Julie Garwood - Come the Spring

Come The Spring [067-011-5.0]

by: julie garwood

Synopsis:

Cole Clayborne has been tricked into accepting a badge and the title of

U.S. Marshal by Sheriff Marshall Ryan. He would refuse the badge if he

could, but the Blackwater Gang is up to no good and Cole feels

compelled to help. Sheriff Ryan has been chasing the gang for two

years--ever since they murdered his wife and daughter during a bank

robbery--and he needs Cole to help him solve the case. When the

Rockford Falls bank is robbed, only one witness is left alive.

Terrified by the ordeal, the lone survivor won't come forward to

testify; Cole and Daniels's only clue to her identity is a list that

includes the names of three women who conducted business at the bank

that afternoon. Is the eyewitness the beautiful, aristocratic Rebecca

James or the exquisitely lovely Grace Winthrop? Could it be the

seductive Jessica Summers? Somehow, Cole and Daniel have to keep the

three women safe while solving the bank robberies and tracking down the

killers. But the biggest danger of all may be the threat of losing

their hearts to one of the beautiful women.

Books by Julie Garwood Gentle Warrior Rebellious Desire Honor's

Splendour The Lion's Lady The Bride Guardian Angel The Gift The Prize

The Secret Castles Saving Grace Prince Charming For the Roses The

Wedding One Pink Rose One White Rose One Red Rose Come the Spring

Published by POCKET BOOKS , POCKET BOOKS NewYork London Toronto Sydney

Tokyo Singapore

For my daughter, Elizabeth, who has the mind of a

scientist, the heart of a saint, the determination of a champion, and

the twinkle of a true Irishman.

Oh, how you inspire me.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

g POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright (C) 1997 by Julie Garwood All rights reserved, including the

right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form

whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-00333-X POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of

Simon & Schuster Inc. Printed in the U.S.A.

Ac1cnowledgments A special thanks to the following: To Jo Ann for

keeping me accurate, focused, and on track . . . and for putting up

with me.

To my agent, Andrea Cirillo, and my editor, Linda Marrow, for believing

in my dreams . . . and for never saying the word "impossible." And,

to all the readers who fell in love with the Claybornes and encouraged

me to continue their story. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

@ For winters rains and ruins are over, And all the seasons of snows

and sins, The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the

night that wins, And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are

slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by

blossom the spring begins.

From Atalanta in Calydon Algernon Charles Swinburne

But for the grace of God and an untied shoelace, she would have died

with the others that day. She walked into the bank at precisely two

forty-five in the afternoon to close her account, deliberately leaving the

task until the last possible minute because it made everything so final in

her mind. There would be no going back. All of her possessions had

been packed, and very soon now she would be leaving Rockford Falls,

Montana, forever.

Sherman MacCorkle, the bank president, would lock the doors in fifteen

minutes. The lobby was filled with other procrastinators like herself,

yet for all the customers, there were only two tellers working the

windows instead of the usual three. Emmeline MacCorkle, Sherman's

daughter, was apparently still at home recovering from the influenza

that had swept through the peaceful little town two weeks before.

Malcolm Watterson's line was shorter by three heads. He was a

notorious gossip, though, and would surely ask her questions she wasn't

prepared to answer.

Fortunately Franklin Carroll was working today, and she immediately

took her place in the back of his line. He was quick, methodical, and

never intruded into anyone's personal affairs. He was also a friend.

She had already told him good-bye after services last Sunday, but she

had the sudden inclination to do so again.

She hated waiting. Tapping her foot softly against the warped

floorboards, she took her gloves off, then put them back on again.

Each time she fidgeted, her purse, secured by a satin ribbon around her

wrist, swung back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum keeping

perfect time to the ticktock of the clock hanging on the wall behind

the tellers' windows.

The man in front of her took a step forward, but she stayed where she

was, hoping to put some distance between them so that she wouldn't have

to smell the sour sweat mixed with the pungent odor of fried sausage

emanating from his filthy clothes.

The man to her left in Malcolm's line smiled at her, letting her see

the two missing teeth in the center of his grin. To discourage

conversation, she gave him a quick nod and turned her gaze upward to

the water stains on the ceiling.

It was dank, musty, and horribly hot. She could feel the perspiration

gathering at the nape of her neck and tugged on the collar of her

starched blouse. Giving Franklin a sympathetic glance, she wondered

how any of the employees could work all day in such a dark, gloomy,

stifling tomb. She turned to the right and stared longingly at the

three closed windows. Sunlight streaked through the finger-smudged

glass, casting jagged splotches on the worn floorboards, and fragments

of dust particles hung suspended in the stagnant air. If she had to

wait much longer, she would incite Sherman MacCorkle's anger by

marching over to the windows and throwing all of them open. She gave

up the idea as soon as it entered her mind because the president would

only close them again and give her a stern lecture about bank

security.

Besides, she would lose her place in line.

It was finally her turn. Hurrying forward, she stumbled and bumped her

head against the glass of the teller's window. Her shoe had come

off.

She shoved her foot back inside and felt the tongue coil under her

toes. Behind the tellers, dour-faced Sherman MacCorkle's door was

open. He heard the commotion and looked up at her from his desk behind

a glass partition. She gave him a weak smile before turning her

attention to Franklin.

"My shoelace came untied, " she said in an attempt to explain her

clumsiness.

He nodded sympathetically. "Are you all ready to leave? " "Just

about, " she whispered so that Malcolm, the busybody, wouldn't poke his

nose into the conversation. He was already leaning toward Frank, and

she knew he was itching to hear the particulars.

"I'll miss you, " Franklin blurted out.

The confession brought a blush that stained his neck and cheeks.

Franklin's shyness was an endearing quality, and when the tall, deathly

thin man swallowed, his oversized Adam's apple bobbed noticeably. He

was at least twenty years her senior, yet he acted like a young boy

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,