Chapter Four

      “Surely you aren’t going to wear that to dinner.”

      “Of course I am,” Sara answered. Given a choice, she would have changed out of the black gabardine dress, but considering their dinner guest, she felt the dress she’d worn to the funeral was more than suitable.

      Amelia opened her mouth, but must have changed her mind. After a heavy sigh, she muttered, “Suit yourself. Crofton should be here shortly.”

      Glancing at the clock on the top shelf of the buffet that held the set of delicate china Winston had purchased for her mother several years ago, Sara said, “We’ll eat at six whether he’s here or not.”

      Amelia finished setting the silverware on napkins beside all three plates before she glanced up. “It’s not his fault, you know.”

      “I never said anything was his fault,” Sara pointed out. “I never said anything was anyone’s fault.”

      “You’re acting like it is.”

      “I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Sara said, stepping forward to move the place setting from the head of the table to a chair on the side. Winston was not here, and no one, not even his son, would sit at the head of the table. “But I will tell you what I’m acting like. I’m acting like someone who just attended the funeral of her parents this morning and does not feel like having company for dinner.” The plate in her hand clattered against the table as she set it down. “Company of any kind.”

      Her throat had thickened and no amount of swallowing helped ease the stinging. The pain inside wasn’t due to Crofton’s arrival, but blaming him for it would be easy. Anything would be easier than coming to grips with the idea of never seeing Mother again, of never seeing Winston.

      The gentle touch of Amelia’s hand on her shoulder was more than she could take. The tears she’d been fighting to contain spilled forth. Sara spun around and hurried from the room. The air in her lungs burned as if she was suffocating, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t take a breath. She stumbled across the foyer, toward the door, needing air.

      She opened the door, but blinded by tears, wasn’t sure what stopped her, not until firm hands gripped her upper arms.

      “Hey there, slow down.”

      The greeting and hold were so familiar that her knees wobbled and the tears came faster. Winston always said “Hey there,” and more than once he’d stopped her from running down the steps, telling her to slow down before she fell and broke something.

      “Here, let’s go back inside.”

      She shook her head against the tug on her arms. Air was once again entering her lungs, but her legs were too weak to move. The need to escape had left, but the pain hadn’t. So full of loss, she just wanted to collapse and cry. Cry until she couldn’t any more.

      “Sit here then.”

      She didn’t fight the help to move forward enough to step down onto the first step and sit on the porch floor. Wiping at the tears didn’t stop them from running down her cheeks, so she just covered her face with both hands and let them flow. At that moment in time, she truly didn’t care what Crofton Parks thought of that. Of her. Of anything.

      He said nothing, but didn’t move, either. Just sat there beside her.

      Eventually the heart-wrenching pain turned into a hollow ache, and her tears eased. She lifted her head, wiping at her cheeks with both hands. After blinking several times she could make out the barn and farther up the hill, the fenced-in area that held the fresh mound of dirt. The wave of sadness that washed over her was heavy, but she was too numb to react.

      “It gets easier.”

      “I know,” she replied. “Time heals.”

      “In some ways,” he said quietly, “it does.”

      Glancing sideways, just enough to see his profile, she said, “In other ways it doesn’t.”

      He nodded.

      She looked back over the yard and without the energy to do much more, simply stared up the hill. “I know that, too.” Not having anything in common with Crofton would have suited her, but not having an accident, a stupid, unbelievable accident, take the lives of her mother and Winston would have suited her, too. But she hadn’t had a choice, and still didn’t. In other words, this is what she had. A mound of dirt and a man who wanted Lord knows what.

      The sigh that left her chest was thick and rather hopeless. However, her life had been worse. She and her mother hadn’t even had hope when Winston had arrived at their place back in Kansas. Although she couldn’t remember much about that time, her mother had said that with no money and very little food, they wouldn’t have made it through the month. Winston had been their miracle.

      Squeezing her eyes shut, she told herself she did not need a miracle. Not like her mother had back then. The last thing she needed was a husband. She’d dreamed of getting married someday. Having children. But her mother had told her to be careful with those dreams. With her heart. That a wife’s duty was to be completely dedicated to her husband. To give up everything to follow him wherever he may lead her. That’s how she’d ended up in Kansas, alone, with a small child.

      Sara had thought about that long and hard, and couldn’t imagine leaving home. Leaving Royalton, her parents, Amelia.

      On that thought, she gave her face one final swipe with both hands and then slapped her knees. She had money, food, a home, and wouldn’t be giving any of that up. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

      Without waiting for his help, she stood and stepped up onto the porch. He was just as quick, and was already holding open the door. Even that, his manners, irritated her. His presence did, too. Winston would have been so happy to see him, so happy to have him here, and knowing he’d prevented that happiness from ever happening went beyond irritation.

      As soon as he walked in, he asked, “Is that fried chicken I smell?”

      “Your favorite,” Sara seethed between her teeth. This would be a lot easier if Amelia didn’t welcome him so fully. Blame is what he deserved. Amelia should see that.

      “That it is,” he said, pretending to sniff the air. “That it is.”

      He wasn’t pretending. The smell of fried chicken filled the house. Amelia had probably stood over the pan with a towel, waving it about in hopes the scent would have made it all the way to town, telling him the meal was ready.

      In the dining room he greeted Amelia with a hug, and if he thought it odd that they’d all be eating together, he didn’t comment. Amelia had eaten with the family ever since her husband Nate had died. Before then, the two of them had lived in the house between here and the mill. The one Alvin now lived in.

      Sara took her seat on the one side of the table, and again, if Crofton found it odd that no one sat at the head of the table, he didn’t comment. He took the chair next to Amelia, and surprisingly, offered to say grace. Sara wasn’t sure why that surprised her, or why his heartfelt blessing, which wasn’t a rote one, was as equally surprising. Winston had never been a churchgoing man, but he had been God-fearing, so it was believable that his son was as well. If she wanted to believe such things, that is.

      They’d no sooner passed around the platter of fried chicken and bowls of potatoes, gravy, beans, and bread when a knock sounded on the door.

      Amelia set down her fork, “I’ll get it.”

      Sara stood. “No, I will.” The other two had been visiting like old friends, which it appeared they were, and she’d already heard and seen enough to tell her there would be no convincing Amelia to agree with any notions of sending Crofton away. Back to where