“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, and after gazing at both her and Amelia for what seemed like an eternity, he gave a subtle nod. “I have an appointment I must see to now. Good day, ladies.”
Amelia shot to her feet. “You can’t leave, Crofton, you can’t.”
“I’ll be back,” he said, patting the hand she’d used to grab his arm. “I just have to see a man about a horse.”
His answer struck Sara to the core. Winston had always used that saying. Crofton obviously knew that and was trying to get a rise out of her. So was Amelia, the way she turned a set of sad eyes her way.
“Sara, tell him he mustn’t leave,” Amelia pleaded. “Tell him.”
That was the last thing she’d do. “Mr. Parks...” She let her words linger, telling him she didn’t completely believe that was his name. “Can most certainly leave.” And not return, she added silently, but knew he understood.
“No, he can’t,” Amelia insisted. “We have so much—”
“I’ll return for the evening meal,” he said, drawing Amelia’s attention. “If I can wrangle an invitation.”
The look he gave the older woman was enough to make Sara throw up, or see red, which she was doing.
“You don’t need an invitation,” Amelia said. “You’re family.” With a sigh, and while hugging his arm, she added, “It’s a miracle. A pure Christmas miracle having you here. Sara needs family right now. We all do.”
His gaze, which went over Amelia’s head to meet her stare, was as clear as the words written in the Good Book. Just as she was reading his mind, he was reading hers, and neither one of them considered the other family, nor did they believe this was a Christmas miracle.
Amelia followed him out of the room, and Sara moved to the window, waiting to see him leave. Her stomach was churning and her mind was spinning. His arrival could change everything. Winston’s dream. 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