by Pam Crooks
“Yes, sir.”
He entered his glass-enclosed office. She, like Lark, watched him remove his black felt bowler, hang it on the brass coat rack positioned at a perfect angle in the corner, then walk straight to his desk. He sat down and went right to work.
Mrs. Pankonin’s frosty gaze slid to Lark with an unspoken promise that she’d not be deterred in her quest to enlighten their employer to all Lark’s faults. His polite but firm refusal to talk simply delayed the inevitable a little.
Lark glanced away with a sinking sense of worry. She, too, had no choice but to respect his command to wait. But what if the old shrew managed to get to him before she did?
Over the top of his newspaper, Lark caught Ross’s dark glance upon her, as if he willed her silent reassurance across the width of the bank’s lobby. He’d heard the exchange, of course. She’d just have to bide her time, watch for the precise opportunity and take advantage of it.
Thank goodness no customers had arrived yet, but Lark was certain when one did, distracting her, then Mrs. Pankonin would make her move.
She sighed and dated a new page in the ledger. At least, Mr. Templeton hadn’t heard of her ordeal with Catfish yet. He would’ve questioned her about it if he had. He’d be concerned, too, and offer to help any way he could.
Until he learned the truth.
She shook off a stubborn sense of doom and dragged her index finger along a pale blue line on her ledger page. With the tip of her pencil, she met that same line in a row of columns on the far side and wrote down the day’s opening balances at the top of each.
“Miss Renault!”
Lark started. The pencil lead snapped. Her gaze jumped to Mr. Templeton’s office.
He stood in the doorway. “Bring me last year’s Accounts Receivable ledger, won’t you?”
It took her a moment to find her voice. “Of course.”
She tossed aside the useless pencil and bolted to her feet. All the bank’s records were kept in the vault, right there in his office. He could certainly have found this one himself, but Lark suspected he was in too much of a rush to take the time.
The task could provide her with an unexpected opportunity to speak with him after all, and she hurried to comply, making a pointed effort to ignore Mrs. Pankonin’s antagonistic stare along the way.
Lark found the book quickly. She handed him the tome, and he laid it on top of the report he’d been working on.
“Thank you, Miss Renault,” he said and gave her an absent smile.
She dared to linger. “You’re welcome.”
Deft and efficient, his fingers maneuvered through the stack of pages in search of the information he needed. Why hadn’t she noticed how pale his hands were before now?
Or that she preferred a man’s hands lean and blunt-tipped? Calloused from work, too, and tanned from the sun.
Her gaze lifted again to Ross. She felt the strength of his protection, even with the distance between them.
“I trust all went well here at the bank while I was gone?” Mr. Templeton asked.
She managed to smile, though her stomach was tied in knots. “Fine, sir. No problems whatsoever.”
“I thought not,” he said, pleased.
The knowledge gave her courage. “Did you have a pleasant weekend in Omaha?”
“We did.” He stopped flipping through the ledger and regarded her with a measure of amusement. “Phillip missed you.”
“Me?” she asked, taken aback.
“I do believe he’s smitten with you. He talked of little else.”
Lark blinked. What had she done to affect the child so?
“You and outlaws,” Mr. Templeton went on with a bemused shake of his head. “His mother and I don’t know what to do about his peculiar obsession with them.”
Irrational panic stirred inside her. Phillip couldn’t know the truth of who she once was. He couldn’t. He was only a child, still in diapers when she rode with the Reno gang.
“Well, he’s a sweet little boy.” She shook off the panic and drew in a breath. “Mr. Templeton, there is a matter I really must discuss with you.”
“A bank matter?”
She hesitated. “No. It’s more personal, I’m afraid.”
“Let’s wait, then, shall we?”
“But—”
“Miss Renault.” It was rare that Mr. Templeton became short with her, but unfortunately, now was one of those times. “Later.”
Her resolve crumpled, but she had to persist. “After your appointment with your client perhaps?”
“Fine, fine.”
But already his attention had returned to the numbered columns in front of him. Would he even remember he’d agreed to speak with her after he completed his report?
Lark squared her shoulders and left. She didn’t think to ask who he’d be meeting with, but it didn’t matter. Whoever it was would be coming soon. She just had to be patient a little while longer.
Al Asher stood at Mrs. Pankonin’s teller window. He needed a bank draft written, payment for an order of wire and twine he was expecting to arrive at his broom shop this morning. The details of the transaction engrossed them both, and Lark passed by without acknowledging him.
She sat at her desk again. She didn’t want to be aware of Ross across the lobby, didn’t want to be thinking of Mr. Templeton and her impending conversation with him, either. She especially didn’t want to worry about Mrs. Pankonin’s animosity, and she’d have to be sure to tell Al Asher hello before he left the bank, because she always greeted him when he came in, and he’d feel rebuffed if she didn’t.
Holy hellfire. No wonder she was beginning to feel frazzled.
The front door opened again. Ollie Rand marched in with a pile of newspapers under his arm. He strode right past her without stopping at her desk to chat.
Ollie always stopped to chat.
Lark stared after him as he headed straight to Mr. Templeton’s office. It wasn’t like him to be in such a hurry, but perhaps he was the client Mr. Templeton was expecting. Or maybe he was simply bringing Mr. Templeton copies of the latest edition of the Ida County Pioneer, as he often did, since the newspaper office was just across the street, and Mr. Templeton enjoyed being one of the first to receive the local news and—
Lark’s tumbling thoughts came to a screeching halt.
Today was Monday.
Ollie always printed his newspaper on Wednesdays.
Her heart began a slow, hard pound.
She shot a worried glance across the lobby. She’d become in dire need of feeling Ross’s silent reassurance again.
Except he wasn’t looking at her this time. Ollie and Mr. Templeton occupied his complete attention, and by the hard, grim set to his jaw, she knew—she knew—he suspected something was wrong.
Like she did.
Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong.
She recited the silent mantra while forcing herself to find a different pencil and resume her work. Ollie was only here to inform Mr. Templeton about Jo-Jo’s death, that’s all. A killing just didn’t happen in Ida Grove, even if it was self-defense, as it’d been in Ross and Lark’s situation, and, oh, God.
She dared another glance into the office. Ollie stood with his back to the glass, but she could see Mr. Templeton clearly. He listened with rapt attention to whatever Ollie spoke with him about. Then, as if he’d pulled a plug, the color drained straight away from his smooth cheeks.
Lark forgot to breathe.
Mr. Templeton stood, and his leather chair clattered on its back legs from the suddenness of it. He hastened out of his office, and his brisk footsteps tattooed wrath against the marble floor.
Mortified that he might catch her staring, she jerked her glance back to the ledger page, and hoped, prayed, those footsteps would keep on going and head right on out the door. But each one grew louder than the last, past Mrs. Pankonin’s teller window, past her own, until to her complete and absolute horror they came to an abrupt stop.
<
br /> Right in front of her desk.
“Miss Renault!”
Never had she heard him speak with such fury, and if she could’ve escaped to the moon to save herself from what would come next, she would have.
Her head lifted. With all the courage she had left in her pathetic, guilty body, she steeled herself to meet his gaze.
He said nothing. Merely flung the newspaper in front of her with such scathing, burning contempt, she could have burst into flame.
Bank Teller is Infamous Outlaw!
The words screamed across the top half of the Ida County Pioneer in a headline so bold, so damning, they could’ve been heard clear in the next county.
Lark Renault once rode with the Reno Gang.
The sub-headline blurred into the rest of the story below it. Lark couldn’t have read more if she wanted, which she didn’t, and she swayed with the faint that threatened to pull her under.
Catfish had done this. Somehow, he’d gotten to Ollie and convinced him to print the truth of her past, just as she feared he would, and she grappled for the last shred of dignity she had left to look at Mr. Templeton again.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Miss Renault?” His lip curled. “Or should I say Wild Red?”
“Please understand. I had every intention of telling you the truth.”
“When? Six months ago when I hired you?”
Words stuck in her throat. How could she admit she’d had no intention of ever telling him who she once was? That it’d been Catfish’s greed that had thrown her back into the world she’d hoped to leave behind forever?
“I trusted you,” Mr. Templeton said. “I gave you the key to this bank.” His voice shook with the outrage he could barely contain. “I gave you the combination to the vault, for God’s sake.”
“And I have done nothing to betray that trust!”
“You could’ve been stealing me blind.”
“I wasn’t.” Desperate to make him believe, she stood, met his accusations head-on. “I never took a single cent. I swear it. All the bank’s finances and those of our patrons are in perfect balance, sir.”
“An outlaw! I hired an outlaw to work in my bank!” He sounded appalled at himself. He drew up straighter. “I intend to call for an audit. If there is the slightest irregularity, I’ll have you make restitution tenfold!”
“Go right ahead.” Ross’s low voice rumbled between them. “You’ll find she’s telling you the truth.”
Mr. Templeton jerked. Clearly, he hadn’t been aware of Ross’s presence. Seeing him, several inches taller, dark and rugged and fearsome with his black patch and the Colts against his hips, her employer took a sudden step backward, as if Ross had just exposed him to a plague.
“Who are you?” he sputtered. “One of her kind?”
A muscle leapt in Ross’s jaw. “Name’s Santana. Ross Santana.”
“A friend,” Lark said, sending him a beseeching look to behave. To let her handle Mr. Templeton without him.
“The bounty hunter. I’ve heard of you.” Mr. Templeton turned a scornful gaze on her. “Does she have a price on her head, Mr. Santana? Perhaps you’re here to arrest her?”
Ross made a sound in his throat, similar to an angry tiger’s growl, and grasped her elbow.
“She doesn’t deserve this,” he snapped. “I’m taking her away from all of you.”
“No, Ross.” Lark resisted. “Not yet.”
“She can’t leave, Mr. Templeton.” Mrs. Pankonin’s voice sounded authoritative. “Don’t let her escape!”
Lark whirled. The woman vacated her teller window and rushed toward them, her clawed fingers on a copy of Ollie’s newspaper.
“Call Sheriff Sternberg.” Mrs. Pankonin drew on all her years as head cashier to issue the order to her employer with stern-faced resolve. “She should be held in jail until the audit is completed. If any bank funds are missing, she’ll be held accountable.”
“I didn’t steal anything!” Lark insisted, devastated that anyone would think she did, and horrified at the prospect of going to jail again.
“I’m withdrawing my money, Templeton!” Al’s cane tapped the floor. “Every dime. Give it to me now.”
“Mr. Asher.” Mr. Templeton scrambled to soothe his worry. “That won’t be necessary. I assure you your money is safe, now that we know of Miss Renault’s past tendencies.”
“I heard about them Renos!” the blind man scoffed. “Not a tougher gang rode these parts. No, sir! She might be in cahoots with them still.”
Lark gaped at him. “No! Not for a long time.”
“They’re dead, besides,” Ross said.
“Except John Reno,” Al shot back.
“And he’s locked away in prison,” Ross snapped.
“Don’t matter, not if she’s workin’ with him on the outside! I want my money!”
Suddenly, the bank’s door opened, and John H. Moorehead stormed in with a copy of the Pioneer. He was the most influential man in town, the wealthiest, too, having been one of the first settlers in the area. Indeed, Ida Grove wouldn’t be the town it was if not for him, and not a finer public servant could be found.
Mr. Templeton paled at his approach. “Good morning, Mr. Moorehead.”
“What’s this?” the townsman demanded, giving his newspaper a shake. “Some kind of sick joke?”
“No joke, sir. I just received the news about Miss Renault myself. And I’m rectifying the situation. You can be sure of that.”
“Ida County will be the laughingstock of the state of Iowa. An outlaw—a bank robber—of her caliber working here? What were you thinking, Templeton?”
Mr. Templeton’s cheeks bloomed red spots. “I’m well aware of the scandal which is likely to ensue, but if I’d had any idea of her true nature, I never would have let her set foot inside this institution’s doors.”
The avowal whipped through Lark like rawhide. She couldn’t breathe from the pain. She’d known it wouldn’t be easy, but this…this was unlike any hurt or humiliation she’d ever imagined.
Ross had been right. She should’ve run away while she had the chance. She’d been a fool to expect Mr. Templeton’s understanding, his forgiveness and, holy hellfire, she wanted to get out of here and never come back.
Ross would help her. She trusted no one else, but before she could appeal to him, before he could snatch her to someplace far away…she heard the voices.
She swung toward the bank’s front windows. On the boardwalk outside, a crowd had gathered. Ollie moved among them, distributing his newspaper to each, and the shock and fear on their faces turned Lark’s blood cold.
“Damn,” Ross muttered, seeing them, too.
The door burst open. Thomas Brannan strode in, looking every bit like a shrewd, successful attorney in his expensive black suit and polished leather shoes. He handled the legal affairs for the Ida Grove Bank, few that there were, and his account balances, both personal and business, were sizable. His wife, Rachael, clung to his arm, having wasted no time in informing him of the latest news. Neither spared Lark so much as a cursory glance.
“This is an outrage, Templeton,” Brannan said. He threw his newspaper to the floor in disgust. “A bank robber in your employ?”
Mr. Templeton blanched. “Unfortunately, I was not aware of her profession when I hired her. You must understand!”
“Do you think your patrons will understand? I certainly don’t.” He pointed toward the crowd and their growing restlessness. “You’ll soon have a riot on your hands.”
A riot?
Lark pressed trembling fingers to her lips.
Mr. Templeton broke into an unflattering sweat. “You’re exaggerating, Tom. Only a simple explanation is needed, and they’ll calm down. I’m sure of it.”
“Explain away, then. While you do, my wife and I will withdraw our funds for safekeeping elsewhere until this matter is settled in every legal sense. Mrs. Pankonin? Your window, please.”
Al Asher sputtered. “I’m getting my
money before you do. I already told ’em.” His cane tap-tapped against the marble as he hastened to be first in line.
Mr. Moorehead shook his head sadly. “I hate to admit it, Templeton, but I agree with them. I’m closing out my accounts, too. I have several businesses to run. I can’t afford to find out my money’s been stolen. Best to get it now while I still can.”
“Gentlemen!” Mr. Templeton appeared on the verge of dropping to his knees to beg them to reconsider. “Your money is completely safe with us!”
Brannan’s chest puffed in indignant superiority. He ignored the plea.
“Mrs. Pankonin,” he barked. “Your window. Now.”
Faced with the dilemma of seeing to an influential customer’s demands or obeying the wishes of her employer, the woman wavered with indecision, and she cast a helpless look at Mr. Templeton. The vault contained limited funds. Once the money was gone, the bank would likely go under, and in all Lark’s nightmares, her very worst, she never dreamed it would end like this.
“I’m sorry.” Raw anguish coursed through her. She grasped Mr. Templeton’s arm in an appeal for the forgiveness she didn’t deserve. “I’m so very sorry.”
He yanked away, as if her touch revolted him. “It’s too late for that, isn’t it, Miss Renault?”
Stricken at the contempt in his voice, she jerked back. A part of her choked and died from that contempt. Her respectability, too. Hope for happiness and a normal life.
Acceptance.
Never would she be accepted for the woman she’d tried so hard to be, and why had she wasted the time trying? To all the judgmental eyes in the world, she was an outlaw. She’d always be an outlaw, no matter how law-abiding she’d become.
“Lark, darlin’,” Ross grated in a rough tone.
No one understood the pain like he did. His arm curled around her waist and took her against him, right there in front of Mr. Templeton and the rest.
Lark lifted her face to him, knowing he’d see the torment, the agony of what she’d done, of what was happening now. He’d read her need to escape, too, and understand why.