Relief washed over her as he planted his foot back on the floor and stood. Without a word, he crossed the room and gathered his suit coat. She moved toward the open doorway, prepared to walk him all the way to the large front door, and lock it after he left.
Rather than putting on the coat, he pulled something out of a pocket and turned, holding an envelope out to her. “The sheriff’s out of town.”
Knowing Sheriff Wingard was out of town, and not wanting to dwell upon it, she asked, “What’s that?”
“An affidavit proving I am indeed Crofton Parks, son and heir of Winston Parks.” Still holding the envelope out for her to take, he added, “And Alvin won’t be any help. He’s at his job at the lumber mill.”
“How—” She bit down on her bottom lip, angry for allowing a word to slip out before she’d thought it through. Alvin did work at the mill, and had returned there upon leaving the church, so therefore, was not home.
“How do I know about Alvin? And Sheriff Wingard?” He laid the envelope on the desk as if it made no difference whether she read it or not. “I’ve made it my business to know.” Walking toward the windows framed by long olive-green drapes held back to let the sun in with gold rope ties, he said, “I also know everything about my father’s company and his deal with the railroad. And you. And your mother.”
The disdain in his voice was strikingly sharp. Out of defiance, Sara lifted her chin. “Why?”
“Because I’m his son.”
She wasn’t ready to believe that. Might never be. She did however want to know what he was doing here. “Anyone can have a piece of paper written up. That’s no proof whatsoever. Besides, if you truly were his son, you would have come to see Winston while he was alive. Any decent man would have.”
His back was to her as he stared out the window. The lumber mill was a distance down the mountainside, but large and visible from where he stood. So was the town of Royalton. Winston had often stood in that same spot, watching the hustle and bustle below. She’d stood there plenty of times herself.
“How do you know I didn’t?” he asked.
Sara didn’t know for sure, however there was one thing she knew for certain. “Because I knew Winston Parks. If his son was alive, and had contacted him, he would have told me. He would have told my mother. He would have shouted it from the rooftop.”
He turned. The smile on his face was false; the dullness of his eyes said so. Yet, at the same time, she couldn’t help but see Winston in him, and that was frightening.
“Maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought,” he said.
Sara was saved from responding by the sound of the front door being opened, as well as someone saying her name.
“Mrs. Long is calling for you,” he said. “The housekeeper.”
He was attempting to intimidate her—something she refused to let happen. “Anyone in town could have told you who lives here, including Mrs. Long, and that the sheriff is out of town, and that Alvin Thompson lives next door so there’s no need to pretend you’re full of family secrets. There aren’t any.”
“You’re wrong, Sara,” he said softly. “There are lots of family secrets when it comes to Winston Parks.”
As much as she didn’t want to believe his words, she couldn’t ignore the clarity of his gaze.
“Oh, there you are,” Amelia Long said. “I—Oh, I didn’t know we had company.”
Sara didn’t turn around to where the woman was obviously standing in the doorway. Instead, she kept her gaze on the man, and held her stance. “We don’t,” she said. “He was just leaving.”
“Land sakes,” Amelia gasped. “It can’t be. Can it? Lord have mercy! Is it? Is it you, Crofton? Crofton, oh, sweet Lord! Tell me it’s really you! Tell me! Please, tell me!”
The smile that appeared on his face was as bright as sunshine. “Yes, Amelia, it’s me.”
Sara had no time to react, not 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