Page 2 of Come the Spring (Claybornes' Brides (Rose Hill) 5)

  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 until her knees were rubbing against the drawer above her head. The air was thick, heavy. It made her want to gag. She took a shallow breath through her mouth and tilted her head to the side so she could see through the slit.

  Across the room the three gray-faced customers stood motionless, their backs pressed against the counter. One of the robbers stepped forward. He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt, similar to the clothing the bank president wore. Had he not been wearing a mask and holding a gun, he would have looked like any other businessman.

  He was terribly polite and soft-spoken.

  “Gentlemen, there isn’t any need to be frightened,” he began in a voice that reeked with southern hospitality. “As long as you do as I say, no one will get hurt. We happened to hear from a friend of ours about a large government deposit for the army boys, and we thought we might like to help ourselves to their pay. I’ll grant you we aren’t being very gentlemanly, and I’m sure you’re feeling mighty inconvenienced. I’m real sorry about that. Mr. Bell, please put the Closed sign in the window behind the shades.”

  The leader gave the order to the man on his right, who quickly did as he was told.

  “That’s fine, just fine,” the leader said. “Now, gentlemen, I would like all of you to stack your hands on top of your heads and come on out here into the lobby so I won’t have to worry that one of you is going to do anything foolish. Don’t be shy, Mr. President. Come on out of your office and join your friends and neighbors.”

  She heard the shuffle of feet as the men moved forward. The gate squeaked as it opened.

  “That was nice and orderly.” The leader oozed the praise when his command was promptly followed. “You did just fine, but I have one more request to make. Will all of you please kneel down? Now, now, keep your hands on your heads. You don’t want me to worry, do you? Mr. Bell would like to lay you out on the floor and tie you up, but I don’t think that will be necessary. No need to get your nice clothes dirty. Just squeeze yourselves together in a tight little circle. That’s fine, just fine,” he praised once again.

  “The safe’s open, sir,” one of the others called out

  “Go to it, son,” he called back.

  The man in charge turned to the desk, and she saw his eyes clearly. They were brown with golden streaks through them, like marbles, cold, unfeeling. The man named Bell was coughing, and the leader turned away from her to look at his accomplice.

  “Why don’t you lean against the railing and let the others take care of filling up the bags. My friend’s feeling poorly today,” he told the captives.

  “Maybe he’s got the influenza,” Malcolm suggested in an eager-to-please voice.

  “I’m afraid you might be right,” the leader agreed. “It’s a pity because he so enjoys his work, but today he isn’t up to entertaining himself. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bell?”

  “Yes, sir,” his cohort said.

  “Are you about finished, Mr. Robertson?”

  “We got it all, sir.”

  “Don’t forget the cash in the drawers,” he reminded him.

  “We’ve got that too, sir.”

  “Looks like our business is almost finished here. Mr. Johnson, will you please make sure the back door isn’t going to give us any trouble?”

  “I’ve already seen to it, sir.”

  “It’s time to finish up, then.”

  She heard the others moving back into the lobby, their heels clicking against the floorboards with the precision of telegraph equipment. One of them was snickering.

  The man in charge had turned away from her, but she could see the others clearly now. All of them stood behind the circle of captives. While she watched, they removed their bandannas and tucked them into their pockets. The leader took a step forward, then put his gun away so he could carefully fold his bandanna and put it in his vest pocket. He stood close enough for her to see his long fingers and his carefully manicured nails.

  Why had they removed their masks? Didn’t they realize that Franklin and the others would give the authorities their descriptions… Oh, God, no … no … no…

  “Is the back door open, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Well, then I expect it’s time to leave. Whose turn is it?” he asked.

  “Mr. Bell hasn’t taken a turn since that little girl. Remember, sir?”

  “I remember. Are you up to it today, Mr. Bell?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe I am.”

  “Then get on with it,” he ordered as he drew his gun and cocked it.

  “What are you going to do?” the president asked in a near shout.

  “Hush now. I told you no one would get hurt, didn’t I?”

  His voice was horrifically soothing. MacCorkle was nodding when the man named Bell fired his shot. The front of the president’s head exploded.

  The leader killed the man in front of him, jumping back when the blood from the wound he’d inflicted spewed out.

  Franklin cried, “But you promised…”

  The leader whirled toward him and shot him in the back of the head. Franklin’s neck snapped.

  “I lied.”

  Two

  The ceremony was unique. The guest of honor, Cole Clayborne, slept through it and the celebration that followed. An hour after most of the guests had departed, the effect of the unnatural sleep was wearing off. In a stupor, he floated somewhere between fantasy and reality. He felt someone tugging on him, but he couldn’t summon enough strength to open his eyes and find out who was tormenting him. The noise was making his head ache fiercely, and when he finally began to wake up, the first sounds he heard were the clinking of glasses and loud, rambunctious laughter.

  Someone was speaking to him, or about him. He heard his name, yet he found it impossible to concentrate long enough to understand what was being said. His head felt as though there were little men inside, standing between his eyes, pounding his skull with sharp hammers.

  Was he hung over? The question intruded into his hazy thoughts. No, he never got drunk when he was away from Rosehill, and even when he was home, he rarely had more than an occasional beer in the heat of the afternoon. He didn’t like the aftereffects. Liquor, he’d learned the hard way, dulled the senses and the reflexes, and with half the gunslingers in the territory wanting to build their reputations by killing him in a shoot-out, he wasn’t about to drink anything more dulling than water.

  Someone was having a mighty fine time. He heard laughter again and tried to turn his head toward the sound. Pain shot up from the base of his neck, causing bile to rush to his throat. Ah, Lord, he felt like hell.

  “Looks like he’s coming around, Josey. You’d best get on back home before he starts growling and spewing. You’re liable to get your feelings hurt.” Sheriff Tom Norton stared through the bars of the cell while he addressed his wife of thirty years.

  Josey Norton scurried away before Cole could get his eyes focused. It took him a minute to realize where he was. He gritted his teeth as he sat up on the narrow cot and swung his legs to the floor. His hands gripped the mattress and his head dropped to his chest.

  He studied the sheriff through bloodshot eyes. Norton was an older man with weather-beaten skin, a potbelly, and melancholy eyes. He looked like a harmless hound dog.

  “Why am I in jail?” The question was issued in a sharp whisper.

  The sheriff leaned against the bars, crossed one ankle over the other, and smiled. “You broke the law, son.”

  “How?”

>

  “Disturbing the peace.”

  “What?”

  “No need to shout. I can see it pained you. You’ve got a nice bump on the back of your head, and I don’t suppose yelling is gonna make you feel better. Don’t you remember what happened?”

  Cole shook his head and immediately regretted it. Pain exploded behind his eyes.

  “I remember being sick.”

  “Yes, you had the influenza. You were sick with fever for four days, and my Josey nursed you back to health. Today was your second day out of bed.”

  “When did I disturb the peace?”

  “When you crossed the street,” he said cheerfully. “It was real disturbing to me, the way you walked away while I was trying so hard to convince you to stay in Middleton until the appointment came through. I gave my word to someone real important that I would keep you here, son, but you wouldn’t cooperate.”

  “So you hit me over the head.”

  “Yes, I did,” he admitted. “I didn’t see any other way. It wasn’t much of a hit though, just a little thump with the butt of my pistol on the back of your head. No permanent damage was done, or you wouldn’t be sitting there growling at me. Besides, I did you a favor.”

  The sheriff’s chipper voice was grating on Cole’s nerves. He glared at him and asked, “How do you figure that?”

  “There were two gunslingers waiting for you to get into the street. Both of them were determined to make you draw—one at a time, of course. You were just getting over your sick spell, and even though you won’t admit it, I’d wager a week’s pay you weren’t well enough to take either one of them on. The influenza hit you hard, son, and you’re only just now getting your color back. Yes sirree, I did you a favor.”

  “It’s all coming back to me.”

  “Put it behind you,” he suggested. “’Cause it’s water under the sink now. The appointment came through, and we had us a nice ceremony right here in the jail. It seemed kind of odd to file into your cell for a big do, but the judge didn’t mind and it worked out all right. Yes, it did. Too bad you had to sleep through the celebration, since you were the honoree and all. My wife, Josey, made her special yellow cake with sugar icing. She cut you a nice big piece and left it on the table over there,” he added with a nod toward the opposite side of the cell. “You’d best eat it before the mice get to it.”

  Cole was becoming more frustrated by the second. Most of what the sheriff was telling him didn’t make any sense. “Answer my questions,” he demanded. “You said that someone important wanted to keep me here. Who was it?”

  “Marshal Daniel Ryan, that’s who. He should be along any minute now to let you out.”

  “Ryan’s here? That no-good, low-down, thieving—”

  “Hold on now. There ain’t no need to carry on. The marshal told me you’ve been bearing a grudge against him. He said it had something to do with a compass and gold case he’s been keeping safe for you.”

  Cole’s head was rapidly clearing. “My mother was bringing me the compass, and Ryan stole it from her. He doesn’t have any intention of giving it back. I’m going to have to take it from him.”

  “I think you might be wrong about that,” Norton said with a chuckle.

  It was futile to argue with him. Cole decided to save his wrath for the man who was responsible for locking him up … Daniel Ryan. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on him.

  “Are you going to let me out of here and give me my guns back?”

  “I’d surely like to.”

  “But?”

  “But I can’t,” the sheriff said. “Ryan’s got the keys. I’ve got to take some papers across town to the judge, so why don’t you sit tight and eat some cake? I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  The sheriff turned to leave. “One more thing,” he drawled out. “Congratulations, son. I’m sure you’ll do your family proud.”

  “Wait!” Cole called out. “Why are you congratulating me?”

  Norton didn’t answer him. He sauntered into the outer office, and a minute later Cole heard the front door open and close. He shook his head in confusion. He didn’t know what the old man had been rambling on about. Why would he congratulate him?

  He glanced around the stark cell—gray walls, gray bars, and gray floor. On a three-legged stand in the corner was a gray-speckled basin and a water jug next to the piece of cake the sheriff’s wife had left for him. The only other adornment was the black spider crawling up the painted stones of the wall. There was another one hanging from its web in the barred windowsill high up by the ceiling. Cole was over six feet tall, but in order to look out, he would have to stand on a chair. There weren’t any inside the cell. He could see a fragment of the sky, though, and like his temporary home, it too was gray.

  The color fit his mood. He was in a no-win situation. He couldn’t very well shoot Norton, since his wife had nursed him back to health. The sheriff had probably saved his life, as well, by knocking him out before the gunslingers had challenged him. Cole remembered the influenza had left him weak and shaky. He would have died in a gunfight all right, but damn it all, did Norton have to hit him so hard? His head still felt as if it had been split in two.

  He reached up to rub the knot in the back of his neck, and his right arm bumped against cold metal. He looked down, then froze when he realized what he was staring at. A gold case dangled from a chain someone—Ryan, most likely—had clipped to the pocket of his leather vest.

  The son of a bitch had finally given him his treasure back. He gently lifted the precious disk into the palm of his hand and stared at it a long minute before opening it. The compass was made of brass, not gold, but it was still finely crafted. The face was white, the letters red, the dial black. He removed it from its case, smiling as he watched the dial wobble back and forth before pointing north.

  His Mama Rose was going to be pleased to know that he had finally gotten the gift she’d purchased for him over a year ago. It was a handsome treasure. He couldn’t find a nick or a scratch anywhere. Ryan had obviously taken good care of it, he grudgingly admitted. He still wanted to shoot the bastard for keeping it so long, but he knew he couldn’t if he wanted to stay alive a little longer—killing marshals was frowned on in the territory, no matter what the reason—and so Cole decided to settle on punching him in the nose instead.

  Carefully tucking the compass into his vest pocket, he glanced over at the pitcher and decided to splash some water on his face. His gaze settled on the piece of cake, and he focused on it while he tried to sort fact from dream.

  Why were they eating cake in his cell? The question seemed too complicated to think about now. He stood up so he could stretch his knotted muscles and was about to take off his vest when his sleeve caught on something sharp. Pulling his arm free, he glanced down to see what was jabbing him.

  His hands dropped to his knees as he fell back on the cot and stared down at his left shoulder in disbelief. He was stupefied. It had to be a joke—but someone had a real warped sense of humor. Then Sheriff Norton’s words came back to him. The appointment had come through … Yeah, that’s what he’d said … And they celebrated … Cole remembered Norton had said that too.

  And Cole was the honoree…

  “Son of a bitch!” He roared the blasphemy at the silver star pinned to his vest.

  He was a U.S. marshal.

  Three

  By the time Sheriff Norton returned to the jail, Cole was seething with anger. Fortunately, Norton had gotten the keys from Ryan. His wife, Josey, was with him, and for that reason Cole kept his temper under control. She carried a tray covered with a blue-and-white-striped napkin, and as soon as the sheriff swung the door open, she brought the food inside the cell.

  Norton made the introductions. “You two haven’t officially met, since you were burning up with fever every time my Josey got near you. Josey, this here is Marshal Cole Clayborne. He doesn’t know about it yet, but he’s gonna be helping Marshal Ryan chase down that slippery Blackwater gang of murdere

rs terrorizing the territory. Cole … You don’t mind if I get familiar and call you by your first name, do you?”

  “No, sir, I don’t mind.”

  The sheriff beamed with pleasure. “That’s mighty nice of you, considering the inconvenience you must be feeling over getting yourself thumped on the head. Anyway, as I was saying, this pretty lady blushing next to me is my wife, Josey. She fretted over you something fierce while you were ill. Do you remember?”

  Cole had stood up as soon as Josey entered the cell. He moved forward, nodded to her in greeting, and said, “Of course I remember. Ma’am, I appreciate you coming by the hotel and looking after me while I was so sick. I hope I wasn’t too much trouble.”

  Josey was a rather plain-looking woman, with round shoulders and crooked teeth, but when she smiled, she lit up the room. Folks tended to want to smile back, and Cole was no exception. His smile was genuine, as was his appreciation.

  “A lot of people wouldn’t have taken the trouble to nurse a stranger,” he added.

  “You weren’t any trouble at all,” she replied. “You lost a little weight, but my chicken ought to put the fat back on you. I brought some from home.”

  “My Josey makes mighty fine fried chicken,” Norton interjected with a nod toward the basket his wife carried.

  “I felt I ought to do something to make up for my husband’s orneriness. Thomas shouldn’t have knocked you out the way he did, especially since you were feeling so puny and all. Does your head pain you?”

  “No, ma’am,” he lied.

  She turned to her husband. “Those two no-good gunslingers are still hanging around. I spotted both of them on my way here. One’s squatting north of our avenue and the other’s due south. Are you going to do something about it before this boy gets himself killed?”

  Norton rubbed his jaw. “I expect Marshal Ryan will have a talk with them.”