even when the man rushed past her and caught Amelia as she slumped.
Crofton once again carried a woman across the room, questioning if every woman in Colorado fainted on a regular basis. This one was much older, heavier and not nearly as firm or sweet smelling as the younger one he’d carried mere minutes ago. But, this one had carried him around when he was little, and he’d never forgotten her.
Placing Amelia gently on the sofa, he told Sara, “Get some water. Unlike you, she’s not pretending. She really fainted.”
“I—I didn’t pretend.”
Crofton knelt near the sofa. “Just get some water, would you?”
She hurried out the door, and Crofton laid a hand on Amelia’s cheek. Her face was soft, full of wrinkles, and her blond hair streaked with gray, but she was as lovely to him as she had been twenty years ago when he used to wish she was his mother. Amelia had always had time for him. Never shooed him from the room or scolded him for getting dirty. She even helped dig worms and would drop whatever she’d been doing to take him fishing. At least that was how he remembered it. Just like he remembered her cooking had been the best he’d ever eaten. Especially her fried chicken. Of all the people, all the things he’d missed when his mother had whisked him off to England, it had been Amelia Long and her fried chicken.
Amelia stirred, and Crofton leaned closer. “Shh,” he whispered. “Just lie still for a moment. You’re fine.”
“Here.”
He took the glass of water Sara held out and as Amelia’s eyes opened, he gently raised her head up with his other hand. “Take a sip,” he said. “It’ll help.”
Watching him closely, Amelia took several small sips, and then shook her head. He handed the glass back to Sara before asking, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes,” Amelia answered. “I was just so shocked to see you. She told us you were dead.”
“I’ve heard that,” he said. “But as you can see, she was wrong.”
Amelia popped up with all the speed of a spring chicken. “Why would she have done such a thing? Oh, if only Winston could have seen you.” Sniffling, she wiped her nose with the tip of one finger as tears dripped down her wrinkled cheeks. “Oh, Crofton, he would have been so joyous. He never got over your death. Never.”
Damn, she was making his nose burn, and his chest. He bit the inside of his bottom lip. He’d never gotten over his father’s death, either. That hadn’t been possible for an eight-year-old who’d believed his father had been the bravest, strongest man on earth. His father had been his hero, up until he turned eighteen and learned the truth.
“Oh, that Ida,” Amelia growled. “I’d like to give her a piece of my mind. I tell you that. She always was nasty, but this—you—it’s downright evil. Evil I say.”
“She had her reasons, Amelia,” he said quietly.
“Oh, and what would they be?” Without waiting for a response, she added, “Pure selfishness is what she had. No reason is good enough for what she did—for this. Not a single one. Winston was so sick over your death, so lost and...” Sniffling again, she shook her head. “We all were. My heart is breaking all over again. For Winston. Oh, your poor, poor father. He loved you so much.”
To his surprise, Sara sat down next to Amelia and put her arm around her.
“Hush, now,” she whispered. “He knows Crofton is here now. He knows.”
Crofton pretended he hadn’t heard her words, but he had, and it appeared it had taken less convincing for her to believe he was Winston’s son than he’d expected.
“I expect he does,” Amelia said. “He was probably searching all over the pearly gates for his baby boy. Just like he did back in Ohio all those years ago.” Wiping at the tears on her cheek, she whispered, “He didn’t believe the news and went back to see for himself.”
Crofton couldn’t take much more. Of course Amelia would side with his father. Nate, her husband, had been in on Winston’s first lumber deal. Nate had died during the railroad wars, back in ’78, when both companies had brought in hired guns to settle their dispute over laying westbound tracks out of Colorado. A judge finally settled things, but there was still plenty of fighting going on. Both sides had gained ground. The narrow-gage line was working its way west through the mountains, and the standard-gage was running along the south end of the state. That was the set to run a line down into New Mexico, give ranchers a way to ship cattle. A way for him to ship his cattle, but the railroad had withdrawn for no apparent reason. He knew the reason. His father.
The silence in the room tickled his neck, and Crofton lifted his head to find both women looking at him expectantly. Having no idea what they’d asked, yet noting they were clearly waiting for an answer, he shrugged and turned it back on them. “What do you think?”
“I think she’s dead,” Amelia said with more hatred than he’d ever have expected to hear from her. “Otherwise, she’d have been trying to get money out of your father. Just like she did when you di—when she claimed you’d died.”
So the topic was his mother. He’d expected that. There had been no love lost between her and anyone left on this side of the ocean. With a nod, he stood and walked over to the fireplace. The mantel was massive, as was the hearth, with a large area to stack wood built right in the stone. It was an impressive design, something his father had been good at. Anyone who knew Winston said he was a visionary, could see what he wanted and didn’t stop until he got it. That, too, Crofton had inherited.
“That’s you.”
He frowned at Amelia’s statement, and then scanned the mantle, wondering what she referred to. A photo of a child sat in the center, in a polished frame.
“The one next to it is Hilton, taken shortly before he died.”
Sara had said that, and he took a moment to examine the other picture of a boy child, no more than a baby actually. There was a certain family resemblance, which caused an odd pang inside him.
Turning about, he said to Amelia, “I’m assuming my mother is still alive, but I can’t say for sure. I haven’t seen her in eight years.”
“Eight years?” Sara asked, biting her tongue as soon as the words were out. Although Amelia was convinced of this man’s heritage, she wasn’t. But, even if he was Winston’s son, he wasn’t to be trusted. Any man who hadn’t seen his father in over twenty years, and his mother in eight, had to be a scoundrel. A selfish, no-good rascal.
“Yes,” he answered. “Eight years. Since I left England.” His cold stare turned to Amelia, where it warmed slightly. “I left the day I learned my father was alive.”
“Alive?”
Sara was glad Amelia asked that. It had been on the tip of her tongue, but the years of being told to only speak when spoken to had returned.
“Yes. Just as my mother told him I was dead, she told me he was dead. That you all were dead.”
“Oh, that bitter woman,” Amelia hissed. “She’ll have her judgment day. Lord forgive me, but she will.”
He turned away from the fireplace,
