Unwrapping The Rancher's Secret. Lauri Robinson

glared at him, Sara glared at Bugsley. “What railroad men?”

      “They were in town for the funeral,” Bugsley answered with an annoyed tone.

      Crofton knew all about being annoyed, and this man increased every ounce of it in him. He also knew a liar when he saw one.

      “I didn’t see them at the funeral,” she said.

      “Perhaps they didn’t want to intrude,” Crofton offered, knowing that would get even more of a rise out of her.

      He hadn’t realized Amelia was nearby until she jabbed him in the back.

      “We’ve just finished eating, Bugsley,” Amelia said, skirting around Crofton as she walked out of the dining room. “But are about to have dessert if you’d care to join us.”

      “Thank you,” Bugsley answered. “But I just need to speak with Sara for a moment and will then be on my way.”

      Like the mother hen Crofton remembered, Amelia stopped directly in front of Sara and shook her head. “Not tonight. Sara just buried her mother and father. There is nothing you need to speak to her about that can’t wait until tomorrow, or the next day.”

      Crofton was holding his breath, waiting for Sara to spout off, but as the seconds ticked by he realized that wasn’t going to happen. Surprisingly. Then again, perhaps not. Amelia’s hand was only heavy when it was loaded with love. He remembered that, and the woman’s words caused an inkling of guilt to tickle his stomach. Sara had loved her mother and Winston, and the day had to have been a hard one for her.

      “Now, as I said,” Amelia continued, “you’re welcome to join us for dessert if you’d like.”

      That clearly was not what Bugsley would like, and Crofton never took his eyes off the man.

      Bugsley was staring back, and a challenge appeared in his eyes when he said, “Thank you, dessert sounds wonderful.”

      “Right this way, then,” Amelia said, hooking her arm through Bugsley’s.

      It was clear the other man would much prefer to escort Sara, but obviously had no choice. With a nod toward Morton, Crofton pushed off the wall and moved forward, making a clear point that he would assist Sara into the dining room. Anticipating she might not approve, he walked around her and closed the inside door, and then rather than take her arm, merely waved toward the dining room.

      She gave him a solid glare, and then with her chin in the air, walked toward the arched doorway. He lagged a step behind. In this instance, he’d rather have her for an ally than an enemy. His gut had signaled an instant dislike of Morton from the first time he’d seen the man leading Sara down the steps of the mortuary. If you asked him, Morton could easily be behind Mel’s death, but a gut feeling wasn’t proof, and that was what he needed. Proof.

      When Sara paused in the dining room doorway, he gently laid a hand against her back to move her forward. Understanding the reason for her hesitation, he stepped around her and grasped the back of the chair Bugsley was about to pull out. The head of the table had purposefully been left empty while they ate, and would remain so. Call it respect for his father, or empathy for Sara, either way, Crofton placed a foot against the chair leg, making sure it wouldn’t be pulled out.

      There was a brief showdown of eyes only before Bugsley stepped to the side of the table. Amelia hustling through the door to the kitchen with a tray may have been the reason, but Crofton preferred to take pleasure in the fact the other man had conceded because of him.

      Sara had entered the kitchen and returned with a second tray. Hers contained a silver coffeepot, four cups with saucers, cream and sugar containers. Amelia was already setting out the four plates holding slices of pie. Crofton stood on one side of the table, with Bugsley straight across from him. They were still sizing up one another. The man may have been Winston’s right-hand man, but something said he hadn’t been as welcome in the family home as he had been in the lumber mill. Or at least he hadn’t had free rein in the home. Perhaps he hadn’t at the lumber mill, either. Until lately that is, which, in itself, was interesting.

      Amelia pulled out a chair next to the other man, and though Crofton could tell Sara wasn’t impressed, she walked around the table. He held her chair, and once she was settled, sat down next to her.

      “I must say, Amelia,” Crofton started while she poured coffee for all four of them. “Your fried chicken was even better than I remembered, and I’d lay bets this pie is going to be beyond that even.”

      Her cheeks flushed as she scooted his cup closer to him. “I’ve had practice. Fried chicken is Sara’s favorite, too.”

      He lifted a brow as he glanced toward Sara. She made no comment, in fact, barely glanced his way.

      “Apple pie is her favorite, too,” Amelia said.

      He picked up his fork. “I guess we have a lot in common.”

      “I’d surmise that fried chicken and apple pie are favorites for many people,” Sara said. “Including Winston.”

      If she was trying to get his goat, it didn’t work. He remembered many things about his father, including his likes and dislikes. “Did he still sprinkle a teaspoon of sugar over the top of his pie?”

      He’d addressed the question toward Amelia, and the way she giggled and glanced across the table had him turning toward Sara in time to see her drop the spoon back into the sugar dish. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll take it when you’re finished. It always adds the perfect touch, don’t you think?”

      She quickly took the spoon and sifted sugar across the top of her pie before setting the spoon back in the dish and passing it to him.

      “I don’t believe Sara needs such reminders this evening,” Bugsley said.

      “Oh, I disagree,” Amelia piped in. “Wonderful memories are exactly what she needs.”

      Crofton didn’t take the time to consider whether he agreed that’s what Sara needed or not. His mind was set on disagreeing with whatever Bugsley said or did. The man needed to understand who had the upper hand. “Did Winston still like his beef red, not pink?” he asked Amelia.

      “Oh, yes, the redder the better, and that was hard sometimes, timing things so precisely,” Amelia answered.

      “Did he alter his six o’clock meal time?” Crofton asked, slicing off the end of the triangle-shaped piece of pie with his fork.

      “No,” Sara supplied. “The evening meal was always served at six.”

      “And lunch at noon,” Crofton added before lifting his fork to his mouth. The pie was as good as he remembered, just as the chicken had been. He hadn’t been exaggerating about that, nor had he forgotten Amelia’s cooking. The first few years in England he’d thought he might starve. Nothing had compared to the meals she’d prepared. He gave an inflated groan, just to let her know his appreciation.

      Amelia giggled and turned toward Bugsley. “Is the pie not to your liking?”

      “No—yes,” he said, taking a bite. “It’s very good. I just haven’t had much of an appetite.”

      Crofton bit back a grin at how Amelia frowned.

      “Not eating isn’t good for the body, or the mind, no matter what the circumstances,” she said.

      Perhaps he hadn’t given Amelia enough credit all these years. He may have been only a child, but he never recalled Amelia speaking ill of anyone, nor openly reproofing them. Hearing how she’d spoken about his mother earlier today had surprised him, except for the fact his mother deserved the scorn considering her actions. However, it appeared Amelia had a bushel of contempt for Bugsley Morton, and that increased his curiosity.

      While taking another bite of pie, he let his gaze wander to Sara, wondering what her feelings were towards Bugsley. They had appeared friendly toward one another at the mortuary yesterday, but considering the circumstances, she’d needed a