The railroad’s success. The town of Royalton. She had no right to fight him, no claim to all that Winston had left behind, but he wasn’t here to further Winston’s dream. Intuition told her that, and her allegiance to Winston said she couldn’t let his dream die. Couldn’t and wouldn’t.
During the years since Winston had built his lumber mill, over a hundred buildings and homes had been built in Royalton. The town had been transformed from a lumber camp to a bustling city, complete with stage coach service, and more important, a railroad depot. The entire town depended upon Parks Lumber. Jobs. The railroad. Prosperity for all.
It was all up to her.
The air in Sara’s lungs burned as Crofton appeared outside the window. He made a point of stopping the big roan he rode at the top of the hill, and turned around to tip his hat directly at the window. At her.
She didn’t respond, or move, other than the sinking of her stomach.
He nudged the horse and rode away. Once again she was reminded of Winston. Of all the times she’d watched him ride down that hill.
When Crofton, if that truly was his name, disappeared amongst the bustle of Royalton, Sara turned and walked to the desk. Rather than anything of Winston’s, the item that caught and held her attention was the envelope Crofton had left behind. Burning it would be the smart thing to do, but her curiosity was too strong for that. Taking up the sharp knife Winston always used to slit open the mail, she eased it beneath the flap.
“I can’t believe it,” Amelia said from the open doorway. “Just can’t believe it. All these years we thought he was dead. All these years.”
Sara set the envelope and the knife down. “Don’t you find it odd that he learned Winston wasn’t dead eight years ago, but never once visited? Never once tried to make contact?”
With eyes sadder than they had been this morning, Amelia shook her head and sat in the chair in front of the desk. “We have no way of knowing what she told him.”
“Who?”
“Crofton’s mother. Ida.”
Sara wasn’t willing to believe there was anyone to blame except Crofton. “He doesn’t seem like the type of man to take someone else’s word.” Or orders, she supplied completely for herself.
“I’m sure he’s not, just like Winston wasn’t, but Ida had a way about her.”
“What sort of way?” Sara asked.
“A sneaky, conniving one. That woman wouldn’t stop until she got her way. Ever.”
Amelia’s tone held more scorn than Sara had ever heard her use, and that alone would have been enough to make her jittery, if she hadn’t been already. Like mother, like son.
Slapping her knees, Amelia jumped to her feet. “I’m going to go fetch that hen that’s been pecking at the others. Crofton always liked fried chicken. Oh, that boy could eat like no other. I think I’ll bake a pie, too.”
“A pie?”
“Yes. Make us a real celebration dinner.”
“We just left a funeral,” Sara pointed out. “A celebration dinner wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Waving a hand at the desk, and the rest of the room, Amelia asked, “Do you think Winston would mind? Or your mother? They wouldn’t want us sitting around moping. They’d expect us to get on with life. And they would expect us to give Crofton a proper welcome home. It truly is a Christmas miracle.”
“Christmas is weeks away.”
Amelia shrugged. “So it is.” While heading for the door, she added, “And we both have to eat. Fried chicken is your favorite, too.”
Sara waited until Amelia left the room before mumbling, “It won’t be after today.” The letter lying on the desk, the one she’d been prepared to slit open moments ago mocked her. She was still curious, but did she really want proof Crofton was Winston’s son? Did she need proof?
The answer was obvious. Amelia would not say he was if he wasn’t. Furthermore, he was too much like Winston not to be his son. Besides looks, he had the attitude, the swagger, even sat upon a horse the same way. Straight and tall. The only notable difference was that Winston had had a softness about him. He’d been loveable. Crofton wasn’t even likable.
Crofton rode into town with a chip on his shoulder. It had been there for years, but today it felt like a boulder. He popped his neck and arched his back, but the weight didn’t shift. He hadn’t expected it to. What he did expect was to get a pair of blue eyes out of his mind.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t she have been homely?” That was another trait his father had given him—the inability to ignore a beautiful woman.
It wasn’t Sara’s beauty that worried him. It was the intelligence in those blue eyes. She’d been sizing him up since the moment they met, and that told him being Winston’s son wasn’t going to be enough.
Burying those thoughts as much as he could, Crofton pulled up his reason for being here tackling all these old memories, and rode up the main street of town. Buildings of all sizes lined the street on both sides of him. Not a one was as large as the home he’d just left. Leave it to his father to build a home larger than even the hotel. It was only two stories. His father’s brick house had three, plus a basement. Imagine that, the owner of the lumber company building himself a brick house. Ironic.
There was plenty of wood in his father’s house, too. The trim, windows, door and large porch were all painted white, making it look even more impressive. So were the balconies off the second floor, and the two round turrets on the third.
It had taken plenty of wood to build the town. Businesses, the same as most towns, offered customers goods and services. As he scanned the stores—a mercantile, feed store, blacksmith, hotel, saloon, nothing out of the ordinary—he thought of other boom towns he’d seen. Here today. Gone tomorrow. Royalton didn’t have the look or feel of the others he’d seen, and he wasn’t sure whether he appreciated that or not.
He’d already visited the dry goods store, that’s where he’d purchased his suit yesterday, and this morning he’d bought a bath and shave. While scraping his face, the barber had seen exactly what Sara had: his resemblance to Winston. Others would, too. He’d planned on using that to his advantage, and now was as good a time as any. Actually, the sooner the better.
Riding to the edge of town, where the lumber mill was located, Crofton maneuvered his way through the busy yard. The noise was immense, and he couldn’t help but be impressed. Two huge water wheels provided some of the power needed for the numerous saws, but there was also a large steam shed that generated other saws. The heat was intense, but it didn’t slow down the workers. The mill was a town in itself, with traffic, wagons empty and full, maneuvering about, and men, far more than he could quickly count, went about completing various jobs. Laborious jobs. A locomotive whistle sounded where it slowly chugged its way down the hill behind the mill. The long logs it carried were so large only three fit on the flat car behind the engine.
His father had never
