Julie Garwood - Come the Spring

whenever he was near her.

"I'm going to miss you too, Franklin."

"Are you going to close your account now? " She nodded as she pushed

the folded papers through the arched, fist-sized opening. "I hope

everything's in order." He busied himself with the paperwork, checking

signatures and numbers, and then opened his cash drawer and began to

count out the money.

"Four hundred and two dollars is an awful lot of money to be carrying

around."

"Yes, I know it is, " she agreed. "I'll keep a close eye on it. Don't

worry." She removed her gloves while he stacked the bills, and when he

pushed the money through the opening, she stuffed it into her cloth

purse and pulled the strings tight.

Franklin cast his employer a furtive glance before leaning forward and

pressing his forehead against the glass. "Church won't be the same

without you sitting in the pew in front of Mother and me. I wish you

weren't leaving. Mother would eventually warm up to you.

I'm sure of it." She reached through the opening and impulsively

squeezed his hand. "In the short while that I have lived here, you

have become such a good friend. I won't ever forget your kindness to

me."

"Will you write? " "Yes, of course I will."

"Send your letters to the bank so Mother won't see them." She

smiled.

"Yes, I'll do that." A discreet cough told her she'd lingered too

long.

She picked up her gloves and purse and turned around, searching for a

spot out of the traffic where she could retie her shoelace. There was

an empty desk in the alcove beyond the swinging gate that separated the

customers from the employees. Lemont Morganstaff usually sat there,

but like Emmeline MacCorkle, he too was still recovering from the

epidemic.

She dragged her foot so she wouldn't step out of her shoe again as she

made her way across the lobby to the decrepit, scarred desk in front of

the windows. Franklin had confided that MacCorkle had purchased all

the furniture thirdhand from a printer's shop. His thrifty nature had

obviously compelled him to overlook the ink stains blotting the wood

and the protruding splinters lying in wait for an uncautious finger.

It was sinful the way MacCorkle treated his employees. She knew for a

fact that he didn't pay any of his loyal staff a fair wage, because

poor Franklin lived a very modest life and could barely afford to keep

his mother in the medicinal tonic she seemed to thrive on.

She had a notion to go into MacCorkle's brand-spankingnew office, with

its shiny mahogany desk and matching file cabinets, and tell him what a

cheapskate he was in hopes of shaming him into doing something about

the deplorable conditions he forced his staff to endure, and she surely

would have done just that if it hadn't been for the possibility that

MacCorkle would think Franklin had put her up to it. The president

knew they were friends. No, she didn't dare say a word, and so she

settled on giving MacCorkle a look of pure disgust instead.

It was a wasted effort, he was looking the other way. She promptly

turned her back to him and pulled out the desk chair. Dropping her

things down on the seat, she genuflected in as ladylike a fashion as

she could and pushed her petticoats out of her way. She adjusted the

tongue of her shoe, slipped her foot back inside, and quickly retied

the stiff shoelace.

The chore completed, she tried to stand up but stepped on her skirt

instead and was jerked back to the floor, landing with a thud. Her

purse and gloves spilled into her lap as the chair she'd bumped went

flying backward on its rollers. It slammed into the wall, rolled back,

and struck her shoulder. Embarrassed by her awkwardness, she peered

over the top of the desk to see if anyone had noticed.

There were three customers left at the tellers' windows, all of them

gaping in her direction. Franklin had only just finished filing her

documents in the file cabinet behind him when she fell. He slammed the

file drawer closed and started toward her with a worried frown on his

face, but she smiled and waved him back. She was just about to tell

him she was quite all right when the front door burst open with a

bang.

The clock chimed three o'clock. Seven men stormed inside and fanned

out across the lobby. No one could mistake their intentions. Dark

bandannas concealed the lower part of their faces, and their hats, worn

low on their brows, shaded their eyes. As each man moved forward, he

drew his gun. The last one to enter spun around to pull the shades and

bolt the door.

Every one in the bank froze except for Sherman MacCorkle, who rose up

in his chair, a startled cry of alarm issuing through his pinched

lips.

Then Franklin screamed in a highpitched soprano shriek that

reverberated through the eerie silence.

Like the others, she was too stunned to move. A wave of panic washed

through her, constricting every muscle. She desperately tried to grasp

control of her thoughts. Don't panic . . . don't panic . . . They

can't shoot us . . . They wouldn't dare shoot us. . . The noise of

gunfire. . . They want money, that's all . . . If everyone

cooperates, they won't hurt us. . . .

Her logic didn't help calm her racing heartbeat. They would take her

four hundred dollars. And that was unacceptable. She couldn't let

them have the money . . . wouldn't. But how could she stop them? She

took the wad of bills out of her purse and frantically searched for a

place to hide it. Think . . . think. . . . She leaned to the side

and looked up at Franklin. He was staring at the robbers, but he must

have felt her watching him for he tilted his head downward ever so

slightly. It dawned on her then that the gunmen didn't know she was

there. She hesitated for the barest of seconds, her gaze intent on

Franklin's pale face, and then silently squeezed herself into the

kneehole of the ancient desk. Quickly unbuttoning her blouse, she

shoved the money under her chemise and flattened her hands against her

chest.

Oh, God, oh, God . . . One of them was walking toward the desk. She

could hear his footsteps getting closer and closer. Her petticoats!

They were spread out like a white flag of surrender. She frantically

grabbed them and shoved them under her knees. Her heart pounded like a

drum now, and she was terrified that all of them could hear the

noise.

If they didn't spot her, they would leave her money alone.

A blur of snakeskin boots, spurs rattling, passed within inches. The

smell of peppermint trailed behind. The scent shocked herţchildren

smelled like peppermint, not criminals. Don't let him see me, she

prayed. Please, God, don't let him see me. She wanted to squeeze her

eyes shut and disappear. She heard the shades being pulled down,

sucking out the sunlight, and she was suddenly assaulted with the

claustrophobic feeling that she was in a casket and the man was pushing

the lid down on top of her.

Bare seconds had passed since they'd entered the bank. It would be

over soon, she told herself. Soon. They wanted only the money,

nothing more, and they would surely hurry to get out as quickly as

possible. Yes, of course they would. With every second that they

lingered, they increased the odds of being captured.

Could they see her through the cracks in the desk? The possibility was

too frightening. There was a half-inch split in the seam of the wood

all the way down the center panel, and she slowly shifted her position