Unwrapping The Rancher's Secret. Lauri Robinson

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ