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,


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,