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.”
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
