’t going to shy away from any part of her duties. She’d stayed up late the last two nights, studying maps and contracts, and a plethora of other paperwork in Winston’s office, but she now felt she knew less about what to do rather than more. She wasn’t about to give up, though, or ask for help. Not yet. One couldn’t ask for help until one knew what help was needed. “You’ll be the first person I seek when I need assistance,” she said. “I promise.”
He stiffened slightly but held his silence until they arrived at the house and she looked up. His cheeks were ruddy from shaving off his scruffy whiskers for the day. He’d gotten a haircut, too. White skin showed where his brown hair had been snipped short around his ears. He wasn’t what most would call handsome, but he was dedicated and that was what she needed above all else.
“You need some rest,” he said with a gentle smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Unless you want me to stay—maybe you don’t want to be alone?”
Her gaze roamed to the house. To the flower bushes beside the steps, the set of white wicker furniture situated in the corner of the massive front porch and the wide front door complete with a screen door to let the air in on warm days. It could be warm today. She couldn’t tell. The chill that had settled inside her, clear to her bones, was too encompassing, even wearing the heavy black dress and cape. Fighting off a shiver, Sara answered, “I won’t be alone. Mrs. Long is here.”
“She’s still up the hill,” he said. “Talking.”
“But will be along shortly.” Pulling her hand out of the crook of his elbow, Sara drew a fortifying breath. Mrs. Long had been upset about not hosting a gathering after the funeral, giving people the opportunity to mourn and share memories. Looking at the empty house, Sara had to wonder if she should have sided with Amelia rather than Bugsley. Perhaps entering the front door would be easier with others nearby. The decision had been made, though, and she had no choice but to abide by it. To go forward. Alone. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she told Bugsley.
She entered the house without looking back. It would be easy to ask him to step in and see to everything. Too easy. Turning, she closed the inside door, thankful it provided a barrier, making it harder to change her mind. Winston had never let her or her mother down, and now she couldn’t let him down. There was no law that said he had to be her father, that he had to feed and clothe her. But he had. Along with so many other things. Therefore, she would do what no law said she had to do. Take up where he had left off. Make sure the railroad had enough timber to build the line from the pass to the border. Farther even, all the way across the Utah Territory and into Nevada.
The ache in her chest became all-consuming. Winston had been so proud of this project. He’d been committed to it, too. Needing to diminish the pain, center her attention on something other than her loss, Sara focused on walking past the sweeping staircase that led to the second floor. The very steps she’d loved to run down and jump into Winston’s arms when she’d been younger. He’d laugh and twirl her about before hugging her tight and then setting her down to run off, giggling and dizzy.
Removing the black gloves that matched her funeral dress and cape as she walked, she held them both in one hand when she arrived at Winston’s office door. The contracts were in there, and maps and statements and correspondence with railroad men. Reading through them would take her mind off other things as well as prepare her for her next steps. She’d make sure of it this time. Really focus. Living with Winston all these years had left her with considerable knowledge already. Just a few years ago the railroad had been at a standstill in Colorado. The two largest companies attempting to build a line through the southern part of the state had taken each other to court. The Santa Fe had won out, being a standard gauge. Winston had said, and many others had agreed, that the narrow-gauge rails of the Denver & Rio Grande were far better when it came to laying track through the Rocky Mountains, but not beyond, and he’d said that was the important piece. Running tracks beyond the mountains, clear to the ocean.
Winston had won the bid to provide lumber for the Santa Fe and their standard-gauge rail, and that’s what she needed to research. She would spend the rest of the day reading and taking notes so this time she’d remember things. Understand them. She needed to know what was expected of the lumber mill better than she knew the recipe for her famous cinnamon cookies. Made famous by her stepfather who ate them two at a time as soon as she took them out of the oven.
The smile that memory evoked froze on her lips as she opened the door to Winston’s office. Her heart momentarily stopped, too. For a split second she could have sworn she was staring at Winston—how he’d looked fifteen years ago when she and her mother first met him back on the Kansas prairie.
The man behind the big desk that sat angled in the corner swiveled the chair around and lifted a dark brow as his gaze met hers. “Well, hello, little sister.”
A shiver curled around her spine. “E-Excuse me?”
“I said, hello, little sister.”
She’d dropped a glove, and used the time it took to bend down and pick it up to gather her wits. A cold and frightening lump formed in her stomach. One that left her hands trembling. “I do not have any siblings,” she said, straightening as tall as possible and squeezing her gloves with both hands. “And you, sir, are trespassing.”
Crofton Parks almost cracked a grin. Might have if the situation had even an ounce of humor surrounding it. It didn’t, and neither did he. Have an ounce of humor that is. Her black cape didn’t disguise her hourglass figure and her chestnut-colored hair had just enough red to make it shimmer like gold in the sunshine. The sight of Sara Johnson—or Parks as everyone referred to her—confirmed he’d been right. She wasn’t an eyesore. Not from a distance or up close. If her mother had looked anything like her, with eyes that big and blue and skin that lily-white, he could almost understand why his father had deserted him and his mother back in Ohio. Almost, because to his way of thinking, no man should discard one family for another. Not for any reason.
He leaned back in the big leather chair and stretched his arms overhead before threading his fingers together and lowering them until the back of his head rested against his palms. Even after all these years, he could remember how his father had used to sit like that. All he’d have to do was kick up his feet to rest his heels on the desk and his memory would be complete. He didn’t kick up his feet for several reasons, including that he wasn’t here to relax. “I’m not trespassing, little sister. I’m just here to collect what’s mine.”
She was wringing the gloves in her hands so hard they were practically tied in knots, and her eyes were darting around as if she couldn’t let them rest on him. He knew why. From the time he’d been born people had said he looked exactly like his father. At one time he’d taken pride in that. That was no longer the case. Hadn’t been for years.
“Stop calling me that, and there’s nothing here that could be—”
“Mine?” he interrupted. “Yes, there is, and you know it.” He dropped his hands and leaned forward to wave a finger her way. “Don’t bother lying. I can see by the fear in your eyes that you know who I am.” Crofton stood and straightened the bottom of his vest before reaching behind him to gather up the jacket that completed the suit he’d purchased for the occasion, his father’s funeral. He also attempted to keep the scorn out of his tone when he added, “I’ve always been the spitting image of my father.”
One arm was in his jacket sleeve when he paused, waiting for her reaction.
Her fair skin had turned whiter. Colorless. He dropped the coat just as her blue eyes disappeared behind her eyelids.
“Damn!”
Crofton made it around the desk in time to catch her before she hit the floor.
He’d picked up and carried calves that weighed more than she did. However, none of those critters ever smelled liked flowers and sunshine. She did, and all the other things women were supposed to smell like. Ignoring that, for it made no difference, he carried her to the long sofa covered in cowhide and situated near a massive stone fireplace on the other side of the room. There he set her down. On her bottom. She hadn’t passed out, not completely and was already squirming to get out of his hold.
As soon as she was free, she scooted along the seat, farther away from him. “You’re—you’re dead,” she whispered. “Dead.”
“I could apologize for that, but since I wasn’t the one to put that idea in your head, I won’t. As you can clearly see, I’m not dead. Never was.” A shred of guilt laced his gut at the way she trembled. He tried to ignore it, but in the end, he told himself she wasn’t to blame and holding his father’s faults against her wouldn’t be fair. Despite his parentage, that was one thing he did pride himself on: being a fair man. An honest one, too. It had taken him a long way in this life.
“How can that be?”
Crofton stopped his inner musings and shrugged. “Because it never was.”
“Fa—” She pinched her lips together for a second. “Winston said you died as a small child, back in Ohio, in a fire. He was devastated over it.”
“Was he?” The scorn slipped out before Crofton had a chance to conceal it.
“Yes,” she said. “He spoke of you often, especially—”
Her lips pinched tight and her thick lashes held teardrops when she lifted them. The sight was as unique as it was touching.
Once again Crofton had to detour his thoughts. “Especially when?”
“Before my little brother died. He was only four.”
“Your little brother?”
Looking up at him with moisture filled eyes, she nodded. “Yes, my little brother. Hilton. He died of the fever six years ago.”
Why that felt like a gut punch, Crofton wasn’t sure, but either way, he sat down. It would make sense that his father had gone on to have more children, but he’d never contemplated that aspect. Probably should have. “How many other children are there?” Wrestling a stepdaughter would be a simple enough feat; another blood son might not be. It wouldn’t stand in his way, though. Nothing would stand in his way of finding out why the railroad had pulled out of running a line south into New Mexico. He’d made promises on it, and he never broke a promise. There, too, he was nothing like his father.
“Other—” She shook her head. “None.”
“None?”
She wiped aside a teardrop sitting on her left cheek. “No, there were no more children, not before or after Hilton.”
Crofton withheld a grin, kept it hidden deep inside where only he knew it existed. “So it’s just you and me.”
After a lengthy hesitation, she met him eye to eye. “Yes. Just you and me.”
Chapter Two (#udc57d5ba-7cb8-5619-99cb-f4ea417fad06)
The walls were closing in on her. She unbuttoned her cloak and shrugged it off her shoulders, but it didn’t help. The heavy black dress was just as suffocating. So was his nearness. Willing her legs to cooperate, she pushed off the sofa. She stumbled slightly, but caught herself. This was all impossible. Crofton Parks was impossible. He’d died years ago. Winston would never have lied about that. Not something that important. Actually, he wouldn’t have lied about anything. He was a good, honest man.
Gaining inner strength, she turned her attention to the stranger. He certainly resembled Winston. Dark brown hair, hazel-rimmed green eyes flecked with specks of gold. Tall. Broad at the shoulders and lean at the waist. He even had a dimple in the middle of his chin. However, he couldn’t possibly be Winston’s son. More like an impostor who was simply after her stepfather’s money. Winston’s wealth, the lumberyard he’d spent a lifetime building and his work with the railroad were well-known, perhaps nationwide or even worldwide.
Sara lifted her chin and tightened her neck muscles to keep her voice from quivering. “You, sir, are an impostor and I insist you leave immediately.”
He leaned back and swung a foot up to balance on his opposite knee. “I’m not an impostor, Sara—”
“I gave you no invitation to use my first name,” she snapped, unwilling to listen to anything he had to say. “If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll summon the sheriff.”
“And how will you do that?” he asked, crossing his arms. “You got a little bell you ring or something?”
His comment was so arrogant and smug that Sara wished she’d asked Bugsley to stay, or that Mrs. Long had returned. Something deep inside said she didn’t want to be alone with this man. He couldn’t be trusted, that was a given, but his uncanny resemblance to Winston was confusing her usual good sense.
Alvin Thompson who saw to the horses and other chores around the property lived just down the hill, but not within shouting distance. Nonetheless, she said, “I have men I will send to town.” A bluff, but he wouldn’t know that. “As a matter of fact, I have men who will take you to town. See you jailed for trespassing.”
Relief washed over her as he planted his foot back on the floor and stood. Without a word, he crossed the room and gathered his suit coat. She moved toward the open doorway, prepared to walk him all the way to the large front door, and lock it after he left.
Rather than putting on the coat, he pulled something out of a pocket and turned, holding an envelope out to her. “The sheriff’s out of town.”
Knowing Sheriff Wingard was out of town, and not wanting to dwell upon it, she asked, “What’s that?”
“An affidavit proving I am indeed Crofton Parks, son and heir of Winston Parks.” Still holding the envelope out for her to take, he added, “And Alvin won’t be any help. He’s at his job at the lumber mill.”
“How—” She bit down on her bottom lip, angry for allowing a word to slip out before she’d thought it through. Alvin did work at the mill, and had returned there upon leaving the church, so therefore, was not home.
“How do I know about Alvin? And Sheriff Wingard?” He laid the envelope on the desk as if it made no difference whether she read it or not. “I’ve made it my business to know.” Walking toward the windows framed by long olive-green drapes held back to let the sun in with gold rope ties, he said, “I also know everything about my father’s company and his deal with the railroad. And you. And your mother.”
The disdain in his voice was strikingly sharp. Out of defiance, Sara lifted her chin. “Why?”
“Because I’m his son.”
She wasn’t ready to believe that. Might never be. She did however want to know what he was doing here. “Anyone can have a piece of paper written up. That’s no proof whatsoever. Besides, if you truly were his son, you would have come to see Winston while he was alive. Any decent man would have.”
His back was to her as he stared out the window. The lumber mill was a distance down the mountainside, but large and visible from where he stood. So was the town of Royalton. Winston had often stood in that same spot, watching the hustle and bustle below. She’d stood there plenty of times herself.
“How do you know I didn’t?” he asked.
Sara didn’t know for sure, however there was one thing she knew for certain. “Because I knew Winston Parks. If his son was alive, and had contacted him, he would have told me. He would have told my mother. He would have shouted it from the rooftop.”
He turned. The smile on his face was false; the dullness of his eyes said so. Yet, at the same time, she couldn’t help but see Winston in him, and that was frightening.
“Maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought,” he said.
Sara was saved from responding by the sound of the front door being opened, as well as someone saying her name.
“Mrs. Long is calling for you,” he said. “The housekeeper.”
He was attempting to intimidate her—something she refused to let happen. “Anyone in town could have told you who lives here, including Mrs. Long, and that the sheriff is out of town, and that Alvin Thompson lives next door so there’s no need to pretend you’re full of family secrets. There aren’t any.”
“You’re wrong, Sara,” he said softly. “There are lots of family secrets when it comes to Winston Parks.”
As much as she didn’t want to believe his words, she couldn’t ignore the clarity of his gaze.
“Oh, there you are,” Amelia Long said. “I—Oh, I didn’t know we had company.”
Sara didn’t turn around to where the woman was obviously standing in the doorway. Instead, she kept her gaze on the man, and held her stance. “We don’t,” she said. “He was just leaving.”
“Land sakes,” Amelia gasped. “It can’t be. Can it? Lord have mercy! Is it? Is it you, Crofton? Crofton, oh, sweet Lord! Tell me it’s really you! Tell me! Please, tell me!”
The smile that appeared on his face was as bright as sunshine. “Yes, Amelia, it’s me.”
Sara had no time to react, not even when the man rushed past her and caught Amelia as she slumped.
Crofton once again carried a woman across the room, questioning if every woman in Colorado fainted on a regular basis. This one was much older, heavier and not nearly as firm or sweet smelling as the younger one he’d carried mere minutes ago. But, this one had carried him around when he was little, and he’d never forgotten her.
Placing Amelia gently on the sofa, he told Sara, “Get some water. Unlike you, she’s not pretending. She really fainted.”
“I—I didn’t pretend.”
Crofton knelt near the sofa. “Just get some water, would you?”
She hurried out the door, and Crofton laid a hand on Amelia’s cheek. Her face was soft, full of wrinkles, and her blond hair streaked with gray, but she was as lovely to him as she had been twenty years ago when he used to wish she was his mother. Amelia had always had time for him. Never shooed him from the room or scolded him for getting dirty. She even helped dig worms and would drop whatever she’d been doing to take him fishing. At least that was how he remembered it. Just like he remembered her cooking had been the best he’d ever eaten. Especially her fried chicken. Of all the people, all the things he’d missed when his mother had whisked him off to England, it had been Amelia Long and her fried chicken.
Amelia stirred, and Crofton leaned closer. “Shh,” he whispered. “Just lie still for a moment. You’re fine.”
“Here.”
He took the glass of water Sara held out and as Amelia’s eyes opened, he gently raised her head up with his other hand. “Take a sip,” he said. “It’ll help.”
Watching him closely, Amelia took several small sips, and then shook her head. He handed the glass back to Sara before asking, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes,” Amelia answered. “I was just so shocked to see you. She told us you were dead.”
“I’ve heard that,” he said. “But as you can see, she was wrong.”
Amelia popped up with all the speed of a spring chicken. “Why would she have done such a thing? Oh, if only Winston could have seen you.” Sniffling, she wiped her nose with the tip of one finger as tears dripped down her wrinkled cheeks. “Oh, Crofton, he would have been so joyous. He never got over your death. Never.”
Damn, she was making his nose burn, and his chest. He bit the inside of his bottom lip. He’d never gotten over his father’s death, either. That hadn’t been possible for an eight-year-old who’d believed his father had been the bravest, strongest man on earth. His father had been his hero, up until he turned eighteen and learned the truth.
