Bankers’ Association,” Race grumbled. “Outvoted me seven to one. We’re not like Texas, Summerfield. We don’t have an outfit like the Texas Rangers. Dwight Samuel and his gang just keep picking our banks clean and then falling through the cracks between the local law agencies.”
“So you got yourselves a thief to catch a thief,” the convict stated in his flat Missouri drawl.
“I guess you could look at it that way.” Race Logan folded his arms and pinned the man with his own icy stare. “We don’t want any unnecessary trouble. No bloodshed. I want that understood from the start. I won’t have any innocent people getting hurt.”
“It’s your party, Banker. You best tell your associates and all those innocents of yours not to get on the dance floor once the band starts to play.”
“Our people all know what to expect. Just stick to the plan, Summerfield. I don’t think I have to remind you that every hope you have for a parole depends on it.”
“Well, then.” A sudden grin slashed across the convict’s taut lips. “You’ll be wanting to hang on to these, Banker.” He gave the leg irons and wrist cuffs a jingle before tossing them to Race. “Just in case.”
Chapter One
Race Logan’s daughter yanked on the heavy bank door as if she meant to tear it off its hinges. Warm noon air gusted into the lobby with her, riffling papers and the top page of the tearaway calendar on the wall. The elderly teller glanced over the rims of his glasses—first at the date, then at the high hands of the regulator clock and finally at the young woman who stood there tugging off her gloves.
He plucked off his spectacles, put them on again and gulped. “Miss Honey!”
“Hello, Kenneth.” By now she had whisked her porkpie hat from her head and was stabbing the pins back into the velveteen confection.
“Aren’t you...shouldn’t you be...?” Kenneth Crane crooked a finger under his tight collar to make room for his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard and loud. “I thought you were east...at school.”
Honey Logan sniffed in reply, an eloquent proclamation that not only was she no longer east, but she was very much here and intended to remain.
“Y-your father’s not here,” the teller stammered. “Actually no one is supposed to be here this afternoon. Only...only me.” His eyes sought the calendar once more, then jerked to the clock. “You see, Miss Honey, any minute now we’re expecting...we’re going to be...”
“Just go on with whatever you were doing, Kenneth,” Honey snapped as she moved toward the paneled oak door that separated the president’s office from the lobby of the bank. If the fussy old teller tried to stop her, she was prepared to jab him with a hat pin.
“But, Miss Honey...”
She slammed the door on his protest. For a minute Honey leaned against the smooth oak surface, breathing in the familiar fragrance of the dim, cool office, letting it fill her senses. Leather. Her father’s Cuban cigars. The pungent, clean scent of ink. Or was it money? She’d never been entirely sure.
Her gaze lit on the vacant swivel chair behind the massive oak desk. Its tufted leather bore the impression of Race Logan’s wide shoulders. “Daddy, I’m back,” she whispered. “And I’m staying, whether you like it or not.”
She tossed her hat onto the horsehair sofa, then crossed the room and plopped into her father’s chair, kicking it into a spin that ended abruptly when her foot collided with the safe.
Staring at the huge black vault with its embossed faceplate and brass combination lock, Honey remembered the day it had arrived on the back of a mule-drawn wagon. Was it ten years ago? Eleven? It seemed like yesterday, but she couldn’t have been more than nine or ten then. She remembered how the sun had blazed on the gilt letters—Logan Savings and Loan. Most of all, she recalled the way her fingers had itched to turn the big brass dial and the way her heart had swelled with pride to see her name—Logan—in such bold, beautiful letters. So beautiful. So important. So...responsible.
For the past few months she’d been toying with the notion of changing her name, and the sight of the imposing vault convinced her now. She was indeed going to take back the name with which she’d been christened—in memory of her mother’s first husband, Ned Cassidy, who had died the day she was born. It was a name as sober and imposing as the iron safe before her. “Edwina.” She said it softly, savoring the feel of it on her tongue. Just heavy enough. Like oatmeal or one of her mother’s Christmas fruitcakes, neither of which she particularly cared for, but the name had a gravity that was infinitely appealing.
“Honey.” She had Race Logan to thank for that. He couldn’t abide anything that smacked of the Cassidys, back then or now, and when he’d come back from the war to discover he had a daughter who had a Cassidy name, he’d tricked her into naming herself by asking “What’s your name, honey?” She’d given the obvious and parrotlike response and had been Honey Logan ever since. Well, if she’d named herself once, she thought, she could certainly do it again.
She swung the chair full circle and gazed thoughtfully at the desk top. Her father’s distinct, almost stern penmanship covered an assortment of papers there. The little oval tintype of her mother gazed calmly from its place beside the crystal inkwell.
They were going to kill her. For the first time since her abrupt and unannounced departure from Miss Haven’s Academy in St. Louis several days ago, Honey felt her courage wavering. She swallowed in the hope of drowning the butterflies that were beginning to flutter in her stomach. Bankers didn’t suffer from butterflies, she reminded herself. Bankers didn’t succumb to doubt and dread. They were tough and strong. Like her father.
She glanced at the gold lettering on the safe again. Bankers were, above all, responsible. And that was exactly what she intended to be. Unless, of course, her father killed her before she got the chance.
Heaven knew Race Logan was capable of it. And although her father didn’t say much about that aspect of his life, Honey had listened to her Uncle Isaac spin stories over the years about her father’s legendary exploits as a wagon master on the Santa Fe Trail. The moral of most of those stories, however, wasn’t about murder. It was about hard work and responsibility.
Honey had taken those tales to heart. There was nothing she wanted more than to follow Race Logan’s example. But while she craved responsibility, her father merely wanted her to be safe and secure—preferably in his own house, on a high shelf in a glass box whose key rested comfortably in his vest pocket. Having just spent the past two years in a glass box called a finishing school, Honey had decided she was indeed finished—with glass boxes.
But how in the world was she going to convince her father? The mere mention of the word responsibility now was guaranteed to bring a dark scowl to his handsome face and his voice would surely thunder like God Almighty’s when he proclaimed, “Don’t talk to me about responsibility, young lady. Not after you walked out of school the way you did.”
Well, she hadn’t walked out, Honey thought now. Not exactly. It had been more like storming out. She hadn’t wanted to attend Miss Haven’s Academy in the first place, but her father had insisted. Then, after nearly two years of trying to please him by applying herself diligently to the study of music and literature and the domestic arts, Honey had had enough of arias and sonnets and delicate stitchery. She yearned to accomplish more.
Longing
