Lauri Robinson - Unwrapping The Rancher's Secret

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.

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