Come the Spring (10 page)

Ryan and Cole had already talked to eighteen of those who had been in the bank, and thus far, the investigation had proven to be a waste of time, for they hadn't gleaned one morsel from any of them. No one had seen or heard anything unusual.

Although darkness was fast approaching, their day wasn't over yet. After they had their supper, the two
of them were going back to the boardinghouse to talk to Jessica and Grace.

The few men and women strolling down the street gave the marshals a wide berth, and as soon as the two men sat down inside the restaurant, most of the other diners got up and left.

“Does this bother you?” Ryan asked Cole, nodding toward the doorway where three men were comically tripping over one another in their hurry to leave.

“No,” Cole answered. “I'm used to it. Every time I'd ride into a new town, for some reason folks automatically jumped to the conclusion that I was a gunslinger.”

“You were a gunslinger,” Ryan reminded him. Cole wasn't in the mood to argue with him. He moved back so that the owner could place the bowls of rabbit stew and a basket of hot bread on the table.

“If you two don't mind hurrying, I'd like to get you fed and out of here so my business will pick up.”

Cole tried to hold on to his patience. The woman was old, tired-looking, and thin as a stick of straw. He politely asked for coffee. She impolitely demanded to know if he planned to linger while he drank it.

“Ma'am, neither Marshal Ryan nor I killed the seven men who were just buried, and we'd both appreciate it if you'd stop treating us like we did.”

“Why haven't you caught any of the men who killed them? That's what folks are wondering.”

“We're trying,” Ryan said, his voice weary.

“I know you've been talking to the folks who were in the bank the day of the murders.”

Cole nodded. “Word gets around fast, doesn't it?” he remarked to Ryan. He turned back to the woman. “None of your friends and neighbors saw anything. They didn't see them ride into town or out. They didn't hear any gunshots either,” he added.

She gave the marshals a sympathetic look. “Oh,
some of them probably heard the shots. They were maybe too scared to do anything about it. You boys are tired, aren't you? My name's Loreen,” she added. “And I'll go fetch your coffee now.”

She returned a minute later, poured two cups, and put the coffeepot down on the table between the men.

“The way I see it, some folks would tell you if they'd seen or heard anything, but most probably wouldn't. We all know what happens to people who talk. The Blackwater gang comes back to get them. Everyone knows that's how they do things. In all my days I've never heard of men who are so pure evil. I read a while back that they robbed a bank in Texas and killed a woman and her little girl. The baby wasn't even three years old.”

“She was four,” Ryan said.

Loreen's head snapped up. “Then it's true.”

His voice was soft, chilling. “Yes, it's true.”

“Dear God, why would they want to hurt such an innocent little lamb? She couldn't have told anything. She was too little.”

Cole's appetite vanished. They were dealing with monsters, and all he wanted to think about was catching them.

Loreen put her bony hand on her hip and shook her head. “I know you're trying to do your best. You boys take all the time you need. Business is suffering anyway because of the influenza spreading through town. Even the strangers who come to gawk at the falls are getting sick—at least most of them are, according to the doc. He says the sickness isn't contagious, but I say it is. Have you talked to that poor woman who saw the murders?”

Lost in their own thoughts, the marshals were jarred by her question. Cole asked her to repeat it.

“I asked you if you talked to the poor woman who saw the murders,” she said. “I heard you suspect that one of the three women who were in the bank during
the afternoon saw everything while it was happening.

If she isn't too scared, she might tell you what she saw, and if she is too scared, well then, maybe you could persuade her to talk. I'm not trying to tell you how to run your investigation,” she hastily added. “But since you suspect…”

“We don't suspect anyone,” Cole interjected. Lorene didn't pay any attention to his comment. “It has to be true because I read about it in the paper. We had us a special edition this afternoon. Sheriff Sloan was interviewed by the reporter, and he told him that he got under the desk himself and looked, and sure enough, he could see the lobby through the cracks in the wood. He said a woman was hiding there, all right.”

“Ma'am, the sheriff didn't get under the desk,” Cole argued.

“It says in the paper that he did,” she countered. “You know, I could have been in that bank while the robbery was going on. I usually make my deposits about that time of day, but lately, enough cash hasn't come in for me to go every day. No one feels like eating when they're sick,” she explained. “Still, I can't understand why you would put all three of those poor ladies in jail. Why, I heard the sheriff dragged one of them out of her sickbed, and the other two had just sat down for their supper. I think you should have asked them your questions at the boardinghouse. That's what I think. Jail isn't a proper place for ladies. No sir, it doesn't seem right to me the way you're treating them as though they're common-trash criminals. Aren't you boys going to eat your supper? Where are you going?”

As soon as the word “jail” had been mentioned, Cole and Ryan had jumped to the same conclusion. Sloan was responsible for another fiasco.

Eleven
 

Their guess proved to be right. They ran back to the jail, cursing under their breath most of the way, and found that the sheriff had indeed locked all three women in one of his cells.

The idiot was actually proud of what he had done. His chest was puffed up like a rooster's as he strutted around the office giving his explanation.

“I had to do it,” he began. “I asked all of them which one was in the bank during the holdup, and none of them would own up to it, so I put them in a cell to think it over. I'm predicting there's going to be a lynching mob out front in no time at all, because people have heard by now that we have a witness who won't step forward, and folks saw me bring them in.”

Ryan was so furious with the sheriff his hand instinctively went to the butt of his gun. He forced himself to stop before he did anything he would regret. Cole's hand went to Sloan's throat. He didn't stop. He was trying to choke some sense into the
lawman when he heard what sounded like a baby laughing.

Incredulous, he roared, “Are you out of your mind? You locked a baby in jail?”

Ryan was rigid with anger. He sat behind the desk glaring at the sheriff.

“Cole, quit choking him so he can explain. I want to hear what he has to say for himself. He's going to tell me why he would lock three women and a baby in jail.”

The second Cole let go, the sheriff started stammering. “I didn't know what else to do with the little boy. He wanted to stay with his mama, and he wouldn't listen to reason. He threw himself down on the floor and had himself a real tantrum. He isn't a baby, Marshal. He's got to be a year and a half, maybe even two. He's still wearing nappies, but he can talk, so he can't be a baby. Babies don't talk,” he added authoritatively.

The muscle in Ryan's jaw twitched from clenching his teeth together. “Where are the keys to the cells?” he demanded.

“You aren't going to let them out, are you?”

“Hell yes, I am,” Ryan snapped. “Now, tell me where the keys are.”

“They're hanging on the peg behind you,” Sloan answered, his attitude insolent. “I did what had to be done.”

Ryan ignored the comment. “Is there a back door in here?”

“Yes. It's at the end of the hallway. Why?”

Ryan tossed Cole the ring of keys. “Here's what you're going to do, Sheriff. Marshal Clayborne will let the ladies out of the cell. You're going to wait for them outside the back door, and when they come out, you will escort them home.”

“You're also going to apologize to them,” Cole
interjected. “And you damned well better sound like you mean it.”

Sloan took another step back from Cole. “But I locked them up,” he protested. “If I apologize, they'll think I don't know what I'm doing.”

Cole let out a weary sigh. “No, they'll think you're just plain stupid. Now, get going.”

Tight-lipped and red-faced, the sheriff stomped his way to the back exit. Cole opened the door that connected the cells to the main office, ducked under the overhead frame, and started down the long, narrow corridor. The walls were damp from rain that had seeped in through the roof, and the air smelled like wet leaves. He suddenly came to a quick stop. For a second he imagined he was looking at a priceless painting framed by cold gray stone walls inside an old museum. Three of the prettiest women he'd ever seen were sitting side by side on the narrow cot. Shoulders back, heads held high, they were perfectly still, as though an artist had ordered them to pose that way for their portrait.

Cole was completely unprepared for this vision. They were young … they were incredibly beautiful … and they were seething with anger.

The woman closest to him sat demurely with her hands folded in her lap. Her long black hair fell in soft ringlets to her shoulders, framing a porcelain complexion and clear green eyes that peered up at him through thick dark lashes. There was definitely a regal bearing about the woman, an aristocratic refinement that suggested a wealthy upbringing. She wore a pink walking dress with pearl buttons, but the lace collar adorning her delicate neck was frayed around the edges. On the seat next to her lay a wide-brimmed straw hat with pink ribbons, and resting on the brim was a pair of bright white gloves.

She had put on a hat to come to jail, Cole surmised
with an inward smile. Only a woman of gentle breeding would do such a thing. Her gaze was direct, curious, and not at all uppity, and he sensed a gentleness in her that could withstand any circumstance.

Seated next to her was the most exquisite beauty Cole had ever seen. She was a bold contrast in her richly textured sapphire blue dress. Her features were flawless—alabaster skin, full red lips, patrician nose, and blue eyes. Her chin tilted up in a haughty gesture of contempt. Her golden hair was pulled back in a severe bun, which would have detracted from any other woman's appearance, but only enhanced hers. Such perfection would take most men's breath away. She knew the effect she was having on him too. She gave him an impatient look that suggested he stop gaping at her and get on with it. Obviously used to turning heads, she had developed a bored, unapproachable demeanor.

The last of the three was seductive. Her cinnamon-colored hair was also pulled back, but several way-ward tendrils had worked loose and fell gently to the sides of her oval face. Her frown blended the spray of freckles across her nose, and her piercing, dark almond-shaped eyes bored through him. She wore a faded lavender dress with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, indicating that she had been interrupted from a chore to be brought to jail. Her stare was unsettling, and he detected beneath the smoldering glare a burning passion that wouldn't be squelched … and that was even more unnerving.

On her lap sat a curly-headed cherub, curious but unaffected by the unexpected upheaval in his life. He seemed content to sit wrapped in his mother's arms and was oblivious to the animosity surrounding him.

They were fit to be tied all right. The hostility radiating from the three of them would have knocked
a lesser man off his feet. If glares could kill, Cole thought the three beauties would have been throwing dirt on his grave now. Their pale complexions indicated they weren't feeling well, and he figured they were also scared. He felt bad about that. He pulled himself out of his thoughts and moved forward to unlock the door. As soon as he took a step, the baby turned and buried his face in his mother's bosom.

Swinging the door open, he said, “I'm real sorry about this inconvenience, ladies. I know you would rather be home.”

The golden-haired woman stood up first. The other two promptly followed.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Cole Clayborne,” he answered. “Marshal Clayborne.”

“Are you the man in charge?”

Cole shook his head. “No, ma'am. Marshal Ryan's in charge.”

“Is he aware that the sheriff in this town is a complete imbecile?”

The question made Cole smile. “He's beginning to get that idea, ma'am.”

His honesty deflected some of their hostility. “Then neither you nor Marshal Ryan gave the order that we be locked up like common criminals?”

“No, neither one of us gave that order.”

“Sheriff Sloan is power hungry and ignorant. It's a dangerous combination,” she muttered. She glanced at the other two women, and then nodded. “Very well. We shall save our wrath for the sheriff. Allow me to introduce myself, Marshal Clayborne. My name's Rebecca James, and I was rudely ordered out of my sickbed by the sheriff. He made quite a scene in the lobby, and I was horribly embarrassed and feeling quite ill at the time. The dear lady on my left is Grace Winthrop. She came here all the way from England
because she heard all about our wonderful country. And how does this town show their hospitality? They lock her in jail.”