Unwrapping The Rancher's Secret. Lauri Robinson
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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.”
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