“I have a confession to make,” Sam said. “About me.”

“Are you…are you an outlaw? A wanted man?” Prissy held herself very still, as if she were afraid of the answer.

“No,” he said.

“Are you…are you married?” Her voice was a shaky whisper. “Did you leave a wife behind somewhere?”

He couldn’t stop the hoot of laughter that burst out of him and seemed to bounce off the twisted tree limbs hanging above them. “No, Prissy! No, I’m not married, or promised or anything like that.”

“Then what could it be?” she asked, her blue eyes puzzled in the sun-dappled shade. “If you’re not in trouble with the law, or married…”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you play a guessing game,” he said, contrite over the worry that furrowed the lovely brow framed by her strawberry-blond curls. “Here’s my confession—I didn’t come to Simpson Creek for the sheriff job.”

“Y-you didn’t? Then why—”

“I came to meet you.”

Books by Laurie Kingery

Love Inspired Historical

Hill Country Christmas

The Outlaw’s Lady

[*]Mail Order Cowboy

[*]The Doctor Takes a Wife

[*]The Sheriff’s Sweetheart

LAURIE KINGERY

makes her home in central Ohio, where she is a “Texan-in-exile.” Formerly writing as Laurie Grant for the Harlequin Historical line and other publishers, she is the author of eighteen previous books and the 1994 winner of a Readers’ Choice Award in the Short Historical category. She has also been nominated for Best First Medieval and Career Achievement in Western Historical Romance by RT Book Reviews. When not writing her historicals, she loves to travel, read, participate on Facebook and Shoutlife and write her blog on www.lauriekingery.com.

Laurie Kingery

The Sheriff’s Sweetheart

Choose you this day whom ye will serve…but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.

—Joshua 24:15

To A.C.F.W., the American Christian Fiction Writers, an amazing organization that inspires and informs me, and as always, to Tom

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

Houston, Texas, June 1866

“Hold him a moment, gentlemen,” the silky voice purred, like a sleepy lion preparing to toy with some hapless creature his cubs had brought down.

Sagging between two burly men who each held an arm to keep him upright, Sam Bishop opened his eyes just enough to see Kendall Raney clenching his fist and drawing it back. The flickering lamplight winked from the pigeon’s egg-size ruby on the man’s ring finger. Sam closed his eyes, reluctant to watch the pain coming at him. Pinwheels of fiery light exploded in his head, and everything went black.

He awoke moments later when they dropped him unceremoniously on the filthy floor of another room. His arms were tied behind him, his legs bound together. He gave no sign he was once again aware, hoping the dust wouldn’t make him sneeze. Unconscious men probably didn’t sneeze, and the pain an innocent sneeze would send shooting from the ribs they had broken might make him groan aloud.

“You want us to finish him, Mr. Raney, and leave him in some alley?”

He heard an anxious whine and the scuffling of small paws on metal. Added to that was an acrid smell that suggested the beast hadn’t been let outside lately. He opened one eye just a crack. His back was to the cage, so he couldn’t see the dog; all he could see was Raney’s booted feet and beyond him a square, squat safe on the floor against the wall.

“Wait till it’s dark,” Raney said. “Then we’ll take him out to the bayou. I’ve seen half a dozen bull alligators out there sunning themselves on the banks. I imagine they’d relish a taste of this fellow.”

The other two chuckled but their laughter was tinged with uneasiness. “Sounds like you’ve used those gators to solve your problems afore, boss,” one of them said.

“Only when someone is foolish enough to accuse me of cheating,” Raney answered in his silky voice.

Again, too-hearty chuckles. “Hope they don’t mind if he’s already dead by then,” the other said. “He ain’t hardly breathin’. I think I broke his skull when I hit him.”

“I don’t think they’ll mind. Meat is meat, after all.”

“You oughta take off that ring, boss. Looks like yer hand’s swellin’. You might not be able t’git it off later.”

“I believe you’re right. Why don’t you step outside a moment, fellows? Then we’ll stroll down to Miss Betty’s place for supper. It’s on me, as payment for your services.”

“Why, thanks, Mr. Raney,” one of them said. “You want us to walk yer dog for ya?”

“No, we’re going to take that cur along when we go to the bayou. He’s nothing but a nuisance. He’s too small for fighting and he chewed up my best gloves, blast his hide. The gators can have him along with that senseless fool on the floor.”

So Raney planned to feed him and the dog to the alligators? Now freeing himself meant even more than avoiding another beating.

Sam heard the sound of the door closing behind the other men and Raney’s booted feet crossing to the window. There was a swish of fabric as he wrenched the curtains shut. Of course—he wouldn’t take a chance that one of his henchmen would peek in and be able to read the numbers he turned on the safe’s dial. Raney’s crouched form hid the safe’s dial from Sam, too, but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t a safe or a lock that could keep Sam Bishop out.

He heard clinking as Raney laid the money he’d “won” from Sam inside the safe, then the footsteps retreated and the door slammed.

Sam waited a full minute until the footsteps faded down the boardwalk, then cautiously opened his eyes and rolled onto his other side. In the corner sat a metal cage, and in it crouched a small black, brown and white canine—some sort of terrier mixed with who-knew-what. The dog cringed as Sam looked at him.

“Don’t worry, fella, I’m not going to hurt you or leave you for gator food,” he assured the dog, who cocked his head at the hoarse whisper. “When I leave here, you’ll be free, too.”

Once he broke free of the ropes and rubbed the circulation back into his wrists, he gazed at the safe. The dog watched him now, a down-on-his-luck cardsharp who’d been fool enough to stop in at The Painted Lady and think that he could beat the house with his skill at cards. And more foolish still to think he’d survive calling the proprietor a cheat when he’d detected the man’s surreptitious palming of a card.

While Sam worked the lock, one ear pressed up against the metal to listen for the tumblers falling, he pondered his situation. It was time for a change of scenery. Houston’s supply of gullible card players was played out, which was why he’d taken the chance of coming to this infamous waterfront establishment to begin with. He’d been a riverboat gambler before the war, and he could go back to that, but the large number of Federal troops and carpetbaggers coming south via the riverboats had made his southern drawl a professional liability.

And, if he was honest with himself, it was a lonely existence, always coming back to an empty rented room with a saggy, lumpy mattress. Maybe it was getting to be time to think about settling down. Maybe.

The last tumbler clicked and the door swung open. There it was, his pitiful pile of coins, Raney’s enormous ruby ring—and more money than he had ever seen in his life, all neatly sorted into stacks of gold coins.

Staring at the money, he whistled. There had to be hundreds of dollars sitting there, right in front of him.

Take it. Why shouldn’t you? You could be set up for life. Raney deserved to lose it.

But it wasn’t Sam’s money, and who knew if Raney had come by it honestly? It was tainted. Besides, such a sum would only weigh him down. He didn’t know where he was heading, but he needed to get out of town fast.

But he was going to take that ring, he decided, gingerly touching his bruised, lacerated cheek. Never again would Raney wear it and inflict even more injury on someone he was punching. He stuffed it in a pocket, thinking perhaps he would sell it if he needed money down the line.

“C’mon, dog,” he said, opening the cage door and walking out into the dusk. The dog scampered after him.

“Okay, boy, you’re free,” he told the dog. “Make the most of it. If you’re smart, you won’t come back here.”

But the dog wouldn’t leave his side. Sam chuckled at the mutt’s determination. Ah, well, perhaps he could find the dog a better home on the way to some improved way of life he could find for himself.

Chapter One

Sam put two counties between him and Houston before he remembered the newspaper he’d taken from the barrelhead next to the snoring liveryman and stuffed into one saddlebag. The dog now rode in the other, perched with his front paws hanging out and his ears cocked at a jaunty angle.

“Let me know if you hear anyone coming up behind us, boy,” he told the dog, reaching for the paper. He gritted his teeth when his broken ribs stabbed him, reminding him of what Raney’s henchmen had done.

The dog yipped in assent. Sam had gotten used to talking to his fellow traveler as they rode along, though he hadn’t bothered to name him. The dog didn’t seem to mind, answering him with a short bark or a wagged tail whenever he spoke.

The Houston Telegraph crackled as he opened it. It was a week old, but that didn’t matter. Leaving Houston, Sam had headed north with no particular destination in mind, but now he needed to make a plan. Drifting like a tumble-weed had gotten him nowhere previously—he hoped the newspaper would give him an idea about where to go.

When he reached the back page, his gaze fell on an advertisement set apart by a fanciful scrollwork border.

Are you a marriage-minded bachelor of good moral character? Do you long to meet the right lady to wed?

Come to Simpson Creek in San Saba County, Texas, and meet the ladies of the society for the promotion of marriage.

If interested, please contact Miss Priscilla Gilmore, Post office box 17, Simpson Creek, Texas

Sam found himself grinning as he studied the ad. So the ladies of Simpson Creek were looking for husbands? He knew that a lot of single ladies had found the selection of men mighty slim pickings after the war. Simpson Creek’s supply of eligible bachelors must have been harder hit than most.

If he remembered right, San Saba County lay northwest of his present location, plenty far away in case Raney came looking for him. He wouldn’t write to the post office address, though. He wasn’t about to hole up in some town, send an inquiry, and wait for an answer. He was still too close to Houston, where Raney was no doubt spoiling for revenge after finding his ring and his victims gone. It might be amusing to just take a ride up to San Saba County and see what the fair ladies of Simpson Creek had to offer a footloose bachelor.

He didn’t want to become a dirt-poor rancher on some hardscrabble piece of land, though. It wasn’t wrong, was it, to look forward to a little comfort after the rough, austere life he’d lived? And if it wasn’t asking too much, he’d like her to be pretty, someone his eyes could take pleasure in looking at. But above all, she had to be honest, and she had to be a lady. As much as he appreciated down-to-earth working women like the saloon girls, he was tired of seeing his own jaded, experienced cynicism reflected in their eyes.

He wasn’t partial. He admired a saucy redhead as much as a sunny blond beauty or a sloe-eyed brunette. He wasn’t a bad-looking fellow himself, he knew—or at least he wasn’t when he didn’t have a cut on one cheek and bruises on his forehead, he thought ruefully. Women had complimented him on his bold dark eyes and thick black hair—though at the moment, Sam thought, he could use a shave and a long soak in a copper hip bath. Ah, well, there’d be plenty of time between here and San Saba to visit a barber and make himself as presentable as possible. He’d have to decide what to say about his visible injuries. He didn’t want to look like a habitual brawler.

Sam arrived in the little town of Simpson Creek with the dog riding perched between the saddlehorn and his legs. He hadn’t found anyone in any of the towns he passed who seemed interested in taking the beast off his hands, and by now he’d grown surprisingly fond of the little dog’s company. And perhaps the dog’s appeal would be just the entrée he needed with the young lady of his choice.

A trim little town, he thought, riding in from the south and pausing to look it over. It had everything a small town needed—a saloon at one end, a church at the other, and in between, a hotel, a post office, a mercantile, a bank, a jail and a barbershop-bathhouse. He’d availed himself of a bath and a shave in the last town and had changed into his black frock coat, trousers and a fresh white shirt. The bruises had faded into faint greenish blotches and the cut was healing—he hoped his neat appearance would help to mitigate the impression he’d been in a fight.

On his right sat a very imposing mansion of brick, surrounded by a tall black wrought-iron fence with an ornate front gate. He whistled under his breath. That must be the home of the richest man in town. Maybe he was the president of the bank. He’d have to make sure to become friends with that gentleman.

“I wonder how we’re going to find our Miss Priscilla, dog?” he mused aloud, surveying the town from beneath the broad, wide brim of his black hat. He tried picturing “Miss Priscilla Gilmore,” and couldn’t decide if she was one of the available spinsters herself or some grandmotherly matchmaking type.

Should he try the post office? After all, the advertisement had listed a post office box address—surely the postmaster would be able to direct him to Miss Gilmore.

The post office, by unfortunate coincidence, sat right beyond the jail. Sam had always kept clear of local lawmen, finding they usually sized him up on sight as the gambler he was. But this time it couldn’t be helped.

Just act as if you have a right to be here, he told himself. You’re just here to meet a lady. Nothing wrong with that.

As he approached the jail, three people emerged from it—a well-dressed old man leaning on a silver-headed cane, a man about Sam’s age who must be the sheriff, for his vest bore a silver star, and a young lady. Her face was hidden by the side of her fetching sky-blue bonnet, but strawberry-blond curls peeped from beneath it.

“Yes, I’m expecting the man today, Mayor,” he heard the sheriff say to the older man.

Just then the dog erupted into a volley of barks from his saddle perch.

Sam tried to hush the beast, but it was already too late.

“Oh, what a darling dog!” the girl cried, and rushed forward. “What’s his name?”

“I…I don’t know, ma’am,” he murmured idiotically, but he couldn’t have made a more intelligent reply to save his life, for he was transfixed by the face looking up at him, framed by the bonnet. She had eyes the exact same sky-blue hue as the bonnet, sweeping, gold-flecked lashes, a sweetly curved mouth, all in a heart-shaped face.

She blinked in confusion and a faint color swept into her cheeks. “You don’t know? Whyever not? Ooh, how sweet!” she cried, when the dog raised his paw and wagged his tail at her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw the lawman’s face harden and his gaze narrow. He knew the man had caught sight of his lacerated cheek.

Wonderful. He was already under suspicion.

He touched the brim of his hat respectfully. “Well, not exactly, ma’am. He just adopted me, a ways down the road. I reckoned I might find him a home here,” he said, aiming a brilliant smile at the girl. He saw her spot the healing cut on his cheek but he could still salvage the situation with the dog’s distracting help. “My name’s Sam Bishop.”

“I’m Prissy—um, Priscilla Gilmore,” the girl said, blushing a little more as she corrected herself.

Thunderation. He’d thought the good Lord had given up on him a long time ago, but surely this was a sign. He’d blundered right into the very lady he’d been looking for—and she was a far cry from grandmotherly. But did she have to be accompanied by a lawman who was already looking narrow-eyed at him?

“Miss Gilmore, I’m right pleased to meet you,” he said.

“This is my father,” she went on, nodding at the old man, “Mayor James Gilmore.”

“Sir,” he said, fingering the brim of his hat once more. Miss Priscilla was the daughter of the mayor? This just kept getting better and better.

“And Nicholas Brookfield, the acting sheriff.”

“Sheriff Brookfield,” Sam said, nodding at the man who was staring at him with that cold gaze that must come to lawmen as soon as they pinned on those tin stars. But what had she meant, “acting sheriff”?

“May I hold him?” Miss Priscilla inquired, reaching up for the dog, who wagged his tail again and positively wriggled with eagerness. Sam thanked his lucky stars he’d had enough sense to let that dog tag along with him. He handed down the dog into the girl’s gloved hands and managed to conceal the grimace the movement caused.

“What’s your business here, Mr. Bishop?” the sheriff inquired, surprising Sam with an English accent rather than the Texas twang he’d had been expecting.

But he was spared the necessity of a reply as the dog jumped up in Miss Priscilla’s arms to lick her face enthusiastically.

“He likes me!” Priscilla said, and giggled—a sound that Sam Bishop felt down to his very toes.

“He surely does,” Sam said with a smile, though he knew Brookfield was waiting for an answer. “I—”

“Say, you wouldn’t be the man Nick was expecting, would you? The applicant for the sheriff’s job we advertised for?” asked Priscilla’s father.

“No, his name was something else,” Brookfield said, his gaze no less distrustful than before.

Sam had to think fast. He’d have to have a reason for staying in town while he became acquainted with the enchanting creature who was now holding the dog, especially with the acting sheriff looking at him as if he suspected Sam were here to rob the bank.

“I may not be the man you’re expecting,” Sam said quickly. “But I did come about the job. I’d be proud to be Simpson Creek’s sheriff.”

Prissy watched, stroking the affectionate little dog, as shifting emotions played over Nick Brookfield’s face—suspicion, skepticism and finally hope.

“Why don’t you give him a chance, Nick?” she said, with the familiarity born of knowing Milly Brookfield’s husband since the day he, too, had come to town a stranger. It was only fair that he give this stranger a chance, just as he had been given one.

“I’m voting with my daughter. After all, you did say the other fellow was several days overdue,” her father put in. “Maybe he’s changed his mind about the job.”

Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s possible. I certainly thought Purvis would be here by now. Have you had any experience as a sheriff, Mr. Bishop?” he said, shifting his cool blue gaze back to the man on the horse.

Prissy wished Nick wouldn’t sound so obviously suspicious. Why, Sam Bishop was apt to take offence and ride off before anyone had the chance to get to know him—and she did want to get to know this handsome stranger.

She tried to catch Nick’s eye—it would have been too obvious if she’d reached around her father to nudge Nick into civility.

“Please, call me Sam,” Bishop insisted, reaching out a friendly hand to Nick who, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward and shook it. “And yes, I’ve had some experience—before the war, I served as a deputy to the sheriff back in Tennessee where I grew up. Lately I was a deputy sheriff in Metairie, just outside of New Orleans.”

“And during the war?”

Prissy saw a shadow flash over Sam Bishop’s eyes. The war didn’t provide too many happy memories for any of those who had served in it.

“I was a blockade runner—I received the cotton that was brought down to Matamoros, just over the border, and took it out in my boat into the Gulf to a larger ship that transported it to England.”

“What made you want to leave Louisiana?” Nick asked.

Bishop shrugged. “Tired of Spanish moss and alligators, I reckon. I wanted to see the wide-open spaces of Texas. And then I heard your town needed a sheriff. Mind if I ask what happened to the old one?”

“Sheriff Poteet died in the influenza epidemic we had here this past winter, Mr. Bishop,” Prissy said. She felt a strange little tingle when he focused those dark eyes on her.

“Is that right?” he murmured. “I’m real sorry to hear that. It must have been a terrible time.”

Prissy nodded, remembering when she and her friend Sarah had nursed Mr. and Mrs. Poteet. The sheriff had perished from the illness, and they’d nearly lost Sarah, too, for she’d caught the infection. Only Dr. Walker’s medical skill and Heaven’s intervention had saved her.

“Nick, it seems Mr. Bishop’s arrival is a godsend,” her father said. “I know you need to get back to your ranch, spring being such a busy time and all.”

“That’s a fact,” Nick admitted. “The hands are doing what they can, but what with all the chores, and the baby coming quite soon, I know Milly would feel better if I were at home…”

Yet he didn’t look happy to be handing over the job, Prissy noticed. She knew him well enough to know it wasn’t because Nick Brookfield had relished his role as sheriff. He could have had it permanently with the town’s blessing. No, it wasn’t that. Prissy sensed he still had some reservations about Bishop.

“I think we should give him the position,” her father said. “Subject to council approval, of course, and a probationary period of a month, as we agreed upon when we met to discuss Poteet’s replacement. The salary’s seventy-five dollars a month, Mr. Bishop. I hope that’s satisfactory—we’re only a small town, you understand. But it includes your quarters, your meals at the hotel, and stabling and feed for your horse.”

Sam nodded. “Sounds just fine, Mr. Mayor.”

“Then the job’s yours. Why don’t you show him the jail and his quarters, Nick, then show him around town?”

“Thank you,” Sam said, shaking Priscilla’s father’s hand. “I’ll do my best to show I’m the right man for the job.”

Nick unpinned the badge and handed it to Sam, his face inscrutable. Prissy watched as Sam pinned it on.

“I suppose I’d better give you your dog back, then,” Prissy said, extending the wiggling mongrel. “Welcome to Simpson Creek, Sheriff Bishop. I’m sure we’ll see you around town.”

“You can count on that, Miss Gilmore,” he said. “and why don’t you keep the dog? I was just holding onto the little fellow until I could find him a good home, and it seems like I’ve done that.” His gaze made her feel like warm butter left out in the Texas sun at noon.

“Are you sure?” At his quick nod, she turned to her father. “Oh, Papa, may I?” she said. “It would be so nice to have a dog, now—” She stopped, not wanting to say, Now that Mama is gone. She’d never been able to have a dog before because they made her mother sneeze. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to take back all the times she’d complained to her mother about not being able to have one.

Her father hesitated, glanced at Bishop, then said, “Only if he doesn’t chase Flora’s cat—Flora’s our housekeeper and cook, Mr. Bishop. And his care—including any—” he cleared his throat “—accidents he might have, is entirely your responsibility, not hers. Understood, daughter?”

She nodded and ruffled the dog’s ears, then turned back to Sam. “If I’m to keep him, he’ll need a proper name. What town did you find him in, Mr. Bishop?”

“Sam,” he insisted. “And I found him in Houston.”

She blinked. Houston was considerably farther than “a few miles back down the road,” as he had said. But surely it would be quibbling to point that out.

“Houston it is, then.” She leaned over and spoke into the dog’s ear. “Do you like your new name, Houston?”

The dog yipped and licked her face. Everyone—including Sam Bishop—laughed.

Prissy, flushed with pleasure, decided to try her luck still further. “Papa, perhaps we should invite Mr. Bishop to supper. Surely on his first night in Simpson Creek he shouldn’t have to dine by himself at the hotel.”

“That’s very nice of you, Miss Gilmore, but I couldn’t impose,” Sam Bishop said quickly, darting an apologetic look at her father. “I’m sure the hotel’s food will suit me fine.”

Prissy realized she shouldn’t have put her father on the spot as she had, but surprisingly, he came to her aid. “Nonsense. It’s no imposition, Bishop,” he said. “Flora usually cooks enough food for an army, as I know to my cost,” he said, patting his paunch ruefully. “We seldom have company anymore, so this would be a nice opportunity to get to know you better. Come at six, and you can see how your little dog is settling in. It’s the big house diagonally across from the hotel.”

He took off his hat and bowed. “Mayor Gilmore, I’d be honored. Miss Gilmore, until later.”

She inclined her head with what she hoped was regal dignity, trying to hide the unladylike excitement surging through her veins like Fourth of July fireworks over this new prospect for the ladies of Simpson Creek.

“Oh, Papa, you’re the best father anyone could ever want!” she cried, after they walked out of earshot toward Gilmore House. “Thank you for letting me keep the dog, and for seconding my invitation as you did. I know I should have asked you privately first.”

Her father patted her shoulder. “You don’t demand much, daughter, and maybe the dog will be good company for us.” But her father’s worn, jowly face suddenly turned stern. “But as for Bishop, I’m letting him come to our table so I can look him over, Priscilla. We don’t know him all that well, so don’t you go flirting with him any more till I get a chance to see what he’s made of. I won’t have any man thinking you’re forward.”

“Papa! I was not flirting! I was merely welcoming him…” The denial that had sprung easily to her lips died away, and obedience took its place. “But don’t worry. I won’t do anything to make you worry. Sam—Mr. Bishop, that is—he was just so friendly, and so handsome.”

Her father harrumphed. “Don’t assume anything about a man you just met.” He laughed as the dog yipped again, and his face softened. “See, your dog agrees with me.”

Prissy smiled at her father, but she had a strange feeling that Sam Bishop was exactly what Simpson Creek—and she herself—needed.

“Papa, didn’t you fall in love with Mama at first sight?” Prissy asked softly.

He sighed. “Aren’t you an imp, to remind me of my own actions! Your mother should have never told you that. But remember, she was a preacher’s daughter…”

Chapter Two

So Prissy lived in the very mansion he’d admired on his arrival. Thunderation, but fortune was smiling down on him now!

He straightened after he tied his mount’s reins to the hitching post outside the jail, and found Brookfield studying him again. The Englishman’s gaze was penetrating—too penetrating. It was as if he could see straight through Sam and into his not-so-admirable past.

“You watch yourself with Miss Prissy—Miss Priscilla, that is,” he told Sam, and those eyes were as chill as the winds of a Texas blue norther. “Don’t even think of trifling with her, or make no mistake, you’ll wish you’d never ridden into Simpson Creek.”

“You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Brookfield,” Sam said, deliberately using “mister” instead of “sheriff” to subtly remind the other man he was no longer acting sheriff. “I find Miss Gilmore charming—who wouldn’t? She seems to like me, too. But just what is it you don’t like about me?” he said. It was best to get it out in the open, so he could counter it.

“I don’t dislike you, Bishop, but I don’t think you’re being entirely honest about why you’ve come.”

Uh-oh. He’d have to tread carefully here. “I came because of the advertisement,” he said. That much was true, at least. He had come because of an advertisement—Priscilla’s ad for the Society for the Promotion of Marriage.

“Where’d you see it?”

Sam said a quick prayer to the deity he hadn’t paid much attention to in a long while. “In a Houston newspaper,” he said, hoping vagueness would suffice.

Brookfield gave him a look he couldn’t read. “Bring your saddlebags and come inside. I’ll show you the jail and your quarters behind it. Then we’ll take your horse down to the livery and we’ll take a little walk around town so I can introduce you to folks.”

The jail looked much as he’d expected; two cells and a desk, with a rack next to the door holding a pair of rifles and a couple of pistols, boxes of bullets beneath. A short hallway between the two cells led to a door that opened into his private quarters—as he’d expected, nothing palatial, just a room with a bed and another room with a table and two chairs and a cabinet, but no stove. Apparently even his morning coffee would have to be obtained at the hotel. He dropped his gear on the table.

Seventy-five dollars a month. He’d made that much and more in one night of card playing. Well, at least here he wouldn’t be dealing with sore losers like Raney. And he’d have the chance to woo the lovely Prissy…

“So how does an Englishman come to be living in a small Texas town?” he asked as they walked back outside, down a side street to the livery, leading Sam’s black gelding.

Brookfield gave him another of his inscrutable looks. “It’s a long story,” he said.

It seemed he was going to leave it at that, which made Sam curious. Did the Englishman have a past he wasn’t proud of, too? Interesting. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry,” he said.

Brookfield gave him a sidelong glance. “It’s I who should apologize,” he said in his formal way. “I didn’t intend to sound churlish.”

Sam wasn’t sure what “churlish” meant but he was relieved Brookfield seemed to be thawing a little.

“It’s no secret, I suppose,” Brookfield said. “I came to Texas to take a post at the embassy office in the capital, took a side trip to Simpson Creek, and met my wife, Milly. Now I’m a rancher instead of an embassy attaché. Life takes interesting turns, does it not?”

“That’s a fact,” Sam agreed. He wondered more about what Bishop had not said than what he had. Why would an Englishman take a side trip to a little backwater town like Simpson Creek? But Sam knew better than to probe further. He’d already irked the Englishman—perhaps it was best to douse his curiosity. After all, the code of the West dictated a man’s past was his private business, if he wanted it to be.

“Here’s the livery,” Brookfield announced as they came to a large barn and corral, in which several horses stood, tails swishing. “Run by the Calhoun brothers, now that their father’s died in the epidemic. Hello, Calvin,” he said when a tow-headed youth came forward out of the shadows of the barn. “Meet Sam Bishop, the new sheriff. Calvin will take good care of your horse.”

“I sure will. Pleased t’meet ya,” the boy said, and took the gelding’s reins, leading him into the box stall nearest the door.

Before Sam could reply, shots rang out. He and Nick spun around to see a man sprinting toward them.

“Sheriff! Thank God I’ve found you! Ol’ Delbert’s liquored up again, an’ shootin’ out th’ mirror and th’ lights!” he shouted as he neared them.

Brookfield didn’t take time to explain he was no longer the sheriff. “Is everyone all right?”

“Yup, George took cover behind the bar an’ everyone else went out th’ back door. Delbert ain’t mad at anyone, he’s just had too much rotgut is all,” the man said, and surprised Sam by grinning. “Reckon you kin talk some sense inta him like always.”

“Right. Come on, Bishop, it’s time to make your first arrest. Delbert Perry isn’t very dangerous,” Brookfield told Sam as they ran toward the saloon, “once we take his pistol away, of course. He just needs some time to sleep it off.”

There went his dinner with the lovely Prissy and her father, Sam thought, because once he had the man in custody, he’d have to remain at the jail. Perhaps Nick could make his excuses for him. He hoped Prissy wouldn’t be too offended. It was not exactly the best way to start his campaign to woo her.

They stopped in front of the hotel that sat diagonally across the street from the saloon. “I’ll go in from the back and cover you,” Nick said, motioning in that direction. “Just be firm with him. He usually surrenders as soon as he sees the badge,” he said, pointing to the tin star Sam now wore.

Sam wasn’t so sure. He’d seen dozens of intoxicated men in saloons who were dangerously unpredictable, especially if they were armed as well as drunk. He wasn’t about to sacrifice his life to keep such a man alive. If this Delbert fellow acted the least bit like he was going to shoot, Sam intended to drop him with the pistol he now held, a Colt he had purchased in the first town he arrived in after Dallas when he’d fled Houston.

They crossed the street cautiously at an oblique angle, heading for the near corner of the building. There they separated, Nick creeping around to the back to the exit, Sam hugging the front of the establishment, crouching low so his head didn’t show in the dusty, fly-specked glass windows. When he reached the batwing doors, he straightened and peered over the nearer of the two.

Within the dim, smoky interior of the saloon he spotted a wild-haired man staggering unsteadily around, clutching a half-empty bottle with one hand, a pistol with the other. Silver shards of what had been a full-length mirror littered the mahogany bar. Delbert Perry’s boots crunched the broken glass from the ruined chandeliers and a half-dozen bottles and glasses. The burnt smell of spent gunpowder filled Sam’s nostrils and stung his eyes.

The drunken man faced away from Sam. Sam pushed one batwing door open and went in quietly, taking care not to step on noisy glass. His pulse throbbed in his throat. Who’d have thought he’d have to face a man with a gun in his first afternoon in this little one-horse town?

“Delbert Perry, it’s the sheriff,” he said, cocking his pistol. “Turn around slowly with your hands in the air, now, and you won’t get hurt.”

Perry turned, letting go of his bottle. It shattered on the floor with a splash of liquor and broken glass. The remaining whiskey gurgled out even as he raised both hands, including the one with the pistol, just as Sam had ordered.

He squinted at Sam through bleary, red-rimmed eyes. “Sheriff? You ain’t Nick Brookfield. He’s the sheriff. I don’t know you.” But he kept his hands raised nonetheless.

Sam kept his voice friendly. “But you see I’m wearing the badge, Delbert, don’t you?” he said, nodding toward the tin star pinned on his vest. “We haven’t had a chance to meet yet. I’m Sam Bishop, the new sheriff.”

“N-new sheriff? B-bishop?” the man muttered, his words slurred and thick.

Behind Perry, Sam saw Nick inching forward from the back room, his pistol held ready.

“That’s right. Now lay the gun down on that table by you.” Nick was right; this man wasn’t going to be difficult to take into custody.

Just then, Nick slipped on some spilled whiskey. He skated forward on the floor, glass crunching as he cart-wheeled both arms, trying to regain his balance.

Perry whirled. “What in tarnation?” he screeched, and leveled his pistol straight at Brookfield’s chest.

Sam fired before he even had time to think about it, neatly shooting the pistol from the drunkard’s hands. Perry’s bullet went wild, embedding itself in the wall beyond.

The man yelled, dropping his pistol and clutching his hand. Staring at Brookfield, who had now regained his balance, he cried in horror, “There’s the real sheriff! Nick, did I shoot ya? Why’d ya have to creep up on me from behind like that? Are ya all right, partner?”

“I’m fine, Delbert,” Nick assured him, though his face hadn’t entirely regained its color yet. “Now turn around and raise your hands in the air, and tell Sheriff Bishop you’re sorry for raising such a ruckus on his first day here.”

Sam stared as Perry, meek as a lamb now, did exactly as Nick told him. “S-sorry, S-Sheriff. Reckon I j-jes’ had too much t’ drink.”

Another man, wearing an apron and clutching a dingy dishcloth, crawled out from behind the bar. “Thanks,” he said to both of them. “Nice t’meet you, Sheriff Bishop. Welcome.” Then he stared glumly at the damage around him. “Guess I’m gonna have to cut him off after two drinks—not two bottles—from now on.”

“Meet George Detwiler, proprietor of this fine establishment,” Nick said, walking up behind Perry and pulling his wrists into the come-along he took out of his back pocket. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that, Bishop?”

“I used to shoot squirrels out of the trees growing up in Tennessee.” Brookfield didn’t need to know it was sometimes all he and his sisters had to eat.

“I’m much obliged. That could have ended much worse. Perry’s fingertips are merely grazed. I’ll take him by Doctor Walker’s and have him bandaged up before taking him on to jail.”

“No, he’s my responsibility,” Sam said. He may not have come here for the job, but he’d taken it on, and now he had to live up to the oath he’d sworn only hours ago.

“There’s no need. I’m sure you’d probably like to tidy up a bit before you present yourself at the mayor’s house. Go on back to your quarters, and I’ll watch over Perry till you’re finished with supper.”

“But you must want to get back to the ranch and your wife,” Sam protested, feeling guilty because he longed to take Nick up on his offer. “Go on home. It’s my job now.” He glanced at the drunken man, who stood with his hands shackled, gentle as a newborn colt and about as unsteady.

Nick Brookfield only smiled. “You just saved my life, Bishop. Believe me, my Milly won’t mind if I show up a few hours later because I’m doing you a favor. Besides, I want to have a talk with Perry about the Lord.”

Sam blinked, sure he’d misunderstood the Englishman. “You want to talk to him about God?”

“Indeed I do. We’ve had those talks before, haven’t we, Delbert?”

Perry nodded and grinned as if he and the Englishman were the best of friends. “’Bout how th’ good Lord loves me and has a better way for me to live, right, Sheriff Brookfield? Well, come on then, I’m ready.”

Sam felt his jaw drop. Brookfield wanted to spend more time with this drunken fool and talk religion with him?

He shrugged. Far be it from him to tell Brookfield he was wasting his time trying to cure a drinking man of drink, by talking about God.

As far as Bishop was concerned, the Lord didn’t have much to do with anything. Never did, never would. But he just thanked Brookfield and went on his way.

Chapter Three

Houston dozed in Prissy’s room in a wide, flat basket lined with an old towel that Antonio had found for Prissy in the barn. To look at the sleeping dog now, it was hard to believe how fast he had scampered after Flora’s orange tiger cat, which he’d encountered sunning herself by the stable door. The cat had sprung up, hissing, arching her back and puffing herself up to look twice as large as she was, but the little dog had refused to be intimidated and charged the cat, barking shrilly. The cat fled, and a merry chase ensued until the frantic feline finally took refuge up the massive live oak tree that shaded the front yard.

Flora had been miffed, and made it clear that until the canine learned better manners, he was not welcome in her kitchen, nor was Prissy needed to assist in the preparation of the supper, muchas gracias, which would now involve much more work, thanks to Prissy’s short-notice invitation. Prissy knew she’d have to find a way to soothe Flora’s ruffled feathers later.

If it hadn’t been for Houston, the hours until she would see Simpson Creek’s new sheriff again would have crawled by. But after the little dog explored each room and Prissy set up his bed and his food and water dishes, she had only an hour to get ready.

Prissy pulled dress after dress out of her wardrobe and held each one up to herself in the full-length cheval glass, then laid each one down on her bed with a sigh. Which one would Sam Bishop admire her most in, the blue-figured broché with puffed sleeves, the crepe lisse dress of the same green as spring leaves, or the pink silk with the white eyelet-lace trim?

Thank goodness Papa hadn’t wanted her to continue wearing mourning for her mother. That black, and even the gray of half-mourning—such drab colors! Prissy still grieved for her mother, of course, but Papa said seeing his only daughter swathed in black only made him sadder. A month after his wife’s passing he’d asked her to start wearing her pretty dresses again.

In the end, she chose the blue dress. She had just finished pinning up her hair in a becoming fashion that left tendrils loose around her forehead when Prissy heard Flora opening the front door in the hallway below. Houston erupted out of his basket in a flurry of barking.

Oh, heavens, she hadn’t even heard Bishop knock. She had intended to be downstairs setting the table so she could be the one to open the door to Bishop herself. Now she would have to be content to make a grand entrance coming down the marble stairway, which was visible from the doorway.

Houston scampered out of the room, heedless of his mistress’s attempt to grab him. Seconds later she heard the dog capering and yipping in the hall below, and Bishop’s deep, murmuring voice.

Her heart started to pound. Would Sam Bishop find her beautiful? Would his eyes light up as they had in front of the jail when he had first looked at her?

Prissy took one last look at her mirror and pinched her cheeks to bring the color into them. Perhaps a grand entrance would even be better, she decided, otherwise it would look as if she had been waiting at the window for the first glimpse of him coming in through the elaborate wrought-iron gates to the grounds.

Which she hadn’t been. Had she?

Her father was already shaking Bishop’s hand and welcoming him to the house when she set foot on the first step.

“Good evening, Mr. Bishop,” she said, trying to descend with regal grace. “I hope you brought your appetite, because Flora’s cooked something really special.” In truth, since Flora had banished her from her kitchen, Prissy had no idea what was on the menu, but her nose had caught savory, spicy scents wafting from the kitchen. Whatever it was, it would be delicious.

Bishop scooped up the little dog and ruffled his fur. “Why, good evening to you, too, Miss Priscilla,” he said. His lips curved into a smile of warm appreciation. “And yes, I have worked up quite an appetite, because I made my first arrest as Simpson Creek’s new sheriff just minutes ago. I hope you weren’t too disturbed by the gunfire from over at the saloon?”

Her father cleared his throat. “I heard it—unfortunately it’s an all-too common occurrence. I assume no one was hurt?”

Bishop shook his head. “Delbert Perry’s spending the night in the jail, Mayor Gilmore. Mr. Brookfield was kind enough to watch him so I could come to take supper with you.”

Prissy clasped her hand to her neck in alarm. “Thank God you weren’t hurt!”

“You’re so kind to be concerned, Miss Prissy, but I assure you I was never in any danger. Mr. Brookfield and I disarmed him without too much trouble,” he said, his eyes meeting hers, causing her pulse to race and a flush to heat her cheeks. What was going on here?

“Delbert Perry’s a harmless ne’er-do-well, except when he’s been drinking and takes his pistol to the saloon. I’ll expect you to come up with a plan to combat that, Mr. Bishop,” Mayor Gilmore said in a no-nonsense voice.

“I’ll make that a priority, sir,” Bishop assured him in a tone that matched her father’s gravity.

Flora bustled into the hallway, an immaculate lace-trimmed apron tied around her waist. “Supper is served, señores, señorita,” she said, gesturing toward the dining room.

As they settled themselves in their chairs, Prissy found herself studying Sam Bishop. He spoke to her father with real authority—he seemed like such an honorable man. She’d have to invite him to the church. He’d make a fine addition to their community.

When Flora set down the meal, Houston sat up by Prissy’s place at the table, waving his paws in the air and staring at her with liquid appeal in his dark shoe-button eyes.

“Prissy, I won’t have a dog begging at the table,” her father said sternly. “Make him go lie down.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I allowed him to develop bad habits on the trail,” Bishop said, coming to her rescue. “It was just him and me, and I’d toss him tidbits as I ate. He knew he could get more if he sat up like that, the rascal.” He raised an arm and pointed to a spot on the floor away from the table. “Houston, go lie down.” His voice was firm, and to Prissy’s surprise, the dog immediately did as he was bid without a backward glance.

Her father resumed the tale he’d been telling. “So as I was saying, Nick Brookfield, Dr. Walker and the rest of the posse went after Holt and the Gray Boys Gang and brought back Miss Sarah safe and sound. That ended the rustling sprees in these parts,” her father said.

“Sounds like I have tall boots to fill, sir,” Sam Bishop said, laying down his fork on the empty plate that now held only the remains of Flora’s chicken mole. “But I’ll do my very best.”

“I have every confidence you will,” her father said, “if today is anything to go by.”

I know you will, Prissy thought, sitting across from him at the long dining table, continuing to study Bishop while he spoke to her father. She wondered about his past, his childhood, where he’d grown up. And then she again wondered why she was wondering.

Her father put down his glass and rubbed his chin, a sure sign he was about to mention something that troubled him. “One recent development that’s troubled me about this town has been the arrival of some undesirable types. You’ll need to be aware of them.”

“Go on.”

“There’ve been a couple of gentlemen in these parts recently—real dandy types, fancy clothing, jeweled stickpins, brocaded waistcoats. They’ve brought with them a passel of drifters, hired guns. You know the type.”

Sam nodded.

“The two fancy gents have bought a big ranch northeast of here, toward San Saba. From what I’ve heard, they’re turning it into quite an impressive estate. Nothing wrong with that, but the rumor is, they’re using these saddle tramps to pressure folks to sell their property to them, folks that’ve been hard-pressed to hold on to their properties what with the higher taxes the Federals have put on our backs—older folks, women who’ve been widowed by the war and so forth.”

Sam’s eyes were thoughtful. “I see.”

“I want you to keep an eye on ’em—they call themselves the Ranchers’ Alliance,” her father said. “I won’t have our townspeople being pushed out or harassed. If they’re doing anything illegal, I want to know.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll look into it first thing.”

Apparently satisfied by the answer, her father turned in his chair and said to Flora, who hovered at the doorway, “I believe we’ll have our dessert now.”

Bishop took advantage of her father’s momentary inattention to favor Prissy with a smile across the table, a smile which sent heat flooding up her neck and into her cheeks. He grinned as he noticed her blushing, but he managed to wipe his amusement from his face as her father swung around in his seat again.

“What’s wrong, Prissy?” her father asked, eyeing her.

“Oh, nothing,” she said, feeling her face grow hot again. “I-I think Flora put a little more chili powder than usual in the frijoles, that’s all. It made me a little warm…” She avoided Bishop’s knowing eyes. What was wrong with her that a handsome man’s smile could make her blush so?

Her father stared at her for a moment, then to her relief turned back to Bishop. “Our Flora makes the best pecan pie in San Saba County.”

“Mmm, pecan pie’s my favorite,” Bishop murmured appreciatively. “Though it’s hard to believe anything could be better than the main dish.”

“Yes, we’re very fortunate to have her to cook for us,” Gilmore said. “Though Prissy’s become quite the accomplished cook, too.”

“With Sarah’s help,” Sarah admitted modestly as Flora bustled in with the pie, already sliced and laid on dessert plates, and began setting it at their places. “Sarah Matthews, that is—I mean Walker. She married Dr. Walker recently.”

“I see. And what’s your culinary specialty, Miss Prissy?” Bishop asked in his lazy drawl.

“Fried chicken,” she said. “And biscuits.” Thank goodness she didn’t have to admit to Bishop just how hard it had been to learn the art of making light, fluffy biscuits. Her first attempts had been leaden disasters.

“Well, fried chicken and biscuits is just about the finest meal on this earth,” Bishop declared.

“Then perhaps we could invite you back some time when I’m cooking it,” she said, and quickly added, “I’m sure there are many people we’d like to introduce you to. A dinner party of sorts.”

Bishop’s smile broadened. “I’d like that, Miss Prissy,” he said.

He made short work of his pie.

“Would you like to sit a spell out on the veranda with Prissy and me?” her father asked, when there was nothing but crumbs on his plate. “There’s a nice breeze this evening.”

“There’s nothing I’d like better, sir, but I left Nick Brookfield guarding my prisoner, and I know he’d like to get home to his wife. I’d better return to the jail. I thank you both for your hospitality.”

“Duty calls, eh?” her father said, clearly approving of his answer. “Well, welcome to Simpson Creek, Sheriff Bishop. I hope you’ll like it here and put down roots. Prissy, take that dog out, would you? He probably needs to go out,” her father said.

As if he knew he was being referred to, Houston scampered up from where he’d been lying. Tail wagging, eyes shining, he came to Prissy’s side.

“And don’t linger too long, Prissy. I’m sure Flora could use some help with the dishes,” he said with a meaningful look. “Good evening, Sheriff.”

“Good evening, Mayor Gilmore.”

Sam felt Prissy’s father’s gaze on them as they left the dining room and walked down the hall to the front door with Houston trotting alongside them. He opened the massive carved pecan-wood door and they stepped out into the soft, balmy twilight of the June night.

“I’m sorry,” Prissy murmured, as they descended the limestone steps that led down to the lawn. “I’m afraid Papa’s a little overprotective of me, especially since Mama died. He doesn’t mean to sound so disapproving.”

“Don’t worry,” he assured her, “I’m sure if I was the father of a daughter, I’d be overprotective too when a stranger was around—”

“But you’re not a stranger,” she protested.

“I’m barely more than a stranger,” he said. He’d been just as fierce a guardian when young men had shown up to court his sisters, and had scared off a few shiftless ne’er-do-wells. But now his sisters were all well and safely married and each had two or three children, the last he’d heard. “We only met this afternoon, you know.”

Her laugh was immediate and musical. “But that makes you an old friend, by Simpson Creek standards. We don’t stand on ceremony here, Sam.”

Was she always so open and unguarded, or only with him? There was an innocent artlessness about her that suggested no one had ever taken advantage of those qualities.

“That’s good to know, because I wanted to ask you something,” he said.

“Oh? And what’s that?” She looked up at him with open curiosity as they strolled slowly toward the gate.

He’d been watching the little dog as he explored the lawn and dashed barking after a catbird that took hasty refuge in the boughs of the big live oak, but now he turned back to Prissy and smiled down at her.

“I know I really should ask your papa first,” he began, smiling down at her with the smile that had melted the heart of many saloon girls, “and I will ask him, but I wanted to make sure it was agreeable with you first before I did.”

“Go on,” she said.

“I’d like to call on you again—if that’s all right with you, that is. That’s what I wanted to ask you, before I asked permission of your father. It doesn’t do me much good to ask him if that isn’t something you’d care for, now, is it?”

Her considering look wasn’t quite the reaction he’d been expecting. Where had she suddenly found this womanly dignity? After a moment, she nodded.

“Was that a yes, Miss Prissy?”

She nodded again, flushing pink. Her blush was so charming, Sam nearly leaned over and kissed her, but he knew better than to do such a thing. Even if she did not object to his boldness, her father might very well be watching through a window.

He allowed his grin to widen. “That’s settled, then. Give me a couple of days to get settled into this sheriffing job, and then it will be my great pleasure.”

“Sam, I hope you don’t think I’m being very forward. But it’ll be Sunday day after tomorrow…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked at him expectantly.

He went blank, wondering what she was hinting at. For years, Sunday mornings had been a time when he lay in some dingy hotel or boardinghouse room and groaned at the church bells that woke him up early to a headache.

“Would you—I mean, if you wouldn’t mind, and if there are no desperate criminals in the jail at the time for you to guard—will you sit with Papa and me when you come to church?” she asked him, glancing up at him from under those thick lashes.

His heart sank. She assumed he was a churchgoing man, that he’d attend Sunday services as a matter of course. And suddenly he realized that in this little town, almost everyone did attend church as a matter of course, and if they didn’t, it was noted. Mayor Gilmore probably wouldn’t allow a man around his daughter who wasn’t a churchgoing man, and he wouldn’t keep the goodwill of the town for very long if he didn’t go to church, either.

He’d just have to fake his way through it—for Prissy.

“Of course I will, Miss Prissy,” he said with great heartiness, as if he’d always intended to. “What time do services begin?” There were worse things, he was sure, than spending an hour or so in a pew beside a beautiful girl dressed in her Sunday best. Though it was hard to imagine her any prettier than she was right at this instant.

“Ten o’clock,” she said, looking very pleased.

“Until Sunday, then, Miss Prissy,” he said. Houston ran up to them, as if knowing Sam was departing, and yipped. Prissy picked him up, and Sam reached out a hand and ruffled the fur on the little dog’s head.

“You be good for Miss Prissy, boy,” he admonished the dog. “No more chasing the cat.”

“Sam,” she said, looking suddenly worried, “will you miss him very much? Perhaps I should give him back to you, for company.”

He was touched that she’d make such an unselfish offer, for he could tell she already loved the little beast. “No, I’ve got Delbert Perry to keep me company, at least tonight. I’m sure the dog’s better off with you. Besides, it gives me another excuse to come calling, doesn’t it?”

Prissy smiled at him. “It does, at that. Good night, Sam.”

As he left the grounds of Gilmore House, Sam could hardly believe how much he’d accomplished in a single day. New town, new job, new girl.

Yes, he could get used to Simpson Creek.

Chapter Four

“Thanks again,” Sam said as he walked Nick Brookfield to the door of the jail.

“You’re welcome. Flora’s quite a cook, isn’t she?” the Englishman said.

Sam grinned. “That she is.”

Nick started to go out the door, then turned. “If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask. Dr. Walker’s been a deputy—” he pointed at the doctor’s office and home across the street “—and I come into town frequently. And you’ll have to come out to the ranch for Sunday dinner after the baby comes.”

Sam saw a softening in Brookfield’s eyes as he spoke of his wife and coming child, and for a moment he envied the man his settled existence.

“—I know Milly’d love to have you,” Brookfield was saying. “Ordinarily, I’d say you’d meet her in church on Sunday, but she’s not finding that wagon ride into town very comfortable right now, so she’s sticking close to home.”

Again, that assumption that he’d be warming a pew in a couple of mornings. “I’d like to come out, when she feels up to company.”

The two men shook hands. Sam watched him stride out into the street, no doubt heading for the livery and his horse.

Brookfield had thawed quite a bit from his initial distrust, but there was still something in the cool blue eyes that warned Sam he’d be an implacable enemy if Sam played fast and loose with the mayor’s daughter.

Don’t worry, he thought as he rounded the corner and went down the side street that led to the livery. I’m going to treat Prissy like a queen. She was exactly what he’d hoped for—a beautiful girl who for some reason he could not fathom did not already have men from six counties lined up to court her. Were the men in this part of Texas blind? Once he convinced her to marry him, they could live happily ever after. He’d make sure she was never sorry he’d won her heart. It seemed he was not going to have to live a hardscrabble life as a dirt-poor farmer after all, and he couldn’t find it in himself to feel guilty—only grateful.

He went back inside and locked the door, though he didn’t think there was much chance of anyone trying to break Delbert Perry out during the night. The town drunk was now sleeping peacefully, the dishes and silverware from a supper brought from the hotel laid neatly on a tray on the floor. Brookfield had reported he was much closer to sober than he had been and would no doubt be fit to be set free in the morning, with an order to do some good deed like sweeping the saloon floors for a month in penance for his drunken spree.

Sam walked down the short hallway that led to his quarters and started putting away his things, stowing the clothes from his saddlebags in an old brassbound trunk that sat at the foot of his bed. It didn’t take long, because he’d always believed in traveling light. Then he eyed the small bed, with its bare mattress of blue ticking, and the pillow and neatly folded sheets and blanket atop it. He was tired and ready to sleep, but he’d have to make the bed first.

As he bent over the mattress, something shifted in his pocket—the heavy gold ruby ring he’d taken from Kendall Raney’s safe back in Houston. He couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he didn’t just put it at the bottom of the old trunk—no one was going to be searching through his possessions. Simpson Creek was the kind of small town where no one thought to lock their doors, and it wasn’t as if Kendall Raney would ever trace him to this place. Maybe, if things worked out with Prissy Gilmore, he could make up some fanciful story of a rich uncle back East or the like, and have the ruby reset into a pendant for her. But for now he was going to hide it away.

Taking his boot knife, he cut a small slit in the underside of the mattress, then pushed the ring into the cotton stuffing. It’d be safe enough there.

A slight twinge pricked his conscience as he realized he’d just been planning to lie to Prissy, a woman who’d just invited him to church.

Perhaps he wasn’t so guilt-free after all.

“You’re up and about early,” Sarah Walker commented as she opened the door for Prissy the next morning. “And who’s this?” she said, spotting the little dog attached to Prissy by a braided leather leash.

“This is Houston,” Prissy said, smiling as he yipped and wriggled on the Walkers’ porch, clearly thrilled by the opportunity to meet yet another human. “I got him yesterday, and look, Antonio’s already fashioned a collar and leash for him out of old bridle leather. Can he come in? I’ll keep him on the leash so he won’t get into anything he shouldn’t.”

“Of course. How are you, Houston?” Sarah said, laughing as the dog sat down and offered his paw. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh, Sarah, I have so much to tell you!” Prissy exclaimed. “If you’re not too busy baking, that is,” she added, seeing that her friend wore an apron and had a dot of flour on one cheek. Tendrils of golden hair had escaped from her braid to curl around her forehead. “Mmm, it smells wonderful in here,” she said, sniffing the air. “Molasses raisin cookies, unless I miss my guess?”

Sarah smiled back and gestured for Prissy to have a seat at her kitchen table. “Yes, and of course I’m not too busy to listen to your news. Might it have to do with the new sheriff of Simpson Creek?”

Prissy felt color flooding her cheeks. “Horsefeathers. I might have known I wouldn’t get to be the one to tell you about him.”

“George Detwiler told his mother about the incident in the saloon yesterday, and his mother told me when I went in the mercantile this morning. And Mr. Wallace was there, and he told me how he just happened to be peeking out of the post office window and saw y’all meet, and saw him give you the dog,” Sarah explained with a grin.

“That’s Simpson Creek for you,” Prissy muttered. “No secrets here.”

Sarah rolled her eyes in rueful agreement. “Why did he give you his dog?”

Prissy nodded. “Well, the dog apparently latched onto him in Houston—hence his name—and stayed with him all the way to Simpson Creek, but Sam says he was only keeping him till he could find him a good home, so when we met, he offered him to me.”

“Sam? You’re already on a first-name basis?” Sarah teased.

Prissy blushed again. “Well—only since I walked him to the gate last evening,” she confessed. “I’m sure in public and in front of my father it must be ‘Sheriff Bishop’ for a while…” Prissy felt a little proprietary thrill as she said his name. “Sarah, he came to dinner last night! I was so surprised when Papa agreed he could come! Papa said he wanted to look him over, and he tried to act all stern and gruff, but I think he found him as charming as I did.”

“Is that a fact?” Sarah said with a wry twist of her lips. Then she bent over and peered into the oven. “I think these are done,” she said, snatching a potholder and pulling out a sheet of perfectly browned cookies. The savory aroma filled the small kitchen, making Prissy’s mouth water. “Let’s eat a few while they’re still hot—that’s when they’re the best, don’t you think?” She scooped a half dozen of them onto a small plate and laid it on the table between them.

Prissy broke off a piece of cookie, popped it into her mouth, then fanned herself. “Too hot! That’s what I get for being impatient,” she muttered, as Sarah rose and poured her a glass of cold lemonade from the pitcher on the windowsill.

“You still haven’t told me what this paragon of charm looks like,” she prodded.

“Oh! Well, let me remedy that,” Prissy said. “We were just leaving the jail after paying Nick a visit, Papa and I, and he came riding up, and Papa figured out he was the man who’d come to apply for the sheriff’s job. Just wait till you see him—dark hair, and he has the most speaking brown eyes! And he’s tall, taller even than your Nolan—I should say six feet or so. And lean…”

“I can tell you’re smitten already.”

Prissy was thoughtful. “I’m trying not to make the same mistake I have in the past, Sarah—of throwing my heart in first and not thinking it through. And I know I should be merely delighted at Sam Bishop’s arrival on behalf of the Spinsters’ Club ladies, who will adore him…but I have to be honest, Sarah. I think he could be the one—the one for me.”

Prissy’s thoughtfulness sobered her friend. “I’m glad to hear you’re thinking this through, Prissy,” Sarah said. “I feel I must still point out you were this excited over Major McConley, too, though not so considering about it as you are now.”

“Major McConley? Pooh, he can’t hold a candle to Samuel Bishop,” Prissy scoffed.

She frowned, remembering how she had thought she had found the man of her dreams in the dashing Major McConley of the Fourth Cavalry, whose regiment was stationed at Fort Mason. She’d held an engagement party for Sarah in the ballroom at Gilmore House and had as sumed she could easily capture the Major’s interest, but it had be come painfully clear that the Major doled out flirtatious smiles to all the young ladies and made sure he danced with each one without appearing to favor any. Though she was his partner at dinner, it seemed he was being no more than courteous to her as his hostess, and by the end of the evening, he had made no effort to urge her out onto the veranda for a private tête-à-tête. She had been so sure the dress of hussar-blue silk that completely matched her eyes would dazzle him! And the rest of his regiment, perhaps aware that she had eyes only for him, had made no effort to single her out, either. That night had been a serious blow to her confidence, leading her to decide she wasn’t as irresistible as she had grown up believing.

“I’m thankful he didn’t respond to my flirting now. Why, if I’d married Major McConley and gone off to that lonely fort in the middle of nowhere…”

“This Mr. Bishop has already given you a gift,” Sarah observed, as Houston leaped into Prissy’s lap and made a lunge at the cookie that Prissy was bringing to her mouth.

Prissy restrained him. “No, no, bad boy! Down you go, until you learn your manners.” She set the dog back on the floor. “Sit!”

Houston looked so immediately contrite that both girls laughed. Prissy broke off a small piece of cookie and gave it to him. “I hope you won’t think I’m being foolish and impulsive, Sarah,” Prissy continued, “but he’s asked me if he can call on me again.”

“And of course you agreed.”

“I-I did,” she admitted. “Oh, Sarah, he’s quite handsome. I can’t wait for you to meet him, to hear what you think,” Prissy said.

“No time like the present,” Sarah said. “As a matter of fact, I was baking these cookies to take over to the jail to welcome him to Simpson Creek. Just let me put another batch in the oven and as soon as they’re ready, we’ll have enough. Since you’re here, you can introduce us, since I can guess you’re just dying to have an excuse to see him again.”

Prissy allowed herself a happy sigh. “Am I as transparent as that?”

“Transparent as glass—at least to me.”

“You the acting sheriff? I’m Bob Purvis, here to apply for the job—I believe you’re expecting me?” the man said as he entered in response to Sam’s called-out invitation.

Sam, who’d been leaning back in his chair enjoying his second cup of coffee, set it down with a thump and stood up.

“Sam Bishop,” he said, offering his hand. “And I’m afraid you’re too late. They were expecting you, all right, but when you didn’t show up, they hired me.”

Purvis’s shoulders sagged. “Too bad. Can’t say I’m surprised, though. My horse went lame just outside a’ San Antone and I had to hole up for a few days and rest him. Of all the rotten luck.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, meaning it. He felt a twinge of guilt at taking a job he hadn’t even come here for, now that the man who’d really wanted it had appeared. But he had to have a way to support himself or Prissy’s father would never let him approach his daughter. “Better luck next time,” he said as the man reversed his steps and opened the door, just in time to hold it open for Prissy and another young lady.

The man touched the brim of his hat respectfully, and Prissy gave him a curious glance.

“Miss Prissy, the very one I was hoping to see,” Sam said, relieved that Purvis had come before, not after, Prissy’s arrival. “And there’s my old trail buddy, Houston,” he said, greeting the dog. “I see you’ve fancied him up some,” he said, indicating the new leash the dog sported. “And who’s this you’ve brought with you? And what’s that delicious smell?”

“Mrs. Nolan Walker, may I present Simpson Creek’s new sheriff, Mr. Sam Bishop? Mr. Bishop, this is Sarah Walker, the doctor’s wife, my best friend and Simpson Creek’s best baker. She wanted to welcome you to the community.”

Sam executed a gallant bow. “Mrs. Walker, I’m honored to meet Miss Prissy’s best friend—and of course I’m always happy to meet someone who can bake anything as delicious-smelling as what you have there,” he said, nodding toward the napkin covered dish.

Sarah grinned and presented the dish to him. “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Sheriff Bishop.”

The three of them spent a very pleasurable half hour chatting until Sarah at last announced she had to leave to fix dinner for her physician husband. “I hope you’ll come and have a meal with us sometime, Sam,” Sarah told him.

“I’d like that very much. It’s nice meeting you, Mrs. Walker. I look forward to meeting your husband. Miss Prissy, I’ll see you at church in the morning,” Sam said. He took her hands in his for a moment.

He wished he could look forward to going to church for his own sake, instead of just an opportunity to be with Prissy. He wished he hadn’t lost his faith in the process of struggling to keep food on the table for his sisters, when the church near his home had done nothing to help but try to split up his family.

The ladies walked back across the street to the Walkers’ house in back of the doctor’s office, Houston trotting smartly alongside them.

“So, what did you think?” Prissy asked, after glancing backward to make sure he wasn’t watching them.

“Oh, I don’t know, I suppose he’s all right,” Sarah said airily, then laughed to show she was only teasing. “Yes, Sam Bishop is very good-looking, and very nice, and I can see why you’re so taken with him, Prissy.”

Prissy waited for more, and finally said, “But what? I can hear a ‘but’ in your voice, Sarah.”

By now they were at Sarah’s doorstep. From the front, where Dr. Nolan Walker’s office was located, came an ear-piercing wail.

“Oh, dear, Nolan must be examining the Harding boy again,” Sarah said. “He’s always sticking things in his ears or up his nose. I’m glad he’s not my child…”

“But I sense you have reservations about Sam,” Prissy persisted, not about to be distracted.

Sarah paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I don’t know if I would call them reservations, Prissy dear, so much as I would ask you to be cautious, take your time.”

“Cautious? Sarah, he’s the sheriff.”

“Yes, and two days ago you didn’t know he existed, did you? I agree, he seems very charming. But go slowly, Prissy. There’s no rush. Pray about it. Just because he wears a tin badge doesn’t mean he’s the man God has for you.”

Prissy felt unexpected frustration at Sarah’s words. Sure, she trusted God as her Savior, Prissy thought, but how was she to know His will? When she folded her hands and asked God to send her a good man, she couldn’t hear an answer.

“Sarah, we can’t all be like you, cautious and careful, taking months to decide what all of us in the Spinsters’ Club knew right away, that Nolan Walker was perfect for you. I suppose it’s understandable that you were wary, since your former fiancé turned out to be a murdering outlaw—”

Sarah’s face lost color and her eyes filled with pain. Prissy knew she’d let her tongue go too far.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” she said, stretching a trembling hand to reach Sarah’s shoulder. “That was inexcusable. I know you loved Jesse Holt once, before he changed so completely. Please, forgive me.”

Sarah’s gaze was steady and strong. “I have already. And I suppose you’re right. I was very wary after I thought Jesse was dead in the war and that Yankee doctor showed up as my Spinsters’ Club match. But I’m glad I didn’t rush into courting with him. I’m glad that I got to know him first, and prayed about it, that we were both Christians when we married—what do you know of Sam Bishop’s faith, by the way?”

“Nothing,” Prissy admitted. “As you pointed out, we only met yesterday. But he’s coming to church tomorrow—he must be a Christian.”

Sarah said nothing, just raised an eyebrow, and finally Prissy sighed. “I know, I know, that doesn’t prove anything. I suppose that’s something I will have to discover, as we get to know each other. There’s plenty of time for that.”

Sarah regarded her steadily. “Yes, there is. I hope you will keep that in mind. Prissy, please don’t be offended, but sometimes it seems that you’re in love with love itself, rather than with discovering the right man to spend your life with.”

“’In love with love?’” Prissy echoed. “I’m hardly picking out my trousseau yet,” she said stiffly. “We have yet to go on so much as an outing together. It’s quite possible that Sam Bishop is not for me, but for someone else!”

“There, now I have offended you,” Sarah said, her face full of regret. “It was the last thing I wanted you to do, Prissy. I only want you to be careful with your heart until you’re sure, that’s all.”

“I will,” Prissy promised, knowing Sarah was right. She extended a hand and placed it on Sarah’s wrist. “I want you to be honest with me, Sarah—always. Now I’d better be going and make sure Papa’s sitting down for dinner. Sometimes he says he’s not hungry and just skips it, then he’s famished by suppertime.”

She was very lucky to have a friend like Sarah Walker, Prissy mused as she walked to her house, using the boardwalks that ran past the stores rather than trusting her shoes to the dusty streets. She just wished she were as good a Christian as Sarah was. Sarah seemed to find great comfort in her prayers, and to be certain about the answers she sought with them, whereas Prissy’s sometimes seemed to go no farther than the ceiling.

Envying Sarah’s faith was better than envying her friend’s success in marriage, Prissy supposed. But it was only natural to be a little wistful when three of the Spinsters had now found mates—Milly with Nick, Sarah with Nolan, and now Emily Thompson was to marry Ed Markison in a few weeks—while the contents of Prissy’s hope chest remained unused. Perhaps she’d unconsciously assumed she’d be the first to wed. As the only child of a rich father, she’d usually gotten whatever she wanted it, as soon as she wanted it, whether it was a pony or a new hair ribbon.

Envy was the same as coveting, wasn’t it? So she’d broken one of the Commandments, Prissy thought with a guilty sigh. She’d have to be sure to say her prayers tonight, and ask for forgiveness for that. Help me to take Sarah’s advice, Lord, and not be in love with love. Give me wisdom about Sam Bishop. Help me to see if he is for me—or if You have someone else in mind for both of us.

She wanted to be in the center of the Lord’s will, but couldn’t help but wish the outcome would be the former.

Chapter Five

“Ah, Prissy, there you are,” her father boomed as she made her way up the Gilmore House steps. “I was afraid I was going to have to leave a message with Flora.”

“What do you mean, Papa? I was just coming home to have dinner with you.” And then she saw the lady standing behind her father, a lady who looked to be about his age, in a stylish dress of lavender silk with black piping, smiling at her. “Oh! I didn’t know you had company.”

“I didn’t know she was coming, either, until she appeared on our doorstep,” her father said, his voice more jovial than she’d heard it in months. “Prissy, meet Mariah Fairchild. I grew up with her back in Victoria. We were in the same grade together at school—I used to dip her braids in the inkwell.” He chuckled in remembrance. “That was long before I met your dear mama, of course. Her husband Hap was in our class, too.”

“I’m so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” Mariah Fairchild said, coming forward. She was a statuesque woman with a wealth of silver hair done up on top of her head. “I saw her portrait in the parlor, dear child, and I see you are very like her—especially about the eyes. It’s so nice to meet you, Priscilla. And what a sweet little dog,” she added, glancing at Houston, who wagged his tail obligingly at her.

“You too, Mrs. Fairchild,” Prissy said, wondering for whom the lady wore half-mourning.

“Yes,” the lady went on. “I lost my Hap a year ago, and when I heard recently about your father’s loss this winter, I just had to come pay a condolence call.”

“Oh. Do you…live very far from here?” Prissy asked, hoping Mariah Fairchild would furnish her with a clue as to why she was here.

“I live in Austin, dear, but I…I’m thinking of relocating, now that Hap has passed on. There are too many memories in that old house I rattle around in,” she said with a gusty sigh.

“I…I see,” Prissy said politely.

“Your father and Hap kept up a correspondence, you know,” Mariah Fairchild went on.

No, I didn’t, Prissy wanted to say. As far as she could remember, her father had never mentioned Hap Fairchild—or his wife.

“And your father was always singing the praises of Simpson Creek. Why, we were so proud to hear that he was elected mayor, Hap and I.” Mariah Fairchild sighed again and delicately wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with a lacy handkerchief. The scent of rosewater wafted toward Prissy. “I just had to come and see for myself if it was as good as he said it was, if this might be the town I would like to live in for the rest of my life.” She smiled tearfully up at Prissy’s father.

Prissy bristled. Papa had lost his wife only six months ago, and already this widow was swooping down on him, hoping for a new husband who was probably wealthier than her last one! She took a deep breath, trying hard to keep her voice civil as she said, “Oh, but if you’re used to a big city like Austin, I’m sure Simpson Creek will seem very dull to you,” she said. “If you blink while you’re riding through, you’d miss the town entirely. There’s no opera hall, and no library—”

“Prissy!” her father protested, “you’re making our fair town sound like a backwater—”

“Oh, but I don’t need those things,” Mariah Fairchild assured her, with a glance at Prissy’s father. “I’m content to lead a very quiet existence.”

“Oh, it’s quiet, all right,” Prissy agreed. “So quiet you can hear a hummingbird’s heartbeat.”

Mariah Fairchild gave a trill of laughter. “It sounds perfect! Well, Prissy—may I call you Prissy?—your father was just about to walk me back to my hotel, and we were going to get a bite of dinner and talk about old times. Why don’t you join us, dear?”

The woman was friendly, but Prissy had to smother the urge to respond like a sulky child. She knew rudeness would distress her father, and she had no real proof that this woman was doing anything more than what she said—paying a condolence call and merely considering moving here. What could be more logical than consulting an old friend who happened to be the town mayor?

“No, thank you, Mrs. Fairchild,” she said with all the politeness she could muster. “Perhaps another time. I’m sure you and Papa have a lot of catching up to do.”

Flora wasn’t going to be pleased about this, either, Prissy thought, watching her father gallantly offer Mariah Fairchild his arm as they descended the steps. She had probably had dinner all ready to serve promptly at noon, when Prissy’s father always wanted it, but now he was going to sashay down to the hotel and take his dinner there with this strange female. Prissy decided she would have to be extra appreciative of whatever Flora had prepared in order to make up for her father’s thoughtlessness.

But she found Flora surprisingly philosophical about the situation.

“Ah, well, chica, it’s not such a big thing. Your father is an important man—this is not the first time he has had to leave right before a meal. I can always give Antonio an extra share. That hombre is always hungry, you know.”

“It’s hardly part of the mayor’s official duties to advise a lonely widow where to live in Simpson Creek,” Prissy grumbled. “Did you see the way she looked at him?”

Flora raised a black eyebrow. “No, but I saw how he looked, Señorita Prissy,” she said, her face stern. “Your papa is a lonely man. He misses your mother, no? He misses having a lady around to smile at, to make conversation with.”

“Flora, he has us to make conversation with,” Prissy protested.

“It’s not the same,” Flora said. “You are his daughter, and I am his employee, and a married woman.”

“But it was only this winter Mama died!”

“Miss Prissy, he does your mother no dishonor by having dinner with an old friend,” Flora said. “You must not be so possessive of your old papa. One day soon you will marry and move out, and then he will be even more lonely.”

Sam Bishop flew into Prissy’s mind before she could stop herself, but it would not do to think of Sam Bishop every time marriage was mentioned. What if he was not the man God had intended for her?

Sam thought Prissy, standing outside the church talking to a bevy of other ladies, was just about the prettiest sight he’d ever seen. She wore a pink dress—of silk, unless he missed his guess—with short puffed sleeves trimmed in white lace. There was matching braid around the bodice, and a pink ribbon belt with matching tassels that emphasized her slender waist, while the back was gathered into a small bustle. High button shoes of white kid adorned her feet. She wore a straw bonnet with a pink ribbon band that enchantingly framed her heart-shaped face. Her strawberry-blond curls streamed down her back.

There were a dozen or so ladies on the lawn, clad in pretty calico, gingham or muslin. Prissy outshone them all, in his opinion.

“Oh, Sam, there you are!” she said, turning to face him, her face brightening and her blue eyes shining.

“Good morning, Miss Priscilla,” he said, tipping his hat.

“Ladies, I’d like to present our new sheriff to those of you who haven’t made his acquaintance.”

He guessed they were all members of the Spinsters’ Club—or, in Sarah Walker’s case, past members. He could practically feel them sizing him up.

“Prissy, have you told Sheriff Bishop about our Spinst—that is, our Society events?” one of the young ladies asked, fluttering her lashes at Sam.

The ladies of the Spinsters’ Club were an interesting assortment—some short, some tall, some pretty, all friendly. It was on the tip of his tongue to mention that he’d seen their advertisement in that Houston newspaper, and that that was why he’d come to Simpson Creek, but just in time he remembered that he had supposedly come for the sheriff’s job.

“No, I…um…haven’t had a chance,” Prissy murmured, suddenly seeming flustered by the other woman’s behavior. “Goodness, Polly, he only came to town two days ago.”

Polly chuckled. “I’m sure you haven’t, bless your heart.” She turned back to Sam. “Well, we are the Society for the Promotion of Marriage. You must come to our events. If you’re a bachelor, that is. You are a bachelor, aren’t you, Sheriff?” Polly asked, peering around him as if he had a wife hiding behind him.

“Yes, I am,” he said, amused by the confusion on Prissy’s face. Was it confusion—or jealousy?

“Well, good. We’ll be happy to have you attend. We’d want our new sheriff to feel welcome, wouldn’t we, ladies?”

“Reverend Chadwick,” Prissy suddenly said as the white-haired gentleman appeared. “I’d like to introduce you to the new sheriff. Reverend, this is Samuel Bishop.” Prissy seemed relieved to leave the topic of the Society, Sam noticed. Perhaps Polly’s flirting simply embarrassed her. Or was it more than that?

“We met last evening. I’m afraid our new sheriff came upon me trying to sweet-talk my roses into blooming despite the heat. Again, welcome to Simpson Creek, Sheriff Bishop,” said the old gentleman, whose gnarled hand gripped his with surprising strength. His gaze was direct, and Sam had the impression he saw deeply inside a person. Did he guess that Sam was not all he seemed?

“Thank you, sir. Please, call me Sam.”

“I’ll do that. I hope we’ll get to talk more later, Sam, but now we’d better start the service. Sarah, are you ready?”

“Sarah plays the piano for the singing,” Prissy explained. The other ladies filed inside, but Prissy put a hand on his wrist. “I thought you weren’t coming, that perhaps you had to capture some desperate outlaw,” Prissy said, gazing up at him.

He shook his head. “No desperate outlaws passed through Simpson Creek this Sunday morning,” he said, smiling down at her and placing her hand on his arm. “I was delayed by arranging something, which I’ll tell you about later.” He winked and enjoyed the blush that rose to her cheeks. The first piano notes of a hymn wafted out of the open door of the church.

They climbed the steps and entered, walking down the middle aisle to the front pew, with Prissy nodding at others who gazed at both of them with interest—and in the case of some of the ladies, with barely hidden envy. His amusement was almost enough to distract him from the fact that he was in a church for the first time in a very, very long time. If only his sisters, Etta, Lidy and Livy, could see him now!

He was amused to spot Delbert Perry, his face scrubbed, his threadbare clothing spotless, his hair slicked down, sitting midway toward the front. Delbert beamed at him as he passed.

So the town drunk was indeed trying to mend his ways. Perhaps there was something to church attendance, after all.

Sam also saw Nick Brookfield, the former sheriff, sitting a couple of rows back with some weathered-looking fellows who were probably his cowhands.

They reached the front pew, where Priscilla’s father stood, holding a hymnbook with a lady Sam didn’t recognize. Her father shot her a look of gentle disapproval because the congregation was already halfway through “Onward Christian Soldiers,” but then he turned back and resumed singing.

Prissy took a hymnbook from the rack in front of her, turning to the hymn being sung. Her soprano was clear and sweet in his ears. Sam knew very few hymns, so he just enjoyed listening to her voice and hoped that she would not read anything into his silence.

Reverend Chadwick, who’d been sitting to the left of the pulpit, rose and gestured for everyone to be seated.

“Good Sunday morning, ladies and gentlemen. Isn’t it a pretty day?”

There were murmurs of agreement. “We are here to worship, but today we also have a special cause for thankfulness. As many of you may have heard, Simpson Creek has a new sheriff, Mr. Sam Bishop.”

Sam was caught off guard. He was a cause for thankfulness? If that didn’t beat all. After looking up at the preacher, he glanced around and saw everyone nodding and smiling at him.

Reverend Chadwick beckoned. “Sam, come on up front. You, too, Mayor. Sam, it’s customary in Simpson Creek to swear you into your new office in front of the whole town, since you’re promising to serve and protect them.” He held a thick, black-leather-bound Bible in his hand.

Sam got to his feet and followed the mayor to the front. He hadn’t thought about the fact that he hadn’t been sworn in at the time he’d put on the badge. Now it was about to happen in front of everyone, in a house of worship. He did his best to keep his face expressionless and solemn, but he as took his place by the pulpit with Prissy’s father, he was all too aware that he had come to town and taken this job under false pretences. He had lied about his reason for coming to town as well as his previous experience. The only time he’d spent in a sheriff’s office had been inside a cell, for petty crimes like disorderly conduct. And he’d turned away a man who probably did have experience.

He saw Prissy smiling proudly at him from the front pew. The very sight of her looking at him with such trust caused him to offer the first real prayer he’d offered up in many years.

Lord, please don’t strike me dead for lying. It would upset Miss Prissy. I’m sorry, God, and I’ll try to make up for it.

Mayor Gilmore stood facing him, with the preacher holding the Bible between them. “Place your right hand on the Good Book and hold up your left hand,” he said, and waited until Sam did so. “Samuel Bishop, do you solemnly swear to serve and protect the town of Simpson Creek, to uphold the statutes of this town and the laws of Texas, as well as the Constitution of the United States of America?”

Sam nodded, relieved that no bolt of lightning had struck him—at least not yet. “I do.”

A smile appeared on the jowly features of the mayor. “Then it is my distinct pleasure to announce that Samuel Bishop is officially our new sheriff. I’m sure the Reverend wouldn’t find it out of place to give him a round of applause, folks.”

Sam smiled as the congregation stood. They clapped their hands, and the knot of guilt in his stomach began to ease. He couldn’t believe it. They were glad he was here. They were willing to take him at his word that he would wear that five-pointed tin star with honor. He suddenly felt humble, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“You can take your seats, gentlemen,” the preacher said. “I know you’ll all want to greet Sam after the service, but let’s sing our next hymn before I start into my sermon.”

Sarah began playing another tune as Sam left the pulpit and found his way back to Prissy. He hardly heard the Reverend’s sermon. Instead, he thought about the trust that Prissy and all the people of Simpson Creek had just placed in him. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to live up to their expectations.

Beside him now, Prissy plied an ivory-handled fan with a delicate flower design as she concentrated on the sermon. Clearly coming to church was very important to her. Was he doing her a disservice by pretending to be a…what? God-fearing man? A believer?

Was he pretending?

Sam did notice, however, Prissy darting a look at her father—who seemed to be giving some sidelong glances of his own at the lady beside him. When Prissy returned her gaze to the pulpit after one of these glances, he caught an anxious look on her features. He wondered who this lady was that was causing Prissy concern.

The temperature in the little chapel climbed. Ladies wielded their fans faster and faster. Here and there gents pulled out handkerchiefs and mopped their foreheads. At last Reverend Chadwick stopped preaching, the congregation rose for a final hymn, and the service was over.

Before they even left the pew, the mayor stopped him. “I didn’t want to interrupt the service when you came in, but I want to introduce you to an old friend from my childhood, Mrs. Hap Fairchild. She and her husband and I were friends back in school. He’s passed on now, but Mariah—that is, Mrs. Fairchild—is thinking about settling down here.”

Ah, Sam thought, understanding immediately why Prissy looked so unhappy. Her father was a lonely widower, and Prissy didn’t cotton to the idea of him putting another woman in her mother’s place. Yet the woman’s smile was genuine and warm, and there was no denying her effect on James Gilmore.

“Mrs. Fairchild,” Sam said politely, taking the gloved hand she extended. “I’ve only been in Simpson Creek since Friday, but it already feels like home to me. I hope you’ll be very happy here.”

“I’m sure I will. It’s nice to meet you, Sheriff Bishop. I’m sure the town’s in good hands with you as sheriff and James as mayor.”

He didn’t miss the way Prissy’s lips tightened, and was sorry that she felt threatened.

“I hope you’ll be back,” Reverend Chadwick said, as they came to the entrance. The preacher was shaking hands with each person as they left.

“Yessir, I’ll be back,” Sam said, warmed by the man’s friendliness. He suspected he would be back—even if Prissy was the real reason he came. Before he could say any more, another man extended his hand.

“Sheriff Bishop, I’m Dr. Walker—Nolan Walker, that is.” His accent was distinctly Yankee—from Maine, Sam thought. “You met my wife, Sarah, yesterday.”

There seemed to be an interminable number of people who wanted to introduce themselves to Sam and shake his hand, from the homes and businesses around town as well as from outlying ranches. He was overwhelmed with names, friendliness and open interest.

So this is what it’s like to belong somewhere…

When they were alone again, Prissy turned to him with avid curiosity. “Will you tell me what it is you were arranging before church?”

“I’ve arranged with the hotel to pack us a picnic basket—but of course, I realize it’s short notice, and you might have made other plans,” he added. “If that’s the case, perhaps I’ll just give it to one of the other ladies.” He glanced at the knot of Spinsters’ Club females he’d met before church, who were gathered under the shade of a cottonwood, discussing the two of them, if their sidelong glances were anything to go by. “I wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

She smiled at him, please by his gesture. “I have to ask my father, of course.”

“Oh, but I already have,” he told her. “Yesterday, as a matter of fact, after you visited me with Sarah. He seemed quite open to the idea. So now the only question remains, where are we to enjoy this picnic?”

Prissy was so astonished she could barely respond. “Sam Bishop, you are full of surprises.”

He grinned, hoping against hope that the only surprises she would ever get from him would be pleasant ones.

Chapter Six

Prissy felt the warmth of joy bubbling up within her, warmer than the summer sun above her. He’d secured her father’s permission to court her the very day after he’d asked her? And he’d gone to the trouble of planning an outing already? But wait—wasn’t this all happening a bit too fast?

“Prissy, are you all right?”

“Yes! I was just thinking we could have our picnic over yonder, in the meadow,” she said, pointing to the grassy, tree-lined field on the other side of the creek that had given the town its name.

He studied it. “Looks like a fine place for a picnic,” he said.

“But that’s where everyone goes to picnic—families…with little children running around…” She hesitated. “It’s not exactly the most private location. There’s always the possibility that we’ll be talked about.”

“And you know somewhere less crowded?”

“No! No, I mean…I…uh…” Suddenly Prissy was afraid she’d sounded too bold. She didn’t want Sam Bishop to think she was not a lady. But she didn’t want the entire town observing their picnic, either. “I just meant somewhere where we could talk in peace, and not have to worry about a ball landing in the middle of the fried chicken all of a sudden—or whatever’s in that picnic basket.”

Sam chuckled. “No, we don’t want that,” he agreed. “Where did you have in mind?”

His smile was so warm she felt it like a physical touch. It was almost unnerving. “There’s a place…” she began. “Oh, but we couldn’t walk there, it’s too far. Maybe we’d better go there another time.”

“It just so happens I’ve checked with the Calhoun boy at the livery, and he’s got a horse and shay we could borrow for the afternoon. He could hitch it up while we’re picking up the basket at the hotel.”

“My, you’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? All right, then, there’s this huge old live oak, just a little ways out of town. They say it’s over a hundred years old.”

“And there wouldn’t be families and little boys throwing balls into the fried chicken there?”

“No. Chances are we’d have the place to ourselves today.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said.

Prissy felt her heart accelerate. She gazed up into those intense brown eyes and felt a niggle of doubt about the propriety of going off alone with this handsome man she’d so recently met. “But perhaps you shouldn’t go so far from town, since you’re the sheriff?” she said, twisting a fold of her pink skirt in her hand.

“I don’t think there’ll be a wave of lawlessness striking Simpson Creek on a Sunday afternoon,” he said lightly but without ridicule. “Would you feel more at ease, though, if we asked Sarah and her husband to come along?”

“Sam, you wouldn’t mind?” she said, relief washing over her.

“Of course not. They’re talking to Nick Brookfield by his wagon. Let’s go ask. I thought you might feel that way, so I told the cook to pack enough for four.”

Impulsively, she seized his hand and squeezed it. “You are the most thoughtful man!” she exclaimed, and was rewarded with a lopsided grin—as well as some interesting looks from the ladies of the Society.

Sarah and Nolan were perfectly agreeable to falling in with their plan, but just as they started down the street toward the livery stable with them, a cowhand on a lathered horse galloped into the churchyard from beyond the creek and slid to a stop by Nick’s wagon.

“Miz Milly says ya gotta hurry on home, boss! She commenced t’ havin’ pains ’bout the time you left, but she didn’t wanna tell you. Figured you’d be back in plenty a’ time. Now they comin’ faster. She thinks the time’s about here. She says you better come, too, Doc Walker, Miz Sarah! You take the horse, Mist’ Nick—I’ll drive the wagon.”

Sarah turned back to Prissy. “I’m afraid we’ll have to make it some other time,” she said as Nick took off toward the ranch. “My sister needs me.”

“Of course,” Prissy said. “How exciting, Sarah—you’ll soon be an aunt!”

After the excited Walkers and the wagon full of cowhands had departed along with the Walkers in the doctor’s buggy, Sam turned to Prissy. “Perhaps you’d rather have our picnic over in the meadow after all?” he suggested.

She turned and gazed across the creek. Just as she had said, families were spreading out tablecloths on the grass, and children who’d been confined to the pews in their stiff Sunday clothes were already wading in the creek, splashing and shrieking. She shook her head.

“We could always take the picnic basket and eat out on your lawn.”

“And have Papa and Mariah Fairchild watching us through the window? No, thank you. He invited her to Sunday dinner, you know.” Her voice sounded sulky in her own ears, so she took a deep breath. “No, let’s stick to the original plan, and go out to the We—” She caught herself, not wanting to say “Wedding Tree”—the name the locals had given the venerable old live oak—it would make her sound like a desperate old maid. “To that old tree outside of town,” she amended.

“All right, then.” His brown eyes were serious, steady. “Prissy, I want you to know you have nothing to fear from me. We may not have known one another long, but I’d never do anything…anything that would make you not trust me.”

“I know.” She did know, she realized. “All right, let’s go. I’m famished, aren’t you?”

Long before they arrived under its gnarled boughs, he could see the ancient live oak with its limbs overspreading the narrow rutted road and the meadow on the other side.

“That’s quite a tree,” Sam said, genuinely awed by its massiveness.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she agreed, smiling at him. “It’s called the Wedding Tree. Legend has it that the Indians used to come here to have…sacred ceremonies. Some of the early settlers, too—before there were churches, of course.”

He guided the horse into the shade, set the brake, then tied the reins to it before jumping down and reaching his hand up to Prissy. She descended with a graceful flurry of pink skirts and white petticoats, then stood by as he lifted the wicker picnic basket out of the shay, along with the broad canvas sheet the hotel had included.

Beyond the reach of the low-hanging branches, the summer sun beat down in all its fierce intensity and bees buzzed amid the flowers, but it was dim and cool beneath the wide, twisted boughs. It was as if they were enclosed in their own private world.

“You’re right, Prissy, this is a perfect place for our picnic,” he said, enjoying the way her bluebonnet-blue eyes lit with pleasure at his compliment.

“Here, help me with this,” she said, taking one end of the canvas.

They spread it out just beyond where the roots of the huge tree stuck partway out of the ground, and Prissy began laying out plates and silverware, fried chicken, a napkin-wrapped basket of biscuits that were still warm, a covered dish of green beans, a jar of cold tea and mugs, and pecan pralines for dessert.

“The hotel cook made enough for an army,” she murmured. “It really is too bad Sarah and Nolan couldn’t come with us.”

“Do you mind their absence?” he asked her.

“No,” she admitted, laughing. “Although I’m sure we will now be the talk of Simpson Creek.”

“To be honest, Prissy, I think we’ve been the talk of Simpson Creek since I shared your pew.” Then, afraid he would spook her with his frankness, he added, “But I’ve got no issue with that. That is, if you don’t.”

She smiled her perfect smile and they sat down and began to eat.

“What is it?” she said, some time later, when she noticed him watching her while he lounged on his side, his head propped in his hand. Even in the shade, he could see the self-conscious flush blossom on her cheekbones.

He couldn’t tell her he liked watching the delicate way she sat nibbling at the meat clinging to the chicken drumstick with pearl-like white teeth. She didn’t have a man’s hearty appetite, but she wasn’t one of these belles who picked at her food, either.

“I have a confession to make,” he said instead.

“Oh?” Her eyes widened and she laid down the bare drumstick on her plate. “What is it?”

“About me,” he said, watching her. Would what he was about to tell her please her and make them closer, or would she become distrustful of him?

“Are you…are you an outlaw? A wanted man?” She held herself very still, he saw, as if she were afraid of the answer.

“No,” he said, “no, of course not.” He laughed as she let out the breath she had been holding. “Did you really think that’s what I was going to tell you?”

She smiled a little nervously. “No, I certainly hoped it wasn’t. I would have been shocked, of course! But when Sarah’s fiancé—her former fiancé, that is—finally returned a few months ago—she hadn’t seen Jesse Holt since he’d gone away to the war, you see—he’d become an outlaw, and he kidnapped Sarah, and Nick and Nolan and the posse had to track them down, and Jesse was killed. Poor Sarah—it was awful!”

“And you thought I might be a man on the run,” he concluded. “I’m sorry, Prissy—I didn’t mean to frighten you for a single second.” He was a man on the run, though—from Kendall Raney and his henchmen.

“Are you…are you married?” Her voice was a shaky whisper. “Did you leave a wife behind somewhere?”

He couldn’t stop the hoot of laughter that burst out of him and seemed to bounce off the twisted tree limbs hanging above them. “No, Prissy! No, I’m not married, or promised, or anything like that.”

“Then what could it be?” she asked, her blue eyes puzzled in the sun-dappled shade. “If you’re not in trouble with the law, or married…”

“I don’t mean to make you play a guessing game,” he said, contrite over the worry that furrowed the lovely brow framed by her strawberry-blond curls. “Here’s my confession—I didn’t come to Simpson Creek for the sheriff job.”

“Y-you didn’t? Then why—”

“I came to meet you.”

Her jaw dropped.

All he could do now was hope for the best.

Prissy couldn’t believe her ears. “You came to meet me,” she repeated. “Not to be the sheriff? Are you saying you saw the advertisement we ladies put in the newspapers?”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. But of course, I had no idea that ‘Miss Priscilla Gilmore of Post Office Box 17’ was going to be the loveliest lady in Simpson Creek. I’m just surprised that no one’s snapped you up before, at least once the Spinsters’ Club began—I meant, the Society for the Promotion of Marriage.”

“That’s all right, you can call it the Spinsters’ Club—everyone does,” Prissy said, unsure of exactly how to respond to his compliment.

“It’s the truth. You’re a very pretty girl, Prissy. And very sweet.”

She suddenly remembered his words when he’d met her papa, Nick, and her. “But you told Papa you came to apply for the sheriff’s job,” she said.

He looked down. “Yes, and I’m ashamed of that fib,” he told her quietly. “I’ll confess it to him someday and ask his pardon.” He raised his head again and, taking her hand, gazed at her. “But Prissy, I knew I had to have some sort of employment while we became acquainted. What kind of man would I be if I just took a room at the hotel and spent the livelong day courting you? Your papa wouldn’t let a man like that within ten miles of his precious daughter,” he told her. “Nor should he.”

She thought about it a moment. It was true enough that all of the men who’d come to town to meet the spinsters had taken jobs of one sort or another—Nick had hired on as a cowhand on the Matthews ranch, Nolan became the town doctor, Ed Markison was a bank teller and Pete Collier, Caroline Wallace’s late fiancé, had opened up a drugstore before his untimely death.

“I see,” she said at last. “I guess that makes sense.”

“The sheriff’s job just seemed to fall into my lap. Besides, I think I’ll make a good sheriff for Simpson Creek. Don’t you?”

“If your first day on the job was anything to go by, you sure will,” she said. “Why, Delbert Perry might have killed Nick if you hadn’t been there.”

“Oh, I don’t know, it was just that Perry was startled, and—”

She interrupted his modest dismissal. “But, Sam, how can you be sure I’m the one you want to court? You haven’t gotten to know the other ladies—some of the Spinsters you haven’t even met yet.”

He looked down again for a moment, and when he looked up, his grin was broad. “Fishing for compliments, are you, Prissy? You want to hear that once I saw you, I didn’t have eyes for anyone else?”

He expected her to laugh, but consternation filled her eyes.

“Sam, I, too, have a confession. I’m feeling somewhat guilty about you—”

He blinked. “Guilty? About me? How’s that?” What could she possibly mean? They hadn’t so much as kissed. What could this innocent, beautiful girl have to feel guilty about?

She nodded. “I’m president of the Spinsters’ Club. By rights, I should be encouraging you to get to know all of the ladies and make your choice. But I haven’t wanted to do that. I chose to…go on a picnic with you instead.”

After a moment, he took her hand. “I’m glad you did, Prissy. Mighty glad you did.”

All of a sudden there was no world beyond the sun-dappled shade of the ancient tree, no one but him and her.

“Once I saw you, I couldn’t imagine that anyone could compare to you,” he said.

Prissy felt she could hardly catch her breath.

She could smell his scent of bay rum and leather, and even the sweetness of the pralines they had eaten. She could have stayed in that moment the rest of her life.

They both heard the creak of an axle and the sound of laughing children at the same time. A moment later, a buckboard wagon lumbered into view, the bed loaded with wriggling children, a local rancher and his wife seated on the plank bench in front.

“Howdy, Miss Prissy, Sheriff,” the man called, raising a hand in greeting. “Thought I’d take our young’uns to the creek t’git cooled off. Are y’all havin’ a nice picnic?”

“We sure are, Mr. Edwardson,” she called, grateful she could remember the man’s name in spite of the way her head was spinning, and hoping he and his wife couldn’t see the way she was blushing in the shade of the old live oak.

“Have fun at the creek,” Sam said.

The buckboard rumbled on, and she turned back to Sam, suddenly self-conscious.

The silence under the tree was broken only by the buzzing of a fly swooping low over the remains of the picnic feast. Sam waved the insect away.

She should start a new conversation. Her mother always said a lady should be able to make sparkling conversation about any interesting topic under any circumstance.

“Sam,” Prissy began, “tell me about your home. You said you were from Tennessee originally? And your family—I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned them.”

He was silent for a long minute.

“I’m sorry,” she said, thinking she must have sounded nosy. “I didn’t mean to pry—”

He held up a hand. “You weren’t, Prissy. No reason to apologize. It’s a natural enough question. Yes, I was born and raised in the hills of Tennessee.”

“Did you live on a farm?”

He gave a short, mirthless bark of laughter. “To call those rocky acres a farm would be stretching the truth, but yes, I did.”

“Are your parents still living? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“No brothers, just three younger sisters, and our parents both died of a fever when I was about sixteen.” His face had gone bleak, his eyes unfocused as he stared off into the distance.

She sighed and gazed at him, pity welling up in her. “How awful for you! Did you go to live with grandparents, or an aunt or uncle?”

His mouth tightened as he pretended great interest in a couple of ants marching determinedly across their picnic cloth. “No, our folks had come there from back East and burned their bridges behind them, I guess you could say.”

“But there must have been someone,” she said. “Some family to take you in.”

“If we were willing to be split up, sure. One family was willing to take one of my sisters to mind their handful of young’uns, another wanted me to work on their farm that was about as hardscrabble as ours, another wanted one of my sisters to cook and clean for a family of twelve. And then there was the sixty-year-old widower who was willing to marry the oldest of my sisters—if our farm was included as part of the deal, and the rest of us found another place to live.”

Prissy couldn’t stifle a gasp of horror.

“But Bishops take care of their own,” he went on, after a quick glance at her. “They don’t take charity—if you could call what we were offered charity. I worked from sunup to sundown and kept food on the table and clothes on our backs until my sisters were older and made good marriages to good men. Then I left.”

“You don’t keep in touch with your sisters?”

He shrugged. “I’ve moved around a fair amount. If they tried, the letters probably got lost in the mail.” He looked back at the ants, who’d been joined by a couple of their fellows. Prissy sensed there was more to the story than what he was telling.

“What about you?” she asked. “Didn’t you try to write to them?”

He shrugged again. “I wrote a couple of times. Didn’t hear anything back. There’s no telling if they even received them.”

“You might be an uncle several times over, for all you know.”

His lips quirked upward. “They’d already had at least two young ’uns apiece last I heard. There’s probably more now. Could be I’ll try writing them again. I’ll probably send it to Etta, the oldest—she’d be the one most apt to write back. I’ll tell her I’ve met this wonderful girl in Simpson Creek with blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair, one Prissy Gilmore by name…”

Prissy couldn’t help but smile.

Sam got to his feet, peering at the position of the sun through the gnarled branches of the live oak. “I suppose we’d better get back, before your papa sends out a search party for us,” he said, extending a hand to help her up.

“Or before evildoers take over Simpson Creek,” she responded wryly. She imagined it was likely her father was still enjoying the company of Mariah Fairchild and hadn’t even missed her yet. She only hoped the fair widow hadn’t been invited to supper, too.

Then she felt guilty for the selfish thought. She had spent a wonderful afternoon with Sam—should her father have to sit home alone, staring at the portrait of her mother that hung in his study?

But my mother only died a few months ago.

No. She wouldn’t think of that now. She was too happy to let her worry about the widow spoil her joy. Sam had bared his very soul to her, daring to confess the real reason for his coming to Simpson Creek, risking her disapproval of the lie he had told her father, promising to confess it and apologize for it soon. And he’d confided in her about his arduous growing up, trusting that she wouldn’t think less of him for his humble beginnings. He wouldn’t do those things unless he cared deeply for her, would he?

“You’re smiling,” he said, as they neared Gilmore House in the shay. “Penny for your thoughts?”

She opened her mouth to speak as Sarah’s words rang in her ears about being in love with love. She quickly tempered her response.

“Oh, I was just thinking what a pleasant afternoon I’ve had,” she said lightly, as if she spent many afternoons so occupied with a variety of adoring swains. No matter what she thought she was feeling for Sam, it was necessary that she keep it to herself and use caution. A little self-protection never hurt anyone.

Chapter Seven

Sam stretched, feeling all his muscles tense and release, before settling into the chair he’d set outside against the jail. He tilted back in it till the front legs came off the ground and the back of it hit the wall. From here, he could keep an eye on most of the town to his right, as well as the church, doctor’s office and adjoining house to his left.

He reckoned it was going on six o’clock, but after all that tasty picnic food, he wasn’t hungry enough to amble down to the hotel for his supper yet. No, he’d just “set a spell,” watching the town settle into early evening—and think about the afternoon.

He couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from turning up as he thought of Prissy. He hadn’t imagined in his most optimistic daydreams that the picnic would go as well as it had. Not only had events conspired to allow them to go on the outing without the chaperoning presence of the Walkers, but he had confessed his lie to the lovely lady, and she still seemed to like him. He found her trust in him touching.

He only wished he felt like he’d earned it.

Before coming to Simpson Creek, he’d have thought the best thing about Prissy’s innocence was that she would be easier to woo and win, and thus secure a comfortable life for himself. But now he found himself valuing it for its own sake. He’d felt a certain protectiveness well up in him as they talked and shared their stories.

None of the females he’d spent any time with since leaving Tennessee had cared a lick about his hard upbringing—except that it meant luring him into marriage would not provide them with all the comforts wealth provided. And so his experience with all females besides his sisters had been unsatisfying at best.

But not only had Prissy not thought less of him because his folks had not been the social equals of hers, but she actually appeared to ache for the hardships he had endured. And though she’d been quick to realize that his confession meant he had lied to her father in front of her about his reason for coming to Simpson Creek, she hadn’t gone all self-righteous on him about it. She’d taken at face value his pledge to make it right with her father.

Would she have been so sweet and understanding, though, if he’d told her the whole truth? That he wasn’t quite sure he had a relationship with God? That he’d never been a sheriff, that he was nothing but a down-on-his-luck cardsharp, a gambler on the run from a man more unscrupulous than himself? That he had stolen an item of great value from that man? No, probably not. But Kendall Raney would never find him here, and he vowed he’d become the man Prissy thought Sam was—honorable, upright and law-abiding.

He was going to settle down in Simpson Creek and be the town’s sheriff. He was going to marry Prissy Gilmore just as soon as he could make it happen, and raise up a passel of children with her—little girls with her sweet temperament and prettiness, and boys as wild and fun-loving as he had been, before his parents’ death had brought all enjoyment in life to a halt. Yessir, life was going to be good.

The only thing that could make it sweeter was if the Walkers came back early with news of a baby and Sarah Walker allowed him to be the one to go tell Prissy. He wouldn’t mind having an excuse to mosey down the street and knock on the Gilmore House door. Maybe he’d stroll by anyway, after he’d taken his dinner at the hotel and checked on the saloon, since the mayor’s grand house was so close by. He might find her sitting on the lawn, playing with that rascally dog he’d given her. It would just appear that he was merely a dedicated lawman making his rounds, as the citizens of Simpson Creek had entrusted him to do—not some lovesick fellow who couldn’t wait to see her again.

He wondered what his next move in the courtship should be. He could invite her to supper at the hotel. Or perhaps she would stop by the jailhouse with news of some social event that the Spinsters’ Club was hosting—or the church.

“You look like a man with happy thoughts on his mind,” a voice said, startling him so completely that he nearly lost his balance in the tilting chair. Once he’d righted it with a clatter, he saw that it was Reverend Chadwick who stood there.

“Good evening, Reverend,” Sam said, wondering how undignified he’d appeared, nearly falling out of his chair. “Just enjoying the peaceful view of the town, and wondering what was on the menu at the hotel tonight. Anything I can do for you, sir?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Mrs. Detwiler sent her son over with some beef stew for my dinner, and there’s way too much for me to eat. Might I invite you to share my supper? I’ll admit it gets lonely in the parsonage from time to time, and I wouldn’t mind some company.”

“That’s right kind of you, Reverend. I’d be pleased to accept.” It would be nice to eat with the preacher rather than alone in the hotel dining room, and maybe he could learn more about the town’s inhabitants—especially the mayor and his pretty daughter. There’d be plenty of time afterward to patrol the streets of the town, and maybe still a chance to “accidentally” encounter Prissy.

Supper with the preacher, however, took longer than he had anticipated. Sam discovered the old man was a fount of information and interesting tales about the first settlers of Simpson Creek. He didn’t try to lure Sam into a discussion of religion, but he exuded a faith so natural it seemed just like breathing. Sam was surprised to feel a touch of envy at that.

Dark had fallen by the time he thought to look out a window. He thanked the preacher for supper and took his leave. So much for his plan to encounter Prissy. The only person he met was Delbert Perry.

“Evenin’, Sheriff!” Delbert called.

“How are you, Delbert?” Sam responded, wondering if he’d already been backsliding and visited the saloon.

“Just fine, thank you. I’m out walkin’ and talkin’ to the Lord. Keeps me from drinkin’. Fine night, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed,” Sam said, ashamed at just how wrong his suspicion had been.

Well, if Delbert Perry could change his ways, surely Sam Bishop could become the man he saw reflected back at him in Prissy Gilmore’s beautiful blue eyes. How hard could it be?

Prissy had just awakened the next morning when she heard a rapping at the door, which woke Houston from his slumber at the foot of the bed. He dashed to the door, yapping madly.

Who could that be at such an early hour? Throwing on her wrapper, she dashed to the window, peering discreetly out at first, then poking her head out all the way once she saw it was Sarah.

“Hello, Sarah! Is the baby born?” she called, just as Flora opened the door.

Sarah lifted her head, grinning. “Yes! Come on down, sleepyhead, and I’ll tell you all about it in exchange for some coffee.”

Prissy splashed some water on her face, then dashed down the stairs, barefoot, with the dog at her heels. She was glad that her rumpled appearance wouldn’t matter to Sarah. She found her friend already ensconced in the dining room, with Flora filling her cup.

Sarah looked tired, and she smothered a yawn as Prissy and the dog entered.

“Antonio is at the back door, señorita,” Flora said. “He will watch the dog outside while you visit with your friend.”

Prissy let the dog out the back door.

“Señora Sarah, you have some good news, eh?” Flora said as Prissy returned to the dining room.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Prissy asked.

Sarah’s grin was broad. “A boy, born at five this morning. They named him Richard Nicholas—Richard for both our papa and Nick’s brother the vicar. Nolan guesses he’s about seven pounds, maybe seven and a half, and does he ever have a good pair of lungs!”

“Does he have any hair?” Prissy asked, for Nick’s hair was as light as his wife’s was dark.

“Lots of brown hair.”

“And Milly? Is she all right?”

“Fine, though she admits she feels ‘a mite wilted.’” Sarah grinned. “She was sound asleep with the baby beside her before we left, and I just came home to sleep awhile. Then I’m going gather up some things and go back to help her for a few days. I just wanted to come and tell you first.”

“How wonderful! The Spinsters’ Club will have to give a party for her. We can get a wagon to take us all out there with the gifts and refreshments, so she and the baby won’t have to go bouncing over the road,” Prissy said.

“I’m sure Milly would be thrilled,” Sarah said. “Thank goodness I finished crocheting that baby blanket in time. It came out quite nicely, if I do say so myself. I’m glad Mrs. Detwiler could teach me how, so Milly didn’t know—” she tried unsuccessfully to smother the yawn that interrupted her sentence “—I was making it. Goodness, I’m a little wilted myself. I can’t think when I last stayed up all night.”

“You better get home and get some rest. And tell Milly I’ll get right to planning the party,” Prissy said.

“I will. Poor Nolan, it’ll be a while before he can rest. Lulubelle Harding was already waiting in front of the office with all four of her youngsters when we arrived back at the house—says they’ve all got earaches. I don’t doubt they’ve been putting beans in their ears again.”

Prissy barely heard Sarah’s last few words, for she was caught up with yearning. How wonderful that must be to share a new baby with a husband who so clearly adored his wife as Nick Brookfield did.

An image of herself holding a newborn, with Sam tenderly bent over her, admiring their child, filled her heart. Lord, please, I want that—is that Your will for me? Please show me…

Sarah’s chuckle broke into her thoughts.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying, have you? All right, we’ll try a new subject. You haven’t told me how the picnic went.”

Prissy’s grin was all the answer she needed.

Sam had seen the doctor’s buggy arriving back in town and had been told the good news by Dr. Walker himself while Sam helped him unhitch the horse. Sam thought he’d go have some breakfast and coffee in the hotel before going to see if Prissy had heard about the birth, but just as he drew abreast of the hotel, the stage pulled up, dust welling in its wake.

“Forty-five-minute stop for those passengers continuing on to Richland Springs,” the driver announced as the doors were flung open and the coach disgorged its passengers. Sam paused, honoring his duty as a sheriff to size up any newcomers arriving in town.

None of the half dozen people who descended stiffly into the dusty street, blinking sleepily, looked like desperadoes or cardsharps, however. There was a rumpled woman clutching the hand of a toddler boy who was intent on investigating a butterfly that had landed at the edge of a puddle; a middle-aged man and wife; a drummer with a big, black sample case; and a dapperly dressed man in a bowler that matched his light gray trousers and frock coat. He carried a silver-headed cane and looked as weary as the others, but Sam saw his eyes fasten on the tin star and his face brightened.

“Ah, the sheriff,” he said, squinting in Sam’s direction and indicating him with the end of his cane. “I wonder if I might have a word with you, sir?” The man’s flat, nasal accent marked him as an easterner. There was a certain rankling imperiousness about his gesture, as if he were summoning a lackey, but perhaps, Sam considered, he was too tired from the long, jolting journey to remember his manners.

Sam straightened from the hitching rail he had been leaning against behind the coach. “Sure. What can I do for you, mister?” Sam asked, coming forward and extending his hand. “I’m Sam Bishop, sheriff of Simpson Creek.”

The man shot a look at him as if surprised Sam thought his name was important. Then he feigned not to see Sam’s extended hand and busied himself with brushing the dust of his travels off his coat.

“William Waters—William Waters the Third, to be exact. I’m here to claim my inheritance, and thought you might be able to direct me.”

“Your inheritance?” Sam asked, wishing he’d been in town long enough to know what the man was talking about.

A huff of impatience erupted from Waters. “I’m speaking of the Waters Ranch, of course, just out of town. I’m the late William Waters’s heir—his nephew, in point of fact. The bank president notified me of his death late last fall, and I’m finally able to come look over my property with an eye to moving here and enlarging the house. Naturally I must see it—and the town—before I consider living here.”

“I see. Welcome to Simpson Creek, Mr. Waters,” Sam said. He was glad he’d had supper with the preacher last night, for he’d told Sam about Milly and Nick Brookfield’s erstwhile neighbor, the late Bill Waters. Waters had been an unpleasant, unscrupulous neighbor, and had caused Milly and Nick much trouble before being killed in the last Comanche raid. Since then his land had sat empty, and Nick Brookfield had been trying to scrape together enough money to buy it and join Waters’s land to his.

It seemed Brookfield was to be disappointed, if William Waters the Third indeed stayed and made a go of the place. He couldn’t quite picture the man before him as a rancher, but he supposed time would tell.

“Well, can you direct me to the property or not?” Waters snapped. “I would have thought a man in your position—” he narrowed his gaze on the tin star meaningfully “—knowledgeable about such things.”

“Mr. Waters, as it happens, I’m new in town myself, this being only my fourth day to wear this badge,” Sam said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact and nonapologetic, “but I’m told the Waters ranch lies about five miles outside of town out that road, yonder.” He pointed. “You must be tired and hungry, though, after your long trip. Why don’t you go in and have yourself some breakfast, as I mean to do, and then you can make arrangements to hire a mount to go out and see the place?”

The man glanced toward the hotel just as the door opened and the smell of frying bacon came wafting out from the restaurant like the olfactory equivalent of a beckoning siren.

“Perhaps that would be best,” Waters agreed, his tone more conciliatory. “Would you care to join me, Sheriff? And perhaps you’d be good enough to accompany me on my tour of inspection? I fear I’m not an accomplished horseman, nor do I have a great sense of direction…”

Sam agreed to both. While he didn’t have any real desire to ride out of town with this easterner, it was probably his duty as a sheriff to make sure the man didn’t get lost or come to any harm.

Looks like he’d have to postpone that visit to Prissy—again.

Prissy trudged back down Simpson Creek’s main street toward Gilmore House, Houston at her heels. It was only noon, and she had already sent Antonio with a note to the Brookfield ranch to ask when Milly would like the Spinsters’ Club to visit with gifts for the new baby, and she had just finished notifying the rest of the club’s members about the birth and the proposed outing.

She felt at loose ends. Sarah was at the ranch helping her sister. Papa was at a council meeting. Sam Bishop wasn’t at the jail, nor had she seen him in the street.

Where could he be? Off at one of the nearby ranches on some duty? Or at the hotel, having his dinner? She wouldn’t be so brazen as to go into the restaurant to look, but if she were to happen past the restaurant window, surely if he were there he’d see her and come out to ask her to join him. She had to admit she’d worn a dress of yellow sprigged muslin with a pretty shawl collar and had taken special care with her appearance, hoping she’d encounter him. She wasn’t quite sure if that was a good thing—or a bad thing.

She could see no one in the restaurant as she glanced in the window. She might as well go home and have her own midday meal. The day had become uncomfortably warm, anyway. She turned to step off the boardwalk.

“Oh, Priscilla! How nice to encounter you, dear,” called a voice.

No one called her Priscilla. No one but the Widow Fairchild. She stiffened as she turned and saw Mariah Fairchild coming out of the hotel. It wasn’t fair that the woman had the perfect ivory complexion that made her look fragile and appealing in the dove-gray dress she wore, instead of washed out, nor that her elegantly dressed silver hair gleamed so that it complemented the gray dress rather than made her look old.

“Hello, Mrs. Fairchild,” Prissy said, keeping her voice civil.

Houston, traitor that he was, had no such reservations. He went bounding toward the widow, practically wagging his tail off, lunging at the end of the leash as if he would perish if he could not get closer to this lady.

Mariah Fairchild stooped with grace, heedless of the dusty boardwalk, and stroked the little dog’s head. She cooed, “Well, aren’t you a handsome fellow? What a good boy! What a friendly doggie you are!”

Was that a way of covertly criticizing Prissy’s own lack of warmth? “Yes, Houston doesn’t know a stranger,” Prissy murmured, wondering how quickly she could escape the woman without seeming openly rude.

Mariah Fairchild shaded her eyes and peered up at Prissy. “It’s fortuitous that you happened by, dear. I was just hoping for a second opinion on some lace trim at the mercantile, as to whether it looks well with a particular dress fabric there or not. Mrs. Patterson is of the opinion it would be fine, but since she doesn’t know me very well, I fear she’s afraid to counter my opinion…”

And you think I know you well?

“Would you have a moment to accompany me to the mercantile to give your honest thoughts on the matter?”

You don’t really want to know my honest thoughts, Prissy thought waspishly, but then was ashamed of herself. It was very apparent the woman wanted Prissy to like her. Satisfying her request wouldn’t take much time, and perhaps the shopkeeper would have an item Prissy could buy for Milly’s baby gift, since she wasn’t talented—as many of the other Spinsters were—in needlework.

“Certainly, I can do that,” she said, watching as Mariah Fair child gracefully straightened. They descended the board walk and crossed the side street that separated the hotel from the mercantile, and after Prissy scooped up the dog lest he get into mischief, they went inside.

“Hello, Mrs. Patterson,” Mariah Fairchild called out breezily. “I’m back with Priscilla to give her opinion on that fabric and lace trim. I just cannot seem to make up my mind.”

“Sure, Mrs. Fairchild, here it is,” Mrs. Patterson said, turning around to reach on the shelf behind her for the bolt of cloth. “I kept them right up here, since you said you’d be back.” Now that was how a widow should dress, Prissy thought, eyeing the shopkeeper in her serviceable black skirt and waist. Mrs. Patterson had also lost her spouse in the flu epidemic this last winter. She spoke of him constantly. She certainly wasn’t one who would put off her mourning clothes prematurely.

“Here’s the lace I was speaking of, Priscilla dear,” Mrs. Fairchild was saying, holding a card of ivory lace against the bolt of mauve. “What do you think? Please give me your honest opinion.”

Prissy narrowed her gaze. There was nothing wrong with the combination, certainly, as far as its effect on the eye. But perhaps she might be able to discreetly hint about the proper behavior for a widow.

“You must do as you like, of course—this is just my opinion—but perhaps the black lace, there—” she indicated another card standing upright on the shelf “—might be a more suitable choice,” she said.

Mariah Fairchild blinked and gave Prissy a swift, sidelong glance. “Do you think so? Hmm,” she said, as Mrs. Patterson held out the card of black lace to her. “Perhaps the black is more dignified, I suppose, for a woman of my years. I knew you could guide me, Priscilla! Thank you!” All of a sudden she reached out and enfolded Prissy in an impulsive hug. “Oh, I’m so glad I asked you! I’ll take it, Mrs. Patterson. And I should have a look at your Godey’s to see how I’d like to have this made up. Prissy, I don’t suppose you would know a good seamstress, would you? I had a modiste back in Austin, but—” she shrugged with a smile —“I’m here now…”

And here she was determined to stay, the woman meant. Here in Simpson Creek, pursuing Prissy’s father.

Prissy assumed a regretful expression. “Milly Brookfield is wonderfully talented as a seamstress, but she just had a baby, so I suppose it will be a while before she’s taking on any sewing.”

“Oh, but I’ve heard that Mrs. Menendez over by the fort is very good, too, and quite reasonable, Mrs. Fairchild,” Mrs. Patterson put in. “It’s the small white clapboard house right opposite the fort, just behind the bank.”

“Perfect,” Mariah Fairchild purred. “I’ll go see her right after I pick out a style for her to copy. Prissy, since you have such good taste, would you like to look at Godey’s with me, then accompany me to Mrs. Menendez’s?”

Despite Mariah Fairchild’s friendliness, the very last thing Prissy wanted to do this afternoon was dance attendance on this woman who was so blatantly setting her cap for her father. “Actually, Mrs. Fairchild—”

“Oh, please, call me Mariah, dear. No need to stand on ceremony.”

“Mariah, then. I have some things to do at home this afternoon, and I need to purchase a baby present for Milly while I’m here, so perhaps I’d better get on with that,” she said, and breathed a sigh of relief when the widow accepted her excuse and wandered over to a table where past issues of Godey’s, full of patterns and dresses were displayed.

“What a nice lady,” Mrs. Patterson declared in a whisper when Mariah was out of earshot. “So genteel! I believe she said she and her late husband grew up with your father, dear?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Prissy murmured noncommittally. “May I see that silver cup and rattle on that upper shelf to your left? I believe that would make a lovely gift for Milly’s baby, don’t you?” The very last thing she wanted to do was fuel any gossip about her father and the widow.

She sighed as she realized how ungracious she was being. But she simply couldn’t help herself. What if Mariah Fairchild’s intentions were purely financial? She couldn’t simply stand by and let her father be taken advantage of, could she?

She suddenly found herself thinking of Sam Bishop. Was it possible…that he had less than honorable intentions? Was she being a fool?

It wouldn’t be the first time her trusting nature had gotten her in trouble, that was for sure.

Chapter Eight

William Waters III—or the Tenderfoot, as Sam had begun to call him in his mind—hadn’t exaggerated about his inability as a horseman. As a result, it had been a long and tedious five miles out to his late uncle’s ranch. Waters had fallen off his horse when the beast shied at a jackrabbit, forcing Sam to chase after his mount, and after that the man refused to go above a trot. Sam had hoped to give his horse Jackson some exercise during the outing, but it was plain that Waters was not up to enjoying a good gallop.

Finally they passed the arching gateway that read “Brookfield Ranch.” He’d have much preferred to be paying a call on the Englishman, his wife and new baby with Prissy instead of riding alongside the fussy, nervous easterner, but there would be time for that another day.

Coming to Waters’s inherited property, they trotted up the rutted drive to the ranch house. As they drew closer, Sam saw the man’s jaw drop and his eyes widen. Panes of glass had been broken out of the windows, though jagged shards still remained in the bottom of the frames. The door hung loose on its hinges. Inside, scorch marks scored the floor and walls. An arrow was still lodged incongruously in a cushion on a horsehair sofa. A stain on the tile flooring looked suspiciously like blood. Waters stared fixedly at it. Had that been where the man’s uncle had died?

It was evident that vermin had taken shelter in the house, and from the charred remains of a broken-up chair in the fireplace, Sam judged rodents were not the only creatures who had used the empty dwelling.

“This is appalling. It will never do,” muttered Waters, his whiny, nasal accent grating against Sam’s ears. “I had assumed I would be able to move right in, but obviously I shall have to put up in the hotel until this can be rectified. Would you happen to know some workmen who could start right away?”

Sam scratched the back of his head. “You could probably ask at the lumber mill.” Had the man really expected the house would be pristine, after a Comanche attack and months of neglect?

“I shall have to have funds transferred to the bank. I don’t suppose this backwater boasts a telegraph?”

“It does,” Sam countered, rankled at the man’s disparagement of his town. Then he chuckled at his possessiveness of the town he had come to so recently.

Waters bristled. “I wasn’t aware I said anything amusing, Sheriff.”

Sam rubbed a forefinger and thumb down his face as if to smooth away his smile. “You didn’t, Mr. Waters, your question just made me think of something else. You’ll find the telegraph office between the bank and the barbershop.”

“Fine, fine.” Once again, he pulled out his pocket watch and studied it. “We’d better start back. I don’t suppose you could provide an introduction to the mayor, could you? It would be well to establish my credentials with him, I suppose. And perhaps he could expedite the renovation of this place,” he added, wrinkling his lip as he took a last disgusted look at the disarray. Then he turned on his heel and stalked outside.

The pompous, little banty rooster. Did he think Mayor Gilmore was going to take charge of the project? He nearly lit into the man until he realized that escorting Waters to the house might afford him the opportunity to see Prissy.

“I’d be happy to make that introduction,” Sam said. He glanced at the sun’s position in the sky. By the time they returned and rode to the mayor’s house at the dismally slow pace Waters insisted on, it would be late enough that Sam might be able to wrangle a supper invitation.

But it was not to be. They were passing the side of the saloon just as somebody was hurled out of the batwing doors in front, landing with a great splash in the horse trough. The fellow erupted from the trough with a bellow of rage, spraying water in a radius of several feet, and went charging back through the swinging doors, his clothes streaming water as he went.

“Would you look at that!” exclaimed the tenderfoot, as if Sam could have missed it. “Is such ruffianly behavior common in this town?”

Sam sighed and smothered a pithy reply. “The mayor’s house is over yonder,” he said, pointing. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to go introduce yourself, Mr. Waters.” He reined his mount toward the front of the saloon instead. It seemed his partner at supper was going to be some liquored-up rowdy cowboy, rather than Prissy.

Parting the doors of the saloon, Sam took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the smoke-filled light and to take stock of the situation in front of him. He dearly hoped he wouldn’t have to do any shooting this time—or any fistfighting. His ribs still ached from Raney’s beating, and the laceration on his cheek was finally almost healed.

Two men—or rather, one stocky man and a Mexican youth barely old enough to use a razor—rolled around on the floor, punching and clawing at each other. As he watched, the older man gained the ascendancy and, squatting on the boy, rained blow after blow on him, the blows landing with sickening thuds against the boy’s face and trunk. Sam leaped forward to grab the back of the older man’s shirt and drag him off the younger combatant.

The man turned on Sam, eyes wild, clearly intending to punish Sam in turn, but he found himself looking into the barrel of Sam’s Colt.

“Stop right there, mister,” Sam said, keeping his eyes trained on the panting, glaring man before him, who still looked as if he might do something foolhardy, in spite of Sam’s cocked pistol and his clearly visible badge. Behind them, the boy scrambled up from the floor, his chest heaving, wiping his bloody nose on the ripped sleeve of his shirt. It had been the youth whom Sam had seen thrown into the horse trough.

“All right, you want to tell me why you were whaling the tar out of that boy?” Sam demanded. “You’d better have a mighty good reason, or you’re going to jail.”

The wild glare vanished from the man’s eyes and a defiant smirk settled over his heavy features. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the boy he’d been beating stepped forward.

“This man, he insulted my honor, Señor Sheriff,” the boy claimed. “And the honor of my family. I could not call myself a man if I allowed that to go unanswered.”

“What’d he say to you?” Sam asked the boy without taking his eyes off the smirking man he still held his pistol on.

“He called me a dirty greaser,” he said, his voice hoarse with rage. “He said he did not think he should have to drink with my ‘kind’ in the saloon. And when I told him I had a right to be in here as much as he did, he said filthy things about my sister—things that are not true!”

“That’s a fact, Sheriff,” George Detwiler confirmed from behind the bar. “I ain’t never had a problem with Luis Menendez passin’ time here—he pays for his drinks like anyone else. This stranger comes in and starts tellin’ him he’s gotta leave ’cause he’s Mexican. I tried to point out it’s my saloon and my rules, but this feller starts jawin’ about Luis’s sister, who he ain’t even met.”

The man sniggered. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I think she left just before this Mex came in. She told me not to tell the kid she works upstairs here. What’s her name, greaser? Rosita? Lucita?” Before he could even get the words out, Luis launched himself at the man again, managing to knock him down by dint of sheer surprise—aided, no doubt, by the whiskey the stranger had consumed.

Limbs flailing, the man lost his balance, then fell heavily on his side, and before Sam could intervene, the boy had grabbed a spittoon and brought it down on the back of the man’s head. The man sagged and went limp.

Sam studied the prone figure, then raised his gaze to Luis. “You’d better hope he doesn’t die.”

The youth straightened, his dark eyes meeting Sam’s without flinching. “I would go to the gallows proudly for killing this poor excuse for an hombre, Señor Sheriff.”

Just then George stepped from behind the pecan-wood bar with a coiled length of rope in one hand and a glass pitcher full of water with the other. Before Sam could guess his intent, he upended the pitcher on the fallen man’s head.

The stranger came instantly awake, raising up on his elbows, sputtering and wiping water out of his eyes and blowing it out of his nose.

“See? He ain’t dead,” George said. “Ya might wanta use that rope to tie him up, though, afore he collects hisself.”

While Sam bent to do as the saloonkeeper suggested, George spoke again. “Like I said, he started the whole thing, insultin’ Luis here, then talkin’ nasty about his sister. There ain’t a nicer young girl in Simpson Creek than Luis’s sister Juana. She cain’t be but what…fifteen, Miss Prissy?” he asked, looking over Sam’s shoulder.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said.

Sam jerked his head around and saw her framed in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he said, turning around again to keep an eye on the man still sputtering on the floor. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

He heard her chuckle. “I’m only standing in the doorway, but I’ve known George Detwiler and his mama for years, haven’t I, George?”

“That’s a fact, Miss Prissy,” confirmed the barkeeper.

“And I just came in because I happened to be coming out of the house just as Luis was thrown in the horse trough, and then I saw you go in. Naturally, I was concerned.”

“Naturally, she was concerned,” mimicked the man on the floor. “That yer sweetheart, Sheriff?” he asked with a snigger.

“Shut up,” Sam snapped, putting his boot squarely on the man’s neck. “Miss Prissy, please, you’d better go,” he said without looking at her. He was touched by her worry over both him and the boy but was too savvy to give the man on the floor less than his full attention. The stranger had enough fight left in him to take advantage of it.

He knew Prissy had done as he asked when he heard a swishing sound as the batwing doors swung closed and the light within the saloon dimmed again. Pulling on the rope that bound the man’s wrists together, Sam hauled the man on the floor to his feet.

“Now, what’s your name, stranger?”

“Tolliver,” the man snarled. “Leroy Tolliver.”

Now that he had the time to study him, Sam could see that Tolliver had taken some damage from the altercation as well as dished it out—a bruise here, a cut there, several scrapes. “You just passing through, Tolliver? ’Cause I suggest you get back on your horse and ride on. After you spend the night in jail, that is.”

“Spend the night in jail?” the man demanded, his face incredulous. “What for? For teachin’ a greaser where he don’t belong?”

“For disturbing the peace and assault. Come along,” he said, shoving the man ahead of him toward the door. “You, too, Luis.”

“Sì, Señor Sheriff,” the youth said. “You do not need to tie me.”

Sam turned back in surprise. “You’re not under arrest, Luis. I just want to talk to you.”

Hampered by his bonds and the whiskey he had consumed, Tolliver stumbled and would have fallen if Sam hadn’t rushed forward and steadied him. Keeping a hand on the rope between the man’s wrists, Sam marched his charge down the street toward the jail.

“I ain’t no drifter,” Tolliver muttered as he trudged along. “I work for the Alliance bosses.”

Sam stiffened. “‘The Alliance?’” he echoed. That was the group the mayor had been concerned about, wasn’t it?

“Yeah, the Ranchers’ Alliance. The ones who’re gonna be runnin’ this county soon enough,” Tolliver said with a sneer. “My bosses ain’t gonna be happy ’bout you puttin’ me in jail, Sheriff.”

“Then you shouldn’t have assaulted the young man.”

“You’ll be hearin’ from my bosses,” the man boasted. “You’ll be regrettin’ puttin’ me behind bars, directly.”

“Is that so,” Sam said flatly. “Are you threatening me, Tolliver?”

“Me? Naw. But you don’t wanna offend the men of the Alliance. I’m thinkin’ you won’t be wearin’ that badge much longer, once they take over.”

By this time, they had reached the jail. Leaving Luis outside, Sam lost no time pushing Tolliver into one of the cells and locking the door behind him. “Make yourself comfortable,” he told him, then rejoined Luis.

“Gracias for not arresting me, Señor Sheriff,” the boy said, as soon as the heavy door creaked shut behind Sam. “Mi madre—my mother—she would be so ashamed.”

“My name’s Sam Bishop,” he said, extending a hand. “Defending yourself isn’t wrong, Luis.”

Luis shook his hand, still acting as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.

“You know anything about what Tolliver was babbling about? This Ranchers’ Alliance?”

The young man hesitated, then said, “There have been many strangers in town in the last few days, Señor Sheriff. Wealthy-looking men, as well as vagabundos—how do you say it? Drifters, saddle tramps. They do not have the look of honest men, Señor Bishop. A couple of them have been swaggering around the saloon—Tolliver is one. His compadre bothered a woman who serves drinks there. Señor Detwiler sent her home early so the men could not bother her. The other man left before Tolliver started insulting me, señor. And I’ve heard wealthy men have been buying land from whoever they could frighten into selling it.”

It jibed with what the mayor had told him. Sam wished once again he weren’t so new to town that he couldn’t differentiate between a stranger and a longtime resident. Sounds like he needed to keep his eyes and ears open.

“Thanks, Luis.”

“It is my honor to assist you, Señor Bishop.”

“Could I ask you for a couple of favors? I’d like you to wait while I write a note to Miss Gilmore, then take it to her home. And would you be willing to fetch supper from the hotel for me and that sidewinder in there?” he asked, nodding toward the jail behind him. “I want to keep an eye on him.” He reached into his pocket and came out with four bits. “Here. For your trouble. And the information.”

The boy shook his head. “I thank you, Sheriff, but it is not necessary. The old sheriff, he would have thrown me in the cell, not the other hombre. I will wait for your note, and then bring your meals. Though why that man deserves to eat, I do not know.”

Sam went inside and quickly wrote a message to Prissy, explaining that he had a prisoner in his cell and would pay a call on her tomorrow if possible. He hoped she would read between the lines and not come to the jail to visit. He didn’t want Tolliver laying his beady eyes on Prissy any more than he already had. The last thing Sam needed was for a man like Tolliver to think the sheriff had a weak spot.

He was going to have to make some inquiries about town to see if anyone else had been harassed by this Ranchers’ Alliance, as Luis said. If Tolliver’s bragging was anything to go by, the Alliance certainly wouldn’t benefit the good people of Simpson Creek.

When he returned outside with the note, Luis said, “Señor Sheriff, would you consider hiring me as your deputy? I would be honored to serve you.”

He had to smile at the boy’s earnestness. “Luis, I’ve just been hired myself. It doesn’t seem like the sheriff of this town has enough to do to require a permanent deputy—at least right now,” he added, when he saw disappointment in the youth’s dark eyes.

“Sheriff Bishop, trouble is coming. You may change your mind,” Luis said.

Sam considered his words. “You may be right,” he admitted. “But I have to hope you’re wrong.”

Chapter Nine

“You want some coffee, Tolliver?” Sam asked the next morning, coming into the jail from his quarters. “I’m going down to the hotel for some.”

The cowboy he’d arrested yesterday at the saloon clutched the bars of his cell and glared at him. “Naw, I just want outta here.”

Sam paused. “You got the five dollars for the fine for disturbing the peace?”

“I told you I didn’t yesterday. It ain’t likely any money miraculously appeared in my pocket overnight.”

Sam went past him toward the door. “Then you can wait till I’ve had my coffee.” Surely he’d be able to tolerate the man’s surliness once he’d had some coffee. If the man continued to insist he had no money, Sam would have to figure out some other way to penalize him for the incident yesterday. But either way, he was going to have to release him this morning.

Just as he reached the door, however, it was pulled open from the outside. A narrow-faced fellow stood there, medium height, his chin sporting a black goatee. He wore a rust-colored frock coat with a waistcoat of some sort of shiny black cloth with a gold watch chain draped conspicuously across it. His eyes were small and amber. The cumulative effect of his clothes and features put Sam in mind of a red fox.

He doffed his hat and entered with a sinuous grace.

“Good morning, Sheriff Bishop. I believe you have something of mine.” His small amber eyes looked over Sam’s shoulder at the man in the cell.

“I don’t think we’ve met, sir,” Sam said, and waited. This fellow wasn’t one of the many people he had met at church on Sunday.

“Garth Pennington,” the man said, bowing with a sardonic smile that was devoid of real friendliness. “And this ugly fellow behind you is one of my employees. What’s he done?”

“The charge is disturbing the peace. Specifically, he assaulted a young man in the saloon who’d done nothing to provoke it. And he was additionally responsible for some broken glass.”

“He weren’t nothin’ but a dirty greaser,” Tolliver muttered.

Sam waited to see if Pennington would consider that a valid excuse, but if the man felt that way, he was too clever to admit it.

Pennington tsk-tsked in Tolliver’s direction. “My apologies for my employee’s actions, Sheriff. What’s the fine? Naturally, I’ll accept responsibility for what my employee did, and whatever it was won’t happen again. Did you hear that, Tolliver?” His voice cracked like an expertly wielded whip.

“Yes, boss.” The man’s tone was docile enough to fool most people. Not Sam.

“Five dollars,” Sam said, and was not surprised when Pennington reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a gold half eagle, and handed it to him.

“Very well,” he said, putting the coin into the center drawer of his desk until he could ask the mayor what was done with such fines. He pulled out the ring of keys from the drawer, then walked over and inserted the longest one into the cell door lock, turning clockwise until the door opened.

Tolliver walked out, smirking at Sam.

“How’d you know where to find him, Mr. Pennington?” Sam inquired.

Pennington’s lips thinned. “A lucky guess. Leroy has a weakness for strong drink, don’t you, Leroy?”

Tolliver’s cocky grin vanished. “Yes, boss.”

“So naturally, the saloon is the first place I looked when he didn’t return last evening.” Pennington turned back to Tolliver. “I trust your accommodations were…sufficiently uncomfortable—” Pennington glanced meaningfully into the cell, where the rumpled sheets on the cot and dirty plate, knife, fork and spoon on the floor were mute testimony of his recent occupation “—that you will not wish to repeat the experience anytime soon? If you wish to remain in my employ, that is.” He laid a hand on Tolliver’s shoulder, and Sam saw him push the man toward the door.

“You have a ranch around here, Mr. Pennington?” he asked, pretending the mayor hadn’t already told him about it.

Pennington paused. “Yes, La Alianza, southwest of here, between Simpson Creek and Colorado Bend,” He raised a brow as if surprised that Bishop had had to ask. “We’re adding to our acreage every day—not just in that direction, but all around here. We enjoy a cordial relationship with the sheriff in Colorado Bend—I trust it will be the same with you, Sheriff Bishop.”

Sam knew enough Spanish to know La Alianza meant “The Alliance.” So “we” must refer to the bosses of this Ranchers’ Alliance. He met the cold amber stare. “As long as you and your men are law-abiding, I don’t see why we can’t get along.”

“You’ll have to come out and pay us a visit sometime, Sheriff,” Pennington said, gesturing broadly with his black-trimmed hat before he put it back over his oiled black hair. “I think you’ll be very impressed.”

“Perhaps I will.” If only to see what you’re up to.

The door closed behind him. For all of his genial cordiality, something about Pennington reminded Sam of Kendall Raney.

He sighed. No matter how far one rode, it seemed there were disagreeable men who wielded some sort of power. He had no proof as yet that Pennington used it to do more than buy up land—nothing except an apprehension that snaked around his spine and rattled in his brain like a diamondback.

He thought briefly of William Waters III, and wondered if he was part of the Alliance. If so, would he use his ownership of the land next to the Brookfields to pressure the Brookfields to sell out? Somehow, though, he doubted the easterner was one of the Alliance bosses. He was irritable and arrogant, but there’d been nothing sinister about him. Perhaps his disagreeableness had been nothing more than the fatigue of travel coupled with the disappointment of finding the ranch in such a deplorable condition.

Sam raked a hand through his hair. He still needed that cup of coffee, and once he’d had it and a bit of breakfast to go with it, perhaps he’d mosey down to Gilmore House and report his conversation with Pennington to the mayor. And he’d see Prissy, which would automatically make the world sunnier.

However, as soon as he stepped out of the hotel, he was stopped by Mrs. Detwiler, who was distraught because she’d found a stray goat eating her prized roses.

“Look at that beast. She’s eaten the blooms off every one of them,” the elderly lady moaned after Sam accompanied her home and caught the goat.

“Any idea who owns the critter?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t going to have to ask from house to house, towing the pale-eyed brown and white nanny goat.

“Oh, it’s the Menendezes’ goat. They live down the road yonder. You tell Mrs. Menendez if I catch that goat in my garden again, I’ll be serving cabrito for supper,” she threatened.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said, smothering a smile at the old woman’s militant tone, and turned to lead the goat away.

“Thank you, Sheriff. Why don’t you come back for supper tonight? Say, six o’clock.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Mrs. Detwiler, I’m happy to help you.” He didn’t want the old lady to think she had to feed him just for doing his job. And he’d been hoping to spend the evening with Prissy.

“Horsefeathers. It’s the least I can do to thank you. And bring Prissy, why don’t you. You two make a handsome couple.”

Ah, so word of their picnic had made its way around town after all. He wondered how Prissy would feel about that. “Why, thank you, ma’am, I’ll accept,” he said. “I’ll go ask her as soon as I take this critter home.”

He could only hope that she’d be pleased people thought of them as a “handsome couple,” and not embarrassed.

There was only one way to find out.

Milly Brookfield sent a note back with Antonio telling Prissy that next Wednesday afternoon would be fine for the Spinsters’ Club visit to meet the new baby, so Prissy went to spread the word to the members. She went first to the post office to see Caroline Wallace, hoping she could talk Milly’s friend into making her famous peach punch to take to the party.

“I suppose I could,” Caroline said in the lifeless monotone she’d used ever since her fiancé had passed away. She still wore the deep black mourning clothes she’d worn to his funeral service.

Prissy’s heart twisted with pity for the girl. To have met the man you wanted to spend your life with, only to lose him to the same fever that had taken your mother, was a tragedy indeed.

“It’ll be good for you to get out and visit, Caroline,” Prissy told her, and hoped she didn’t sound patronizing. “Milly especially hoped you’d come. How have you been?”

Caroline shrugged. “Fine.” But her gaze strayed away from Prissy’s as if she knew Prissy would see through the lie.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them like a heavy gray curtain. Prissy wondered what to say. If she could only remember the condolences others had spoken to her and her father right after her mother’s death, she’d have the right words.

Should she prattle about the weather? There was nothing new to converse about there—it was hot and sunny as always. Should she even try to penetrate the melancholy that Caroline wore around her like an all-enveloping shield, and assure her from her own personal experience that time would heal her wound? But who had the right to say what would heal another’s heart? Caroline might take offense.

Jesus, help her, she prayed, watching Caroline staring at her fingers as if she wished Prissy would go now that she’d accomplished her mission. Please, Lord, bring joy into her life again. Show me how I can help her. Teach me what to say.

“Well, I’d better be on my way to tell the other ladies,” Prissy said, eager to return to the sunshine outside. “We’ll meet at my house Saturday at one o’clock, all right? Antonio will drive the wagon—”

“Prissy, you mustn’t worry about me,” Caroline said suddenly, just as Prissy was turning to go. “I’ll be all right. And I’ve got news—I’m to be the new schoolteacher this fall.”

“New schoolteacher? But what about Miss Phelps?”

“She’s going to India to be a missionary,” Caroline announced. “She wanted to go before, but she didn’t want to leave the Simpson Creek children teacherless. I…I decided I would be their teacher.”

Prissy felt her jaw drop. “You, a teacher?”

Caroline lifted her chin. “Why not? I was valedictorian of my class, remember?”

Prissy smothered a smile. Caroline’s class had consisted of six boys and girls, counting Caroline, but Caroline had been hands-down the smartest. “Why of course, Caroline. That’s wonderful news.”

“And since I’ll never have children of my own now, I’ll have all the Simpson Creek children as mine this way, don’t you see?”

“Never have children?” Prissy echoed. “But Caroline, it’s too early for you to say something like that—”

Caroline’s face turned to stone. She put up a hand as if it was a wall. “No. It’s just not to be.”

Prissy heard the door creak open behind them and was relieved—until Houston growled.

“Ah, can it be the fair Miss Gilmore? What a happy chance I find you here.”

Prissy could barely smother a groan and smooth her features before she turned around to face William Waters—or “William Waters the Third,” as he pretentiously referred to himself, as if he were one in a line of kings. He’d been a guest at supper last night. He’d stayed an interminable time, rambling on and on in an obvious attempt to impress them with his fancy house back East and his plans to make his late uncle’s ranch the showplace of San Saba county. He’d pretended to admire her dog, until Houston’s bared teeth made it clear the feeling wasn’t mutual, then flirted clumsily with Prissy, oblivious to her father’s glares, until she’d finally excused herself with a headache.

“Oh! Mr. Waters, good morning.” A lady was always polite.

He made a great show of consulting his ornate gold pocket watch. “Why, it’s a minute after noon, Miss Gilmore,” he said. “If I may be so bold as to correct such a beauteous young lady—”

“Good afternoon, then. Heavens, I’m late for dinner. You obviously have a letter to mail,” she said, nodding toward the envelope he held, “so I won’t hold you up.”

She turned back to Caroline just in time to see a smile quirking her lips upward. She was glad Caroline could smile at something, even if it was “William Waters the Third.”

“Nonsense, I can mail this any time,” he assured her. “You must allow me to escort you, Miss Gilmore. I had thought of another question for your father in any case.” With an air of gallantry, he placed her hand over his arm.

“But—” For heaven’s sake, how was she to escape this man? She threw a desperate look over her shoulder at Caroline, but the postmaster’s daughter only flashed a sympathetic smile.

Waters led her out the door, still smiling down at her like a fond suitor.

And he would have walked straight into Sam Bishop, if the sheriff hadn’t agilely stepped aside.

What was the annoying tenderfoot doing escorting Prissy anywhere? Clearly Sam should not have been so quick to point the man in the mayor’s direction. Houston, walking at Prissy’s side, looked none too happy, but wagged his tail when he saw Sam.

“Excuse me—” Waters began, then his eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, Sheriff Bishop! Good morning to you!” The man fairly beamed, obviously proud at being seen with the most beautiful girl in Simpson Creek on his arm.

He didn’t have a clue about the anger that surged within Sam at the sight of them.

“Mr. Waters. Miss Prissy.” He touched his hat brim respectfully at Prissy and saw the discomfort in those blue eyes. Not unease at being seen with a rival beau, but a plea for rescue. His jealousy subsided.

“I was just escorting Miss Gilmore back to her home,” Waters announced importantly, and began to pull Prissy around Sam on the boardwalk. The little dog growled as Waters came near Sam.

Sam moved into Waters’s path. “Actually, I’ll be happy to take over that duty, as the mayor and I are dining together—town business to conduct, you understand.” He kept his tone polite but firm, and stared down Waters until the man looked away.

“Actually, I needed to speak to him, too—”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to make time for you, sir. Later.” He looked at Prissy, and was pleased to see the relief flooding her face as she let go of Waters’s arm and took his. He was happy to be her rescuer.

“But—”

“Good day, Mr. Waters,” she called over her shoulder as they set off down the boardwalk in the direction of Gilmore House, the dog trotting happily with them, his tail carried jauntily aloft.

“Oh, Sam, thank heaven you appeared just now!” she exclaimed when they were out of earshot. “I couldn’t seem to get away from that tiresome man! He found me in the post office and just took over!”

He grinned down at her. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I cut in, so to speak.”

“Mind?” Her laughter was music to his ears. “You were an answer to a prayer, Sam! Mr. Waters came to the house to speak to Papa last night, stayed until politeness dictated we invite him for supper, then stayed forever! Houston almost bit him once,” she said, then smothered a giggle.

“They say dogs are good judges of character,” Sam said. “Good boy.”

The dog looked up, panting happily, and gave a yip as if he understood perfectly.

“I was afraid he was going to offer to take you to dinner at the hotel, since I would be busy with your father,” Sam confessed with a laugh. “I’d have had to come up with another reason for you to be there, too, if he had.”

“I want you to know, Sam, I gave him no reason to behave so familiarly with me,” Prissy said, shuddering.

He patted her hand on his arm with his free hand. “I’m glad to hear that, sweetheart.” The endearment came out naturally, as if he’d been calling her that for a long time. She blinked, then blushed. His sweet Texas rose—what a lucky chance that had brought him to this town! “I actually do need to speak to your father, Prissy,” he said.

“Consider yourself officially invited to eat with us, then.”

He nodded. “And I have the pleasure of informing you we’ve been invited for supper by Mrs. Detwiler.” He told her about having to capture the goat who’d eaten the old lady’s roses.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Prissy, amused. “Mrs. Menendez is lucky Mrs. Detwiler’s mellowed so much. She used to guard those roses with a shotgun. But why has she invited us—together, I mean?”

Sam smiled. “Apparently she thinks we make quite a handsome couple.”

To his great delight, Prissy blushed again. He was beginning to think he could spend his whole life making Priscilla Gilmore blush.

Prissy watched her father’s brow furrow with concern when Sam told him about meeting Garth Pennington and the sullen mutterings of Tolliver about the Ranchers’ Alliance.

“I’ve heard of several families leaving the area,” her father said, “and I’ve met Pennington. Invited himself into one of our council meetings, just before you came, Sam. Full of hot air and importance he was, rattling on about his partnership with two powerful men of influence from Houston—”

A cloud passed over Sam’s face and was gone so swiftly Prissy couldn’t even be sure she had seen it. Was he remembering something unpleasant that had happened to him in Houston? Did it have anything to do with the cut that was still visible on his cheek, and the way he winced when he moved sometimes?

“—men who were going to ‘transform San Saba county, maybe even all of Texas before they were through,’ he claimed. He even tried to get himself a seat on council representing the ranchers of the area, but we soon disabused him of that notion,” her father added with a snort. “Of all the sand! Comin’ into this town and flashing money around, and thinking that gives you the right to speak for anyone. You keep me informed if you hear anything else, Bishop.”

“I will, sir,” Sam said, then took a sip of his tea. “And what shall I do with the money Pennington gave me for his man’s fine?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold half eagle.

Prissy’s father eyed it as if it might turn into a snake. “Any monies the sheriff collects for fines and whatnot, we put into a fund for widows and orphans at the bank. Prissy can take it over there for you this afternoon, if you like.”

Sam handed her the gold coin.

“Papa, we’ve been invited to Mrs. Detwiler’s for supper, Sam and I. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all, not at all. You young people have a good time. Perhaps I’ll invite Mar—that is, Mrs. Fairchild, to come have supper with me instead.”

Prissy kept her expression smooth. It wouldn’t be fair to begrudge her father some company if she wasn’t going to be there. “Th-that’s a fine idea, Papa,” she said, and was rewarded with a warm look of approval by Sam.

“Well, I’d better be about my duties,” Sam said, rising. “You never know when another marauding goat might get loose. Miss Prissy, if you’re going to the bank now, I’ll walk you on my way to the livery. Think I’ll take Jackson out for a little gallop, and see what I can see of this ranch of Pennington’s.”

Prissy rose, too. “Yes, I want to be sure to be gone when Mr. Waters comes to talk to you, Papa,” she said. “I ran into him at the post office, and he said he had more questions for you. There, you have been warned,” she said.

Her father groaned. “What a tiresome man he is. Don’t they teach those Yankees any manners or sense? Dr. Walker isn’t like that,” he said, referring to Sarah’s husband, who was from Maine.

Houston, who’d been content to lie at Prissy’s feet during the meal, emerged from under the table and wagged his tail hopefully.

“Yes, you may come too, Houston.”

Once they left the house, Prissy gave vent to the curiosity that had been plaguing her.

“Sam, what happened to you before you came to Simpson Creek? In Houston, I mean. You wince occasionally…and who gave you that cut?” she asked, indicating with a nod the now barely visible laceration.

She could only see his profile, but it was enough. The muscles in his jaw went rigid, and a vein jumped in his temple. He was silent for the time it took them to walk from the steps across the grounds, and Prissy was wondering whether she ought to apologize for the question, but then he finally turned to her again.

“Let’s just say I ran into a man just like this Pennington fellow of the Ranchers’ Alliance, Prissy—only worse. Power can make some men real ugly to deal with.”

Prissy stared at him, but something about his shuttered gaze discouraged her from asking more questions.

She couldn’t stop wondering, however, what Sam had been involved in to meet up with the person who had dealt him these injuries.

Chapter Ten

“Why, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Daugherty,” Prissy said as she entered the bank, carrying her dog, and spotted the old couple waiting in front of the teller’s counter. “I don’t often see you in town except on Sundays.”

The old rancher and his wife turned around to greet her. “Why hello, Miss Prissy,” Mr. Daugherty said. “Yes, and I’m afraid this’ll be the last time we see you. We’re sellin’ out and leavin’. We’ve jes’ come t’ pull our savin’s out.”

Prissy couldn’t believe her ears. “Leaving? But why? You are one of the founding families of Simpson Creek, aren’t you?”

Mrs. Daugherty tried to smile, but all she managed was a nervous twitch of her lips. “That’s right. Mr. Daugherty an’ I came here in a covered wagon back in fifty-one.” She glanced over Prissy’s shoulder, her eyes uneasy.

Following the woman’s gaze, Prissy turned.

Two fellows slouched in chairs against the front wall of the bank. She didn’t recognize them, but when they noticed her looking, leering grins spread over their unshaven faces. One of them laid a finger on the brim of his hat, but it was a mockery of a courteous gesture.

Houston shifted in her arms and bared his teeth.

“Vicious little critter,” one of them murmured, and the other guffawed.

Mr. Daugherty’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing, just shifted his weight. “We’ve been offered a good price for the ranch, Miss Prissy, so we decided to take it.”

“By why—” Prissy began, then decided her question would sound too nosy. She wondered if the presence of the rough-looking men lounging in the chairs had something to do with their decision. “But where will you go?” she asked instead.

Mr. Daugherty shrugged. “Maybe south, ’round San Antone. Alma’s people live down there.” He put his arm around his wife protectively.

“You be sure and tell yer papa we said good-bye,” Mrs. Daugherty added. “He’s a good man. We’re gonna miss folks like him.”

“And we’ll miss you, too.”

The teller finished counting out Mr. Daugherty’s money and handed it to him. The old couple turned and left. And the cowboys rose and followed them out.

Chilled despite the overwarm day, Prissy watched them go.

“What can I do for you, Miss Gilmore?” Ed Markison, the teller, asked.

“I…I came to deposit this in the Widows and Orphans fund,” she said, absently handing him the half-eagle coin. “What’s going on, Mr. Markison? Who were those men?”

He shot a glance at the door as if to be sure they’d really gone. “Pennington’s men,” he whispered. “He’s one a’ them fancy rich fellers who came up from Houston.”

“Why are you whispering?” she asked, since they were the only two people in the bank office.

He jerked his head toward the bank president’s office door. “’Cause he and another a’ them fellers is in talkin’ t’ Mr. Avery. Miss Prissy, the Daughertys ain’t the only ones whose ranches’ve been bought up by them Alliance folks. Th’ widow Harrison was in here too, earlier this mornin’, and she told me the Jacobsons are sellin’ out t’ them men as well.”

Pennington and the Ranchers’ Alliance—the very same people her father and Sam had been talking about over dinner.

“You be careful when you’re out an’ about, Miss Prissy,” Ed Markison said. “I’ve told Emily th’ same thing, told her to wait till I can go with her if she goes anywhere beyond the mercantile…” His voice trailed off as Mr. Avery came out and seized a pile of papers from a desk behind his teller.

“Will you be at th’ weddin’, Miss Prissy?” Markison asked in an overloud voice, as if apprehensive his boss could have heard them whispering.

“I sure will, Mr. Markison,” Prissy said, watching the bank president rush back inside the office without even appearing to notice her before he closed the door again. “Your Emily’s going to be the most beautiful bride.” She spoke automatically, her mind racing at what Markison had told her. Sam and Papa would be interested to hear it.

Markison wrote out a deposit slip and she placed it in her pocket, wondering if the cowboys would follow the Daughertys back to their ranch to make sure they left. She sighed and hoped this Pennington fellow really had given them a fair price for their land. Mrs. Pennington had appeared so frightened that they might have thought it safer to cut their losses and leave even if the money was less than it should have been.

She opened the door and walked back out onto the dusty boardwalk, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun. Her mind had barely registered the creak of leather and the snort of a horse behind her when a voice drawled, “Well, hey, Miss Prissy, we was wonderin’, are you really…uh, prissy?” She whirled to see the cowboys sitting on horses behind her. Immediately each took a position flanking her, riding so close she could have extended an arm and touched a stirrup on either side. She felt a frisson of fear mixed with irritation.

Houston bristled, and would have snapped at one of the cowboy’s booted feet if Prissy hadn’t tightened her hold on the dog. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, and kept moving.

“‘Excuse me, sir,’” the one on her right echoed in a high falsetto to the one on her left. “Jace, I reckon she is prissy, all right. Prissy an’ proper.”

Houston growled and barked at each of them in turn, and Prissy had to struggle to hold on to the little dog in her arms.

“Mind yerself, Joe, she’s liable to sic that killer dawg on you,” the other cowboy said, then both guffawed. “It’ll prob’ly rip yer throat out.”

The street was deserted. She had only to cross the street diagonally to reach the safety of the post office, she told herself. Neither of the horses appeared anything but placid, and each cowboy rode with negligent ease, one hand on the reins, the other on his upper leg. Yet there was something so intimidating about being so closely surrounded by the tall beasts ridden by men who only had to knee their mounts closer to stop her in her tracks—or reach out and grab her.

If only she’d carried a parasol against the sun as Mama had always taught her to do to protect her ladylike complexion. Then she’d at least have some sort of a weapon. She could take its metal-tipped end and jab one of her tormentors’ legs. But it was hard to manage a parasol when she had to pick Houston up to enter a business, so she had only worn a bonnet.

If she kept her eyes straight ahead of her, the bonnet’s sides kept her from seeing the men, only the horses they rode. Houston continued to bristle and growl alternately at each cowboy.

And then she spotted the pile of horse droppings directly in her path. They were steering her straight toward it. If she kept moving forward, she would have no choice but to walk through it, and with Houston struggling to be free of her grasp, she would have trouble even picking up her skirts.

Tightening her grasp on the dog with one hand, she slowed just enough that she was even with one of the horses’ hips, then reached out and smacked it with the flat of her hand, yelling, “Hyaaa!”

It worked. The startled horse lunged forward into a crow-hopping buck, allowing her to sprint behind it on unsullied ground and reach the sanctuary of the post office while the other cowboy was still reacting to what she had done. Once inside, Prissy slammed the door behind her. The men’s hoots of laughter came through the open windows on each side of the building.

As soon as she freed Houston, the dog threw himself against the door, barking and bristling with fury.

“Miss Prissy! What’s wrong? You’re as white as a full moon in December!” Mr. Wallace asked as he dashed from behind the counter to reach her side.

Beyond the door, she could hear the sound of thudding hoofs galloping down the road.

“Those men—they…they were…”

The postmaster left her side and dashed to the door, peered out for a moment, then returned inside and fetched Prissy a chair.

“Nothin’ left of ’em but a cloud of dust, but I reckon I know who you mean. I’ve seen those fellers in town lately, hootin’ and hollerin’, bullyraggin’ people who were mindin’ their own business. Ranchers’ Alliance men, I heard they were, though I don’t know any Simpson Creek ranchers who’d join that thing—not voluntarily, anyway,” he added, glaring in the direction they had gone.

“Prissy, I thought I heard you come in—” Caroline began, coming from the living quarters behind the counter. “What’s wrong?”

Prissy told her what had happened, shuddering as she did so. Now, of course, with Mr. Wallace bringing her a glass of water and Caroline kneeling by her side peering worriedly up at her, it seemed ridiculous that she’d been so frightened. She was Priscilla Gilmore, daughter of the mayor. She wasn’t about to let some filthy cowboys bother her! She’d dealt with their harassment and escaped them, after all.

“I-I’m all right,” she assured them, getting to her feet. “I came back, Caroline, because I forgot to ask you this morning if there was any correspondence for the Spinsters’ Club?”

A smile reminiscent of the old Caroline curved the other woman’s lips and she straightened also. “I can well imagine why you forgot, what with that tiresome Mr. Waters bothering you and the sheriff showing up in the nick of time. As a matter of fact, Madame President, there are three letters I’ve saved for your perusal. Come on back to the kitchen—I’ll give you some cold lemonade while you take a look at them.”

Prissy rose on legs which still felt unsteady and followed her.

“It was very wise of your uncle to suggest advertising in the newspapers of closer towns, as well as Houston,” Caroline remarked as she handed Prissy the letters, “and kind of him to write the editors and urge them to run our notices. As you see, it’s borne fruit—these letters come from Austin, Mason and Fredericksburg.”

Prissy was pleased to hear some enthusiasm creeping into Caroline’s voice. “So if we were to invite these gentlemen to a party, we wouldn’t have to wait weeks for them to receive the invitations, reply, then travel to Simpson Creek,” she said. “Hmm, this fellow from Fredericksburg sounds German—‘Frederick von Hesse.’ I hope he isn’t one of those dour, ever-so-serious Prussians,” she said, making a face. Caroline giggled.

Before an hour was up, Prissy had decided to hold a barbecue, complete with dancing in the evening, at Gilmore House. The whole town would be invited, of course, along with the Spinsters’ Club and the bachelors.

“We can discuss the menu with the other ladies on the way out to the Brookfield ranch next week,” Prissy said.

“I’ll write the letters and send them out this very afternoon,” Caroline said, after a glance at the grandfather clock which stood in the hallway. “I’ve just time before the stage comes through.”

“Then I’d better get going and leave you in peace,” Prissy said. “Caroline, thanks for your help. It’s great that you’re working on this with me.” Did she dare utter her thoughts? “Maybe—”

Caroline held up a hand. “I know what you’re about to say, but don’t. This is just something for me to do, that’s all. I like a party as well as anyone, but don’t plan on throwing me at any of those men. I’m quite content with my decision to become the schoolteacher this fall.”

Prissy shut her mouth, but she couldn’t help hoping. Please, Lord, let one of those bachelors be just the right man to bring Caroline out of her mourning.

But first, she needed to straighten a few things out with Sam. It was time for her to get the full story on Mr. Bishop so she could put her fears and questions to rest. After their dinner with Mrs. Detwiler, she was going to demand some answers. Right after she ruined the mood by telling him about the Alliance cowboys.

“What an enjoyable time,” Prissy remarked as they watched lamplight flare near the window after Nolan Walker entered his darkened home.

She’d been pleased to discover Mrs. Detwiler had also invited Nolan Walker to supper, since Sarah, his wife, was still out at the Brookfield ranch helping her sister. It was good for Sam to get to know Nolan better, Prissy thought, because while the doctor had come to faith only recently, he spoke of the Lord and spiritual matters as easily as one would talk about the weather. She still didn’t know exactly where Sam stood in his faith journey, but he didn’t talk about it.

The food had been delicious, the conversation on the porch afterward even better. Sam had obviously enjoyed conversing with their elderly hostess and the town doctor. As Mrs. Detwiler had put it, the four of them had “gotten along like a house afire.”

Now they had walked Nolan home, and they were alone again. Dusk was fast edging into dark.

“Yes, it was. Shall we stroll a little?” Sam asked. “Or do you have to go right home?”

“I don’t think Papa would mind if we strolled a little,” Prissy murmured. She felt slightly nervous, though she couldn’t say exactly why.

His face was shadowy in the growing dark. “I believe we could get the best view of that big full moon from over there in the meadow,” he said, pointing past the church and across the creek. “There’s no little boys shrieking like wild Comanches over there tonight,” he added with a wink.

“I believe you’re right. There’s a bench on the far bank of the creek that would be just perfect for moon watching.”

Their footsteps echoed as they stepped onto the wooden bridge that spanned Simpson Creek, forming a counterpoint to the chirping of crickets and the burble of the creek beneath. Somewhere below, a splash of water announced a fish’s leap at an insect. An owl flew past them on silent wings, startling Prissy into grabbing Sam’s arm with a squeak of surprise. He chuckled, putting an arm around her with exaggerated protectiveness.

They crossed the bridge and stepped onto the soft earth of the meadow. Grass brushed her skirts shin-high. She could just make out the moonlight-dappled bench under a big cottonwood tree.

Prissy didn’t want to spoil the mood, but she knew she had to tell Sam what had happened this afternoon before she said anything else. She hadn’t wanted to bring it up while at Mrs. Detwiler’s, lest it alarm the old lady. But since Sam was the sheriff, he needed to know about it.

“How was your trip out to the Pennington ranch?” she asked as they reached the bench and sat down. “You didn’t say anything about it, so I thought perhaps you might not want to discuss it in front of the others.”

“I never made it,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “I was only a little way beyond town when Jackson cast a shoe. I took him to the blacksmith, but by the time we were done it was too late to ride out that far because of our supper plans. I’ll go tomorrow.” Her expression must have given him a hint that something was on her mind, though, for he studied her face more closely. “Why? Did something happen?”

She told him about the rough-looking men loitering in the bank, and the Daughertys telling her they’d been bought out and were leaving. “Mr. Markison told me Mr. Pennington was back in the bank president’s private office right then. And, Sam, it looked like those rough men were watching the old couple to make sure they were actually getting ready to leave.”

Prissy had delivered her account matter-of-factly to this point, but when she started telling him the rest, about the cowboys suddenly appearing on horseback when she came out of the bank, and the panic she’d felt when they’d surrounded her by their horses, it all became terrifyingly real to her again. She could almost smell the overpowering scents of saddle leather, tobacco and stale whiskey. Prissy couldn’t suppress a shudder, and before she could squeeze her eyes shut, big wet tears escaped down her cheeks.

And then he was holding her, one hand stroking her hair. “Prissy, sweet Prissy, don’t be afraid. I’m not going to let anything or anybody hurt you.” His voice was raspy but soothing, right next to her ear. “Aw, Prissy, don’t cry…”

“But they were so close, Sam. I didn’t know if they were going to make their horses step on my feet, or if they were going to snatch me up onto one of their saddles.” She wanted to stop crying, to show him that she wasn’t a frightened little rabbit, but he felt so solid, so safe. It felt so good to be held by this man.

“I’ll ride out there bright and early to put Pennington on notice that there’s to be no repeat of this kind of behavior,” Sam told her. “Don’t you give it another moment’s thought, Prissy.”

“Oh, Sam—” she began, but she couldn’t go on because she was overwhelmed by his kindness, by the feel of his hand on her hair.

“I want to protect you, Prissy. You bring that out in me.”

“Do I, Sam?”

He drew back and rested his forehead against hers. “You do. I hope you feel like that’s a good thing.”

She was about to say that she did when the moonlight fell across his face, illuminating his cut and fading bruises. But before she could say anything, he stood, and stretched out a hand to help her to her feet.

“There’s something I want you to see on the way home,” Sam said.

“What?”

He laid a finger on her lips. “You’ll just have to wait, Miss Inquisitive. It’s over on Travis Street.”

Just as they left the bridge, Delbert Perry walked by and tipped his ragged cap to Prissy. “Pretty evenin’, ain’t it, Miss Prissy, Sheriff?”

“It is,” Prissy agreed, and watched, bemused, as the man walked on, mumbling under his breath.

“Delbert’s out walking and talking with the Lord,” Sam explained. “He told me it keeps him from drinking.”

It would have been the perfect moment to ask Sam about his faith, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t ask any of the questions she’d planned to ask. Why? Perhaps a part of her didn’t actually want the answers.

“You know where this is leading, don’t you?” he asked as they stepped onto Travis. Travis Street ran behind the hotel, the mercantile, the post office and the jail, and ended at the side yard of the church. It was dotted on both sides with dwellings of various sizes.

She didn’t know what he meant. “You said there was something you wanted me to see…?” She saw the dim shapes of the backs of the post office and the jail.

“No, I meant my courting you. I’m not going to rush you, Priscilla Gilmore, because a girl like you deserves a proper, thorough courtship, but you must know I want to marry you someday. Someday soon, Prissy.”

She stopped stock-still.

“Is that a proposal?” she asked. She felt a tingling all over at the hoarse, earnest way he’d said it he wanted it to be soon. “But—but I—”

She could see his grin by the light of the moon. “Call it a preliminary to a proposal, if you like. When I do the real thing, Prissy, you’ll have it with all the trimmings—me down on my knees and all the rest of it.”

“Preliminary?” was all she could stammer.

“Then I’ll give you a preliminary acceptance,” she said with mock-haughtiness, and then laughed up at him. “Oh, Sam, I want to marry you, too! If it was just up to me, we could ask Reverend Chadwick to marry us tomorrow. But—”

“Now your papa wouldn’t stand for it if we married too soon, and your papa is right. You need to know me better, to make sure I’m the right man for you.”

There was something so uncertain, so vulnerable in his gaze. She opened her mouth to agree, to say that yes, she did need to know him better and that in fact she had questions, but no sound would come out.

“But if you do decide to marry me, have you thought about where we’d live, Prissy? What would you think of living here?”

He was nodding toward a white frame two-story house on his left, a house that obviously stood empty. The moonlight illuminated upstairs windows that were cracked and a shutter that hung precariously from one remaining hinge. The flowerbeds were choked with weeds and the paint was chipped and faded.

“The old Galloway place?” It had been deteriorating since Mr. Galloway was killed in the war, and empty since his poor widow had died in the influenza epidemic this last winter.

“It’s available,” he told her, excitement and moonlight gleaming in his dark eyes as he looked down at her. “Mr. Avery told me the estate’s been settled and the bank would like to sell it. Wouldn’t it make a great home for us, Prissy? It’s close to the jail, but not too close, and I could pay for it over time out of my sheriff’s salary.”

Prissy blinked up at him in confusion, then stared at the old derelict house. “Sam, this is—I hardly know what to say…”

“I’ve walked through it. It just needs a family, and a little loving care. I could fix what’s broken easy enough. And it’s roomy—we could fill it up with children, Prissy.”

He smiled, and she felt her heart jolt with joy at the picture he was painting with his words, of a big house noisy with the sounds of laughing children—their children.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts, but it didn’t work. Marry Sam Bishop? Should she even consider it, before she knew all about him?

And…did he actually…love her? Is that what he was trying to say?

“It’s not as fancy as Gilmore House, and I’m sure your father would offer to set us up somewhere else. But I want to stand on my own two feet, sweetheart, not lean on your father because he’s wealthy. He earned his money, didn’t he? I want to do the same.”

He gently turned her around so she could see the house. “Think about it, Prissy—think about this place with a fresh coat of paint and new glass, and all the weeds pulled from the flowerbeds and flowers growing there. Look at those fine shade trees on both sides of the house, and picture our boys climbing up into them, and one of our girls swinging from a swing hanging from one of those stout boughs.”

It was more than Prissy could take in. She could hardly speak.

“Prissy, are you all right?” he asked softly.

She nodded slowly. “I need to think. Maybe you’d better take me home now, Sam.”

Despite the obvious disappointment on his face, they were the only words she could muster. And Sam, to his credit, did as he was told.

Chapter Eleven

Sam tossed and turned on his narrow bed that night, full of conflicting emotions. Prissy had seemed stunned, which was not a good sign. But she hadn’t been angry or insulted, which was a good sign. Had he misread her?

Perhaps he’d just moved too fast. The house might have been too much.

He smiled in the darkness as he pictured himself painting the house and repairing the dangling shutter, with Prissy in the kitchen baking bread. He’d stop his labors at dinnertime and come in the kitchen and she’d give him a sweet kiss.

With a little patience, maybe he could make that a reality.

He’d enjoyed supper at Mrs. Detwiler’s immensely. The elderly woman was full of hospitality and wry, unexpected humor, and her welcome acceptance of him both as the sheriff and as a suitor for Prissy encouraged him. He’d enjoyed his conversation with Nolan Walker, too. The physician had obviously been through much heartbreak, both before and during the War Between the States, yet he spoke of the Lord as if He were an ever-present friend—just as Reverend Chadwick did. Could there actually be something to this faith they shared with Prissy?

Prissy’s recital of her treatment by Pennington’s two men was the thing truly keeping him awake. If it had been daytime when she’d told him about the incident, he would have felt compelled to take her straight home and ride to La Alianza immediately. Perhaps she’d known that and wanted to give him time to cool down.

But he’d make up for the lapse in time, sure enough. As soon as the sun was up, he’d ride out to pay Mr. Pennington a call, and if he disturbed the man at breakfast, so much the better. He’d make it clear that there was to be no repetition of such behavior, or more Alliance men would be occupying his jail cells—after he’d pounded the sand out of them.

It was time to do everything possible to prove to Prissy that he had what it took to be her husband. To be hers.

It was just eight o’clock when Sam reached the impressive wrought-iron arch at the entrance of La Alianza. From there he was escorted by two Alliance men all the way down the winding, pecan-tree-lined lane to the sprawling limestone house. The door was opened by a stocky, impassive Chinese butler flanked by two other men whose vests also bore the Alliance insignia. The butler showed Sam into the marble-floored dining room; they were followed by the two Ranchers’ Alliance men.

“Welcome to La Alianza, Sheriff Bishop,” Garth Pennington said, looking up from a plate of bacon, eggs, toast and fresh fruit at one end of an immense, elaborately carved mahogany table. He was dressed in a luxurious brocade dressing gown, but if he was embarrassed to be found not fully dressed yet, or angry at this surprise early visit, nothing marred his genial expression. “I wish you had let me know you were coming, for I would have waited and breakfasted with you. You couldn’t possibly have eaten before you came. But that can be easily remedied—Wong Tiao, bring Sheriff Bishop the same as I had.”

Even as the servant bowed, Sam held up a hand. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve come to discuss something with you.”

“Sit down then, and make yourself comfortable,” Pennington purred, pointing to a chair next to him. “Some coffee, at least?”

“No, thank you.” He remained standing.

Pennington studied him blandly for a moment, then nodded to the Chinaman and the two men behind Sam. “Leave us, gentlemen. I’m sure I have nothing to fear from the sheriff.”

Just as the other men were leaving, another man entered the room. He was sepulchrally thin, with hollow eyes, but his clothes spoke of wealth.

“Ah, there you are, Francis. Sheriff Bishop, this is Francis Byrd, one of my two partners in the Alliance. Mr. Byrd is in charge of the ranches we hold east of here. Francis, Mr. Bishop has something to talk over with us, and based on his demeanor, I fear it won’t be pleasant.”

“Is that right?” Byrd’s voice was raspy as dried reeds rubbing together in the wind. “Do inform us, Mr. Bishop.”

Sam didn’t care for the faintly supercilious tinge to the man’s voice, but he guessed Byrd was hoping to get a rise out of him. Ignoring him, he plunged ahead with a terse recital of yesterday’s incident. Pennington and Byrd listened attentively, Pennington rubbing his goatee, Byrd staring, unblinking, into Sam’s eyes.

“This Miss Gilmore, the mayor’s daughter—I’m told she is your sweetheart, Sheriff?” Pennington asked, his pale amber eyes holding a hint of…mischief? Amusement?

Sam felt anger sparking in him, mixed with surprise that Pennington knew anything about his relationship with Prissy. How did he know?

“What does that have to do with anything I spoke about?” he ground out, his gaze boring into Pennington’s. “As sheriff, I won’t stand for disrespect to any of Simpson Creek’s citizens—man, woman or child.”

Pennington rose, his movement smooth and unhurried. “Calm down, Sheriff. What you’ve told us is deplorable, of course. The men involved will be disciplined. It will not happen again.”

The same thing he’d promised about Tolliver’s drunken brawling. “I’ll hold you to that,” Sam said. “And as long as I’m here, I’ll ask why you’re buying up ranches right and left. What’s your game, gentlemen?”

Byrd raised a pale brow. “Game? Land acquisition is hardly a game, Sheriff. And it’s perfectly legal. We find folks who want to sell—the elderly and distressed widows and the like—and we have money to buy. It’s as simple as that.”

Sam remembered the way Prissy had described the old Daugherty couple—fearful, skittish, unwilling to look at the cowboys who sat like vultures as they withdrew their savings—and felt his ire deepen. “You’d better make sure every ‘i’ is dotted and every ‘t’ is crossed in your land dealings, Mr. Byrd.”

“We seem to have unintentionally ruffled your feathers, Sheriff,” Byrd observed. He seemed pleased.

Sam recognized he was being baited and kept his voice level. “I’ll be watching, and I won’t have anyone bullied into selling. Do I make myself plain?”

“Abundantly,” Pennington said, his voice conciliatory as Sam continued to meet Byrd’s basilisk stare. “Sheriff Bishop, I regret we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, so to speak. As I said, there will be no repeat of any sort of disrespectful behavior from my men. We’re here to benefit the citizens of this part of Texas, not persecute them. Now, let me show you around La Alianza, as I promised I would.”

Sam would have liked to refuse point-blank and stalk out, but he realized he might have more to gain if he let himself appear to be placated and was able to take a look around. Knowledge of this place might prove useful.

He shrugged. “Why not?”

Without a word, Byrd got to his feet and left the room. Sam was relieved to see him go. He didn’t like or trust Pennington any more than Byrd, but Pennington at least put on a pretense of affability.

“Splendid. Allow me to go dress—I won’t be long. Why not reconsider about that cup of coffee, while you’re waiting?” As if he’d been reading his employer’s mind—or hovering outside the door—Wong Tiao reentered the room bearing a fresh pot of hot coffee, and Sam accepted a cup.

Pennington was as good as his word, and soon Sam was following him around as Pennington showed him a large guesthouse, servant cottages, a greenhouse full of flowers, a magnificently appointed stable with its prized stock of thoroughbreds and Arabians, a separate barn housing a fine selection of horses for working cattle, a smithy and a poultry barn. Then another employee wearing a Ranchers’ Alliance vest brought Jackson and a mount for Pennington, and they rode past pastures containing cattle, more horses, fields of cotton with a gin at one end, rows of corn, beans and other vegetables, and peach and apple orchards. Everywhere there were workers bearing the “RA” emblem, tending the cattle and the crops. It was like a feudal fiefdom.

“Quite an operation you have here,” Sam murmured.

Pennington smiled from atop the sixteen-hand thoroughbred he rode, a horse that had tried more than once to take a nip at Jackson, much to Sam’s gelding’s annoyance.

“We have other such holdings between here and the coast, as well—smaller, most of them, but very self-sufficient.”

“Where does the ‘alliance’ part of the Ranchers’ Alliance come in?”

Pennington blinked. “What do you mean?”

Sam shrugged. “Inside the house, you said you were here to benefit the citizens of the area. How’s that, other than buying them out so you can take over their land? That benefits you and your partners.”

Pennington’s smile was urbane. “That’s precisely what many of them are most benefited by, of course—the chance to start over elsewhere with cash in hand. But if they choose to stay on their land, they may ally themselves with us as Alliance employees, and receive the benefits of Alliance protection and the ability to purchase needed goods at a bargain price. We buy in bulk, so we’re able to do this for our members.”

“And what’s in it for you, if they choose to do this?”

“We merely require service from them from time to time,” Pennington said vaguely. “Most of the workers you see in the fields are satisfying the terms of their contract. Others, such as the ones you saw guarding the gates, are permanent employees.”

As were the ones who’d come to town and harassed Prissy.

“I’ll ask you again, like I did inside—what do y’all hope to gain with this ‘Ranchers’ Alliance,’ Mr. Pennington?”

Pennington met his gaze. “Power,” Pennington said simply. “Control of a region, like Richard King has south of here. He controls a huge chunk of Texas, Sheriff. But why should he be the only one?”

They’d come full circle and were now back at the entrance gate. It struck Sam then that he’d seen no ladies in the big house and only a few Mexican women tending the gardens.

“Are you married, Mr. Pennington? Is Mr. Byrd?”

Pennington raised an eyebrow, as if he found the question intrusive, but Sam didn’t care.

“Yes, I am. Mrs. Pennington still lives in Houston, but I hope to bring her up here soon, now that we have things under way.”

It was an ironic understatement, Sam thought, gazing about him at the carefully organized splendor.

“What about Byrd?”

“His wife has passed on. And you, Sheriff Bishop? Do you hope to tie the knot sometime soon with the beautiful mayor’s daughter?”

It was a fair question after Sam’s inquiry, but Sam was reluctant to speak of Prissy with this man and only nodded.

“Splendid, splendid. She is a prize, by all reports.”

He spoke of her as if she were the spoils of war. Fury clenched Sam’s free hand into a fist at his side.

“Where did you get the money to start all this?” Sam asked, willing to counter rudeness with rudeness.

Pennington stared at him, and for a long moment there was no sound but the buzzing of insects and the stomp of Jackson’s hoof as he sought to dislodge a pesky fly.

“Ah, that’d be telling,” Pennington murmured. “But if you’d care to throw in with us, Sheriff, you can be privy to all our secrets.”

Sam blinked. “Thanks, but I have a job.”

Pennington waved a hand. “Oh, you could continue as sheriff, if you wished. Collect both salaries. It would be good to have the law in our corner, so to speak. Or you could leave the job and throw in with us completely. Miss Gilmore could live in the lap of luxury here as your wife, in an even more opulent house than her father’s, rather than some humble abode you could afford in town on your own. She could be my hostess until my wife joins me. Think of it, Sheriff—isn’t that the sort of home you’d like to provide for her?”

Unbidden, his mind flashed an image of Prissy dining at the long mahogany dining table, dressed in the finest gowns, never wanting for anything, rather than in the ramshackle old house he wanted to fix up for the two of them.

For a moment, Sam could only stare at him, dumbfounded—not only because of the man’s audacity in saying it, but because he knew he once would have jumped at the chance.

But now the idea of accepting filled him with disgust. His father used to quote the old saying, “He who sups with the devil should bring a long spoon.” The offer sounded like just that sort of situation.

“Thanks, but I’ve always been my own man. Reckon I’ll continue doing that.”

Pennington shrugged, untroubled at the refusal. “Very well, but if you decide to leave genteel poverty behind, the position will be open—at least for a time, Bishop. The sheriff of Richardson is considering it, but I’d rather have you, I believe.”

Sam ignored his last words. “Thanks for the tour, Mr. Pennington. I’d best be getting back to town.”

He started to rein Jackson around and head him out through the gate, but Pennington put up a hand. “Oh, say, Sheriff, you’ll have to come pay us another visit soon when our other partner comes up to visit from Houston. We’ll be having a reception, and I know he’d like to meet the sheriff. Perhaps he could make joining us seem more attractive to you.”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, don’t be so sure,” Pennington said with a smirk. “Kendall Raney could charm the birds out of the trees, if he had a mind to.”

It took all of Sam’s ability to keep his features blank. The day had become hot enough to wither a fence post, but he suddenly felt cold all over.

Kendall Raney was coming to San Saba County. Kendall Raney, who had overseen Sam’s being beaten to a pulp, and who had planned to feed him to the gators. Kendall Raney, whose safe Sam had cracked, whose valuable ring he had stolen.

“Are y’all having a big braggin’ party to see which of you has gobbled up the most land from down-on-their-luck ranchers?” He asked the question lightly, while all the while his mind raced. Raney had only seen him the one time, at night, and his features had been covered in blood by the end of it. Sam’s injuries had mostly healed, and if they met at all, Raney wasn’t likely to remember the hapless gambler he’d once decided to dump into a bayou for the gators when he saw the sheriff of Simpson Creek. He might not even come into town, but be content to stay in the sumptuous luxury of La Alianza.

“Among other things,” Pennington said. “But he mainly wants to set up a gambling palace in Simpson Creek, such as the ones he runs in Houston. Profitable places.”

Profitable for the house, Sam knew. Not for the gambler. “We already have a saloon, if anyone wants to play poker or monte,” Sam said dismissively. “Simpson Creek isn’t a rowdy town. He ought to try his luck in San Francisco or New Orleans.”

“Oh, but he sees the possibilities, Sheriff. If Simpson Creek’s saloon owner doesn’t want to sell, he can always erect his gambling palace elsewhere in the town. Gamblers would flock to such a place, the only one of its kind in the hill country. You might find yourself sheriff of a booming city, Bishop.”

“We’ll see about that,” Sam said as he headed through the gate, ignoring the fear that had taken hold in his stomach.

Chapter Twelve

Sam unlocked the sheriff’s office, taking down the “Sheriff Is Out” sign, eager to do some quiet work at his desk after his return from La Alianza. He’d stopped at Gilmore House to tell the mayor about his visit, and Prissy’s father had decided to call a council meeting to discuss the matter.

Sam wanted to get his thoughts and recommendations down on paper while his impressions were still fresh. He planned to urge the council to call a town meeting to warn against the Ranchers’ Alliance, to urge the townspeople to neither sell their property to them nor join. He wondered if they could pass an ordinance against new saloons or gambling halls. Was such a thing legal, and would it be enough to discourage the scheming Raney? He outlined his thoughts on a sheet of paper, point by point.

The idea of encountering his tormentor again had rankled his nerves at first, but during the ride back to town, Sam’s resolve had stiffened. Even in the unlikely event Raney recognized him, he had no power over the sheriff of Simpson Creek. If he harmed a lawman, it would bring the federals down on him and his cabal. He wouldn’t want that, for they’d poke their noses into the land-buying scheme.

And he couldn’t prove Sam had taken the ring. He might not have even realized that Sam was the one who had taken it, for Sam had left the safe locked up again, and he might not have missed the ring right away. Sam only hoped some unlucky employee of Raney’s gambling emporium hadn’t taken the blame for the theft instead.

He’d known the so-called Ranchers’ Alliance was a bad thing, but now that he knew Raney was part of it, it was even worse. He had to defeat Raney and his coconspirators, not only to achieve his own revenge, but for the sake of the town and San Saba County.

And for the sake of the life he was trying to build here. With Prissy.

Sam began writing with such force that the lead broke in the pencil he’d so painstakingly sharpened to a point. Thunderation. Now he’d have to whittle it down again.

He’d just pulled his knife out of his pocket when the door was wrenched open. William Waters III burst in, slamming the door behind him.

“Sheriff, it’s about time you put in an appearance!” he cried. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

Sam had heard the term “purple with rage” before, and he judged the easterner’s complexion was only a couple of shades away from that. His eyes bulged as if someone had a chokehold around his neck. He was practically hopping from foot to foot in his fury.

“The very least you could do if you’re out is to have a deputy here to take your place,” Waters went on. “But no doubt you were lollygagging at the mayor’s mansion, mooning over his daughter.”

Sam smothered his irritation at the accusation. So the little banty rooster was jealous, was he? It wouldn’t do him any good. He’d never have had a chance with a woman like Prissy Gilmore, even if Sam and she had never met. Sam said in a mild tone, “Happens I was out investigating a citizen’s complaint, Mr. Waters.” The man didn’t need to know the citizen was Prissy. “Sorry I wasn’t here. What can I do for you, now that I am?”

“You can order those Ranchers’ Alliance fellows not to push me around, that’s what!”

Sam straightened. “Simmer down, take a seat, and tell me what you’re talking about,” he said, pointing to the chair on the other side of the scarred old desk. “What did they do to you?”

Waters sat down with a huff of breath. “I hadn’t been here twenty-four hours before that Pennington fellow paid me a call at my hotel room offering to buy my ranch. Said he’d do me the favor of taking it off of my hands, if you can believe the effrontery!”

“You told him you didn’t want to sell, didn’t you?” Sam wasn’t sure the man wouldn’t be wiser to sell to someone, as ill-suited as he was to be a rancher in this rough country, but Waters’s land abutted the Brookfields’ and Sam certainly didn’t want Nick and his wife to have the Ranchers’ Alliance as a neighbor.

“He offered me a pittance compared to what it’s worth, and I said no and thought no more of it,” Waters said. “Then he sent some of his men out yesterday—dangerous-looking fellows, ‘hired guns,’ I believe you’d call them. They repeated the offer to buy me out, though for less money than the day before, with their hands on their pistol butts the whole time. Today all the men I’d hired to do the work have either disappeared or are dead drunk in the saloon—and when I went to claim the lumber I’d ordered at the mill, the mill owner told me the order had been cancelled—but not by me, you may be sure I told him!”

“Sounds like someone’s trying to discourage you from settling down out there,” Sam murmured. “Mr. Waters, I’ll be attending a council meeting called to discuss this very subject tonight, and—”

“Fine, I’ll be there. At Gilmore House?”

“Hold your horses a second,” Sam advised. “I wasn’t asking you to attend. I can bring your report to the council, along with those of others who’ve been pressured to sell their land. Then we’ll be calling a meeting of concerned citizens, and you’re welcome to attend that—”

“And in the meantime, I’m to cool my heels?” Waters yelped, jumping to his feet and pounding on Sam’s desk. “Allow these ruffians to threaten me?” He was fairly jumping up and down in his agitation.

Sam stood, extending his hand palm down. “Now, I didn’t say that. I was just out to Pennington’s ranch this morning, and I was about to say I would pay another call there and officially order them to leave you in peace because you don’t want to sell.”

Waters stared at him, his beady eyes narrowed into mere slits. “How do I know I can trust you?” he demanded. “How do I know you’re not in league with them to defraud me of my land?”

Sam took a deep breath, knowing he towered over Waters. As sheriff, he’d taken an oath to defend obnoxious people like William Waters just as much as kind, pleasant folks like Mrs. Detwiler. “You don’t,” he said shortly, “except that I’m wearing this—” He jabbed his thumb into the five-pointed star he wore on his shirt. “And out here, if a man says he’s going to do something, we trust he will. As an easterner, you might not have been aware of that.”

Waters took a step back. “I…I apologize, Sheriff,” he said. “I suppose I spoke too hastily. I-I’d be grateful if you’d speak to Mr. Pennington.”

“I’ll do that. Now, in the meantime, who did you hire to bring the lumber out to your property? I’ll mosey down to the saloon and have a word with them about starting the work they promised.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Waters said, all the fight gone out of him.

Sam took down the names, realizing they were going to need more than a council meeting to rein in the Alliance.

Prissy smiled in triumph as she took two apple pies out of the oven and saw that both were evenly browned.

“Ah, señorita,” Flora said, coming back into the kitchen. “They smell so good!”

“Even Sarah wouldn’t be ashamed to claim these as her own,” Prissy said, pride at her accomplishment welling up in her. She had definitely come a long way in her cooking ability.

At Prissy’s feet, Houston gave a yip, his liquid eyes pleading for a sample. But she’d already given him scraps of dough left over from the piecrust she’d rolled out. “Sorry, boy, no more for you. I’m leaving one here for Papa, Flora and Antonio.” She would cover the other with a napkin and take it down to the jail as a treat for Sam.

She smiled at the thought of the handsome sheriff, though she surely had been confused by his “preliminary proposal.” Last night she had served as secretary at the council meeting and taken down the minutes, so she had gotten to watch Sam from under lowered lashes as he and the others discussed strategies to deal with the actions of the Ranchers’ Alliance. She had felt a rush of pride as it became clear that the other men respected his opinion. Only once had he stolen a glance at her and smiled, all while the others at the meeting were listening to something Dr. Walker was saying. She’d looked down, feeling the heat spread up her neck and face clear to the roots of her hair.

Her father had appeared troubled at Sam’s mention of the harassment William Waters had experienced. As soon as Sam finished up by saying he was going to speak to Pennington about it, her father turned to Prissy.

“Don’t you and the Spinsters have an outing planned for next week out that way? To visit Miss Milly and the new baby out at the Brookfields’ ranch?”

“Yes, Papa. But I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Prissy had said, afraid her father meant to forbid the outing. “They have no reason to bother a wagonful of ladies.”

“Still, I don’t like it,” her father said, steepling his fingers. “Perhaps—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Gilmore, but I’d be happy to escort the ladies to and from the Brookfield ranch,” Sam said.

Her father had looked at Sam, grateful. “Very well, then. Thanks, Sam. I surely would feel better about that.”

So Sam would be escorting the wagon that carried the Spinsters out to the Brookfield Ranch. Sam had seen the need for their protection, and he would be riding with them to protect them. How impressed the ladies would be! Her heart nearly burst with pride. Of course, she hadn’t accepted Sam’s offer. She’d had so many questions she hadn’t known where to start.

But she could be proud of him anyway, couldn’t she?

At the end of the meeting, the council decided to call a town meeting after church, since most of the ranchers would already be in town for the church service. It would be quite interesting to see how that meeting went. She was looking forward to seeing what Sam had to say about it all.

Actually, to be honest, she was just looking forward to seeing Sam, regardless of what he had to say about it.

Perhaps she didn’t have so many questions about him that needed answering after all.

She had just donned her bonnet, attached Houston’s leash to his collar and scooped up the napkin-covered pie when a knock sounded at the front door. Houston charged toward the sound, nearly yanking Prissy off her feet. Prissy lost hold of the leash, and it was all she could do to keep her balance and hold on to the pie so it wouldn’t fall facedown on the floor.

Oh, bother—her fingers had gone right through the crust, marring its perfection. Who could it be at the door? She didn’t want to be delayed taking the pie to Sam—she needed to see him, to make sure that he…that he… Well, she wasn’t sure, but she just knew she needed to see him.

Mariah Fairchild stood at the door, holding a parasol of lavender silk that exactly matched her dress. “Why, good morning, Priscilla dear! Is your papa home? I wonder if he’s forgotten about the walk we were going to take this morning? Mmm, whatever you’re carrying smells delicious!”

Prissy reminded herself it wasn’t Mrs. Fairchild’s fault that the dog had nearly made her drop the pie. Still, her very presence was a reminder that the friendship between her papa and the widow was progressing.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fairchild. I…I believe Papa’s in his study.” Papa has a right to happiness, she reminded herself sternly, and added, “There’s another pie cooling in the kitchen. You’re more than welcome to sample it.”

“How sweet of you, dear. Now, don’t let me keep you—”

But Prissy had already grabbed Houston’s leash and was sailing out the door, satisfied she’d done her duty of being courteous to the widow. She had not passed the gate when she heard the sound of carriage wheels slowing in the street.

Houston was lunging in that direction, barking.

She stopped and turned, for her bonnet impeded her sideward vision. The driver of the carriage wore livery; he tipped his hat to her even as a gentleman alighted from the victoria and did likewise.

“Miss Gilmore, I believe?” The unknown gentleman possessed pale amber eyes that seemed to pierce right through her, and not in a pleasant way.

“Yes,” she began uncertainly, controlling Houston with difficulty. “Quiet! No, I’m sorry, sir, I meant the dog. Y-you have the advantage of me…”

“Garth Pennington, ma’am. I’m sorry to interrupt you—you’re obviously on the way to somewhere, but I’m happy to have found you before you left.”

“Why? What can I do for you?” she asked bluntly, recognizing his name as that of one of the leaders of the Alliance whom Sam had visited yesterday.

Antonio had emerged from the barn and came to Prissy’s side. Grateful for his presence, she handed him the pie, which left her hands free to pick up her agitated pet.

“My, what a fierce little protector you have there,” Pennington said with a chuckle, but Prissy was not amused. Pennington apparently saw that, for he sobered. “Miss Gilmore, my intent is not to delay you on your errand, but to apologize for the distress my men reportedly caused you a couple of days ago.” He reached into the coach and brought forth a lush bouquet of blood-red roses, which he held out to her. “I pray you will accept these as a token of my humble and abject regret that you were subjected to such treatment—no doubt in an excess of high spirits on their part rather than any real malice, I assure you, Miss Gilmore.”

Prissy stiffened. There was something too glib in the way the words of apology slid off the man’s lips for her to believe any real regret on his part.

“That’s not necessary, Mr. Pennington, but I thank you.” She made no move to accept the flowers.

“The men involved have been disciplined, Miss Pennington. You need not fear a repeat of such behavior.” Bending forward with a flourish, he added, “Please accept these lovely roses from the hothouse of La Alianza. They cannot be as lovely as you, if I may say so, but—”

“Leave the lady alone.”

Prissy had been so absorbed in what Pennington had been saying and in fending off the roses he offered that she hadn’t heard Sam approaching on his black gelding. Neither had Pennington, for he startled at the voice and straightened abruptly from his bow, gaping at Sam.

“Sheriff, you mistake me. I was not offering any disrespect to Miss Gilmore, I assure you, but merely apologizing for my men’s behavior—the behavior you reported to me.”

“Miss Prissy, please, go back inside the house,” Sam said, keeping his narrowed eyes on Pennington. The sun glinted off the tin star on his shirt.

Prissy had never been so glad to see anyone in her life as she was to see Sam Bishop at that moment. But she took only a couple of steps backward, curious as to what he intended to say to Pennington.

Sam half turned, his gaze locking with hers. “Please. I said go back inside the house. I’ll join you in a moment.” His tone was steely.

She hesitated no more, lowering Houston to the ground and taking the pie back from Antonio. The dog dragged at the leash, clearly torn between wagging his tail at Sam and growling again at Pennington, but after she gave it a firm yank, he heeled at her side, carrying his tail stiff and straight.

“Really, Sheriff, was that necessary?” Prissy heard Pennington protest. “I told you I meant no harm, only—”

Sam interrupted, “Mr. Pennington, you’ve saved me another ride out to La Alianza. I have a bone to pick with you.”

By then she was out of earshot, and knew she would have to wait until Sam finished with Pennington to hear what he’d said. She’d been planning to stand just inside the door and listen but she found her father and Mariah Fairchild there. Her father, cane in hand, was just taking his hat from the hook by the door.

“Prissy, what’s wrong?” her father said. “You look upset. What’s going on out there?”

“It’s Pennington,” she said, and explained what had happened.

“I’m going to give that sidewinder Pennington a piece of my mind,” her father growled, putting a hand on the doorknob. “You stay here, Mariah. I’ll just be a moment.”

Prissy dashed forward and put a hand on her father’s arm. “Wait, Papa, please. I think Sam would prefer it if we all stayed here right now.”

Her father raised an eyebrow and then turned to the window. Prissy followed, and she did not like what she saw.

“That was churlish of you, Sheriff. Surely there can be nothing wrong with a heartfelt apology for my men’s actions, accompanied by a bouquet of La Alianza roses from the hothouse.”

Sam was standing very close to Pennington with his hand resting on his holster. He very much doubted Pennington’s heart felt anything but self-interest. “The lady didn’t want your flowers. And she heard your apology, so there’s no further need for you to speak to her.”

Pennington’s cold amber gaze locked with his for a moment, as if trying to find a chink in his armor, but when Sam did not look away he said, “Very well. You said you had something to speak to me about?”

Sam nodded. “William Waters informed me your men have been trying to intimidate him into selling his land. He doesn’t want to, so leave him alone.”

Pennington blinked, then gave a little chuckle. “My, my, you don’t beat around the bush, do you, Sheriff? Aren’t you the protective sort? First your lady, now the whiny little Yankee. We’ve done nothing illegal. We’re just businessmen, trying to conduct lawful business in a free country.”

“If Waters doesn’t want to sell, he doesn’t want to sell—especially at a lower price than what you first offered him. That’s his choice. My job is to make sure he has that choice.”

Pennington tsk-tsked. “Pity he feels that way. It’s a prime piece of land with good water, even with the derelict house. I figured he’d be happy to hightail it back East, now that he’s had a bitter taste of life in Texas. And I’m sorry you don’t want to work with us, instead of against us, Sheriff. You seem like a stalwart fellow to have on one’s side. But if we can’t work through you, I suppose we’ll just have to work around you.” He waited for a moment, but when Sam remained still and silent, he turned to his driver and said, “Tackett, my business is done here. We’ll be going back to La Alianza.”

Sam waited until the carriage had rolled out of sight down the road before he turned and walked through the wrought-iron gate. He wasn’t surprised when Prissy opened the door before he could even knock, or that her father was waiting in the hallway, along with Mrs. Fairchild.

Briefly, he told them the gist of his conversation with Pennington about the harassment of William Waters. “I’ve warned him, and now I don’t intend to tolerate any further shenanigans from him or any of the Alliance men.”

“Quite right, Sheriff Bishop,” Mayor Gilmore said, extending his hand. “You have the full support of myself and the town council. I knew I was right to give you that badge.”

Sam took his hand. “Thank you, sir.” The mayor’s approval of the way he was doing his job meant more to him than he could say. He hoped his approval of Sam wouldn’t diminish if and when Sam told him he wanted to marry his daughter, too, but there he was, getting ahead of himself again.

“My daughter was just about to bring you something, Sheriff,” Mayor Gilmore said, nodding to a napkin-covered dish on the side table, the same one Sam had seen Prissy holding when she’d been accosted by Pennington. “Mrs. Fairchild, why don’t we adjourn to the kitchen and sample the one she left us?”

“Pie before noon,” Mrs. Fairchild murmured, her voice amused. “Scandalous.”

Mayor Gilmore chuckled, and the two left Sam alone with Prissy in the hallway.

Prissy walked over to the table, lifted the dish and held it out to Sam.

Even though the dish was covered by a napkin, he could smell the delicious odor of fresh-baked apples and brown sugar. He lifted a corner of the cloth and inhaled deeply, while his mind wondered what the present meant after her indecision the other night.

He looked into her eyes, getting lost in the clear, blue, untroubled depths of them. At the very least, he thought he could read that she wasn’t angry at him for his “preliminary proposal.” But did that mean she was considering it favorably? If only he didn’t need to return to the jail, and could have a longer time alone with her.

“Sam,” she said, “how did you know Pennington was coming to see me?”

He shrugged, sure he shouldn’t admit he’d been lingering on the boardwalk outside the hotel, staring across the street at Gilmore House and thinking about Prissy. “I just had a feeling,” he said.

“Well, I’m mighty glad you listened to that feeling,” she said, her eyes shining. “It was so wonderful that you were right there when I needed you.”

I want to be right there when you need me always, Prissy, he wanted to say, but he’d learned his lesson the other night, and kept his thoughts to himself. He hoped he would recognize when she was ready to hear all that was in his heart.

Chapter Thirteen

Wednesday, the day of the Spinsters’ Club outing to visit Milly and her new baby, dawned bright and clear after a heavy rain during the night which did much to alleviate the summer heat. At the appointed hour, all eight of the other active Spinsters’ Club members assembled by the Gilmore stable. Laden with gifts and covered dishes, they climbed into the mayor’s victoria and an additional shay driven by Maude Harkey.

“You ladies all ready to go?” inquired Sam, smiling down at Prissy sitting in the victoria. Prissy hadn’t seen Sam since the town meeting on Sunday when his suggested ordinance against more saloons or gambling halls had passed. Waters had aired his complaints about the pressure from the Alliance to sell, and Prissy had seen nods of confirmation from other ranchers who’d also been pressured. Her father exhorted everyone to resist, even pledging to loan money if anyone needed it to keep their property.

The meeting had gone well, but they’d had no chance to talk.

Now, she enjoyed the sight of him sitting tall in the saddle on his black horse. If there’d ever been a more handsome man than Sam Bishop, she’d never met him. She was aware of the admiring looks of her friends, but she realized she wasn’t feeling jealous or possessive as she had at church that day.

Because they were looking at her like she was already his.

The party had been a great success, Prissy judged, gazing around the parlor of the Brookfield ranch house. Milly beamed at each of them as they passed around her new son and made much of him, just as she had oohed and aahed at each gift, now piled high on the small table beside her—crocheted blankets, embroidered bibs, handsewn baby clothes, and the silver cup and rattle Prissy had bought at the mercantile. She could hear Sarah contentedly humming a hymn in the kitchen as she cleaned up the dishes from their potluck feast. Her husband would be coming to fetch her in his buggy soon, and she was no doubt looking forward to their reunion after the ten days she had spent helping her sister after the birth.

Sam had gone off with Nick to see a newborn colt, which was really just an excuse, Prissy guessed, for the two men to escape the feminine chatter and squeals of delight at the opening of each gift. He’d smiled at her before he’d left, and after he’d gone, the ladies made almost as much of that as they were making of the baby. Prissy simply smiled and said nothing.

Little Nicholas had made the rounds of the Spinsters and was once again cradled in his mother’s arms. How happy Milly Brookfield looked, how fulfilled, Prissy thought. Would it be that way someday when she had their first child? A sudden yearning struck Prissy. Looking around the circle of women, she saw that emotion mirrored in each face. A new baby had that effect on women.

“What else is going on around town?” Milly asked. “Goodness, I’ve been cooped up for weeks on this ranch—maybe next Sunday I can return to church.”

The Spinsters were happy to fill her in. “Mavis Hotchkiss is expecting again, she said in church last week,” Bess Lassiter said. “Didn’t she just have a baby a few months ago, right before the influenza hit?”

“Goodness, she’s going to be a busy lady,” Faith Bennett said.

“And you remember Emily’s getting married very soon,” Caroline said. The bride-to-be smiled radiantly.

“But the most interesting news is that romance is blooming at Gilmore House,” Faith Bennet said, winking at Prissy. “Sheriff Bishop sure is smitten with you, Prissy.”

“Yes, that was certainly nice of him to ride out here with us,” Maude Harkey said. “Seems he can’t bear to be parted from our Prissy.”

Prissy blushed with pleasure. “I—”

“Tell us,” asked Polly Shackleford, with a knowing look. “Is it official? Is our handsome sheriff courting you, Prissy?”

“He is quite handsome, Prissy,” said Milly, smiling.

“Prissy assured me that she’s considering her feelings about Sam very carefully. She’s not rushing into anything this time,” Sarah said, coming from the kitchen.

“Is that so?” Milly said, raising an eyebrow. “Good for you, Prissy. I think that’s wise—”

There was a sudden report of a gunshot off to the northeast. Everyone froze.

“What was that?”

Milly remained calm, for the shot had not been close enough to disturb her sleeping baby. “Probably just one of the hands shooting a snake,” she said. “I’ve learned not to worry about the occasional gunshot here or there, now that the Comanches have been leaving us alone for a—”

Several other shots in rapid succession interrupted her words, and they all jumped up.

“Oh dear heavens,” Milly said.

Prissy saw the color drain from Milly’s face like water flowing out of a tap. The baby began to wail and she clutched him tightly to her.

Everyone except Milly ran to the back door and saw the ranch hands running from the bunkhouse toward the barn.

“What is it, Bobby?” Sarah called to the youngest of them, who was the last one out of the bunkhouse.

He stopped. “Dunno, Miz Sarah, we were just fixin’ t’go back out to the creek pasture t’ mend fences when we heard the shots!”

Prissy ran after him to the barn. Sam and Nick were each saddling their horses with haste. The ranch hands began to do likewise.

Prissy dashed to the stall where Sam was cinching up Jackson’s girth. “What is it? Who’s shooting out there?” she cried.

His face was grim. “We don’t know, but we’re going to go find out. Nick says it’s coming from the direction of the Waters ranch house.”

“Listen up, men!” Nick shouted from the next stall. “Elijah, Isaiah, Caleb, saddle up and follow us as soon as you can. Micah, Josh, Bobby, you stay here and guard the house—”

“Go in the house, Prissy, and stay there,” Sam ordered. “Please,” he added more gently, when she stayed rooted where she was. “The cowboys staying here will keep you safe. Now go!”

She wanted to ask him not to go, to be one of the ones who remained to guard the house, but she knew that a sheriff couldn’t choose to avoid danger. She was overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him, to beg him to be careful, to throw her arms around him and keep him rooted to the spot.

But of course she couldn’t do any of those things.

So Prissy took one last look at him before trudging back out into the sunlight. Her heart pounded, her eyes stung with unshed tears. She felt helpless and terrified, and all the more so when she saw a black plume of smoke rising from the direction of Waters’s ranch house.

But she and the other ladies weren’t helpless, she reminded herself as she ran the rest of the way to the kitchen door. At least they could pray.

And they did so, flinching as they heard several more reports echo from the direction of the Waters ranch, then a terrifying silence.

More than an hour later, they heard a horse and wagon approaching the house. Prissy ran to the back door. “One of your men is driving, Milly,” she reported.

“But what about the rest of the men?” Milly asked from the parlor.

“I’m not sure,” Prissy answered, her heart in her throat. “Let’s find out.”

Sarah stayed in the house with the baby while all the other women ran outside, joining the cowhands who’d remained behind to guard them as the wagon drew up in the yard.

“What happened, Isaiah? Where’s Nick and the rest?” Milly demanded.

Prissy’s eyes were drawn to a blanket-covered form in the wagon bed and she began to shake.

“That’s not—that’s not—”

The cowhand mercifully addressed Prissy first. “It’s that Waters fella, that easterner. This is his wagon we found there.”

The Spinsters gasped. Isaiah turned back to Milly. “The rest of the men went after the men that killed ’im, Miz Milly,” he said, nodding towards the body. “We got there just as they was ridin’ off. Soon’s they caught sight a’ us, they scattered in all different d’rections, so I don’ know if they gonna be able to ketch any of ’em. But they’re sure ‘nough gonna try.”

“Could you see who attacked the ranch?” Prissy asked, able to breathe again now that she knew it wasn’t Sam lying in the wagon. “Was it Pennington’s men?”

Isaiah said, “We couldn’t tell. They all had on masks. And that Waters ranch house, Miz Milly, it’s burnin’ to the ground.”

Prissy sighed, certain Pennington was behind this. No one else had a reason to harm Waters. The easterner had come to Texas with such big plans and high hopes—now he had lost his life and his efforts had come to nothing. She only hoped he hadn’t suffered.

“Mr. Sam, he says for you ladies to wait till Dr. Walker comes for Miz Sarah, then Caleb and I are t’ ride along with y’all back to Gilmore House. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back.”

Prissy hadn’t even thought about the journey home, with Pennington’s murderous henchmen on the loose. She wanted to stay right where she was until she saw Sam return, safe and sound. It was all she could do not to drop to her knees. Lord, please protect him while he’s off in pursuit of these evil men.

A volley of barks from Houston announced Sam’s arrival just as Prissy lit the lamp in the hallway. She dashed past Flora to the door.

“Oh, Sam, I’m so glad you’re finally here!” Only Flora’s presence stopped her from launching herself into his arms. “Come in, come in.” Even in the gathering dusk, she could see his clothes were stained and dusty, and his face was etched with weariness. Beyond him in front of the steps Jackson stood, head down, where Sam had dropped his reins.

“No, thanks, I’m all dirty,” he said, “and Señora Flora wouldn’t appreciate it if I tracked dirt into the house.” He attempted a wink in the housekeeper’s direction, but he was clearly exhausted, a dark expression on his face. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Yes, I’m okay,” she assured him, though she was practically shaking again, reliving the terror she’d experienced when she thought it had been Sam in that wagon.

Dr. Walker had examined the body while the ladies were inside preparing to leave. Though he had assured them Waters had died quickly, there was something in his troubled gaze that told Prissy he was only trying to comfort them.

“Sam, is that you?” her father said, coming into the hall from his study. “Prissy told me what happened. A terrible business, terrible. Were you able to catch up with any of the murdering scoundrels?”

Sam’s gaze fell and his shoulders slumped. Prissy’s heart twisted with compassion for him.

“No, sir. They had too much of a lead. Nick and I followed one that ran north, then west. We thought he might turn southwest and circle back to La Alianza, but we lost his trail. We stopped there anyway and demanded to look around, but no man or horse looked like he’d just come in from a hard ride.”

Her father whistled. “You’ve covered a lot of ground today. Did you tell Pennington you suspect his men did the killing?”

Sam shook his head. “He wasn’t there. But I spoke to Francis Byrd. Of course he pretended complete ignorance of the raid and acted shocked that we would blame Alliance men. We’d have a hard time proving it, seeing as they were masked, but I made the accusation anyway.”

“Was Waters alone out there? I thought he’d hired men to help with the rebuilding of the ranch house,” her father said.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “He’d had trouble with them not showing up. We found him lying among the piles of lumber and stone he’d bought, but I don’t think he could do that sort of work, not by himself.”

“Did they rob him?”

Sam shrugged. “There wasn’t any money in his pockets, but I don’t know if he was carrying any.”

He blinked suddenly, as if he’d thought of something, but before Prissy could ask him about it, her father spoke again. “Maybe that’ll be the end of it, now that they know we’re onto them.” But he said it without any real conviction in his voice.

Sam didn’t look convinced, either. “I’ll stop by the hotel now, see if I can find any next of kin’s address among Waters’s effects, so I can notify them of his passing.”

His eyes looked like two burned holes in a blanket, Prissy thought. “That can wait until tomorrow, Sam. Come in and have something to eat. I’m sure you haven’t had a bite since noontime, and the hotel restaurant’s closed down now.”

He tried to smile and failed. “Thanks, but I need to take Jackson back to the livery and rub him down, see him fed. Then I’m turning in myself. I’ll see you at church tomorrow, Prissy. Good night, Mayor.”

“You will wait at least until I make a sandwich for you, Señor Sheriff,” Flora commanded. “I will wrap it up and you can take it with you.” She bustled off to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

“You’re a good man, Sam Bishop,” her father said, coming forward and extending his hand to Sam. “I’m proud to know you. Go and get some rest. I have full confidence in you, confidence you’ll bring Waters’s murderers to justice and find a way to get Pennington and his kind run out of San Saba County.”

Prissy’s heart felt full to bursting as she watched her father’s words sink into Sam. How humble he was, in spite of her father’s praise. She beamed at her father.

“Thank you, Mayor Gilmore. I’ll do my best to be worthy of your confidence in me,” he said hoarsely. “Good night, sir. Good night, Prissy.”

It was all she could do not to follow him, fling her arms around him and tell him that yes, she would indeed marry him. Happily.

The mayor’s undeserved praise and Prissy’s radiant smile seared through Sam’s soul like flaming swords as he trudged down the darkened street, leading his horse. He wasn’t worthy of Prissy’s father’s high regard or his confidence, and if he knew that Sam had come to Simpson Creek with a stolen piece of jewelry, in search of an easier life—and a beautiful wife—he’d slam the door in his face.

So he thought all Sam needed was a good night’s sleep, and then he’d awaken refreshed, knowing how to discover the identity of the murderers and the way to rid the town of the Alliance?

He uttered a bark of ironic laughter that startled a sleepy bird roosting in the rafters above the livery doorway. He doubted the workmen would be able to shed any light on the attack, so he didn’t have a clue how to prove an Alliance man had killed Waters any more than he had a plan to defeat the triumvirate bent on taking over San Saba County. Maybe he’d know how to proceed if he’d ever been a sheriff or even a deputy, but he was nothing more than a liar and a thief himself.

Any day now, Kendall Raney could arrive at La Alianza, and then it was only a matter of time before he and Sheriff Sam Bishop would meet. And if Raney recognized the hapless gambler in the present sheriff, Sam Bishop would be exposed as a fraud.

What on earth had he gotten himself into? How on earth was he to avenge the murder of William Waters?

He could run, he knew. He could leave his tired horse here and take one of the livery’s other mounts, ride out of town in the dead of night and start over elsewhere. He’d always hankered to see the Rocky Mountains, or even California. He’d heard San Francisco possessed marvelous gambling halls.

But that was the easy way out, and it no longer seemed desirable since it meant giving up his chance with Prissy and causing her sorrow and pain.

Maybe he should leave, though. Maybe a woman like Prissy would be better off without a liar pursuing her. Prissy deserved a man of integrity, a man of his word, a man whose life wasn’t built on lies. He’d cause her just as much sorrow and pain if he stayed as he would if he left.

He didn’t have any answers. All he knew was that he was in deep—and there was no good way out.

Chapter Fourteen

Sam’s first priority the next morning was tracking down the men who’d been hired to help Waters rebuild his house at the ranch. Following a hunch, he found them sitting down in the shade of a cottonwood below the lumber mill by the creek, sharing a bottle.

No, they didn’t know anything about the attack, though they were sure sorry to hear about it, if only because it meant now they couldn’t count on earning the wages the fool tenderfoot had promised them. One of them said he’d received a message purportedly written by Waters telling them they didn’t have to work the rest of the week.

Sam found no reason to think they were complicit in the murder.

He asked George Detwiler to keep his ears open if any Alliance men grew boastful under the influence of his whiskey. If only he had a man who could infiltrate the Alliance ranks, but who? He didn’t want to risk anyone else’s life. And he didn’t dare pretend he’d decided to ally himself with the Alliance—if Raney ever did come to the area, that would be too close for comfort.

An uneasy quiet descended on Simpson Creek during the week that followed. Sam saw half a dozen more wagons driven by longtime residents, piled high with household goods, leaving town—and an increasing number of strangers riding into town, some with families and goods of their own in heavily laden wagons. Some of them, he discovered, were moving onto the very ranches just vacated by Simpson Creek settlers, but when he asked Mr. Avery, the bank president, about it, he admitted the ranches had been bought up by the Alliance. And Pennington was pressuring him to let him buy the Waters place, now that its heir had met with an “unfortunate accident.” But Avery had insisted he had not received instructions from the man’s heirs in New York as yet, so there could be no sale.

“He smiled at me like I’d said they could buy it tomorrow,” Avery reported. “Thinks it’s as good as theirs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already sent a telegram to those New York folks, offerin’ them a ‘bargain,’ but of course the telegraph operator can’t ethically divulge the contents of any messages he sends.”

“A bargain like he offered Waters?” Sam had asked.

Avery’s mouth had twisted. “I can’t give details, either, of course, but I can tell you that no one who’s left got anything remotely resembling a bargain. I think they got motivated to sell by something else entirely, if you catch my meaning.”

Nick Brookfield told him that he’d turned Pennington and Byrd away on Monday when they’d come calling to offer to buy the Brookfield ranch, “now that the Waters ranch would soon belong to the Alliance.” His men reported potshots taken at them while they were out in the fields so that they’d had to resort to standing watch from the small fortification they’d built atop the hill next to their ranch.

“It’s like last summer all over again,” Nick said, having told Sam about last year’s raids by the Comanches and the harassment by a group called the Circle who had tried to run off the ranch’s cowhands simply because of the color of their skin.

Sam took a morning and rode west to Colorado Bend. He wanted to assess the sheriff there, a man named Hantz, since Pennington had already boasted of the “cordial relationship” they had with him. Hantz merely shrugged his shoulders at Sam’s concern and said he couldn’t find anything illegal about a group of fellows buying land from individuals, and even when Sam had confided his suspicion that the triumvirate was behind the murder of a legal heir to a property, he seemed unmoved.

“Coulda been done by anyone,” he said with a shrug. “You said yourself you didn’t have no proof a’ who it was. Don’t look like you have no case against the Ranchers’ Alliance, Bishop,” he added with faintly veiled derision.

When he rode east to San Saba, however, it was a different story. Sheriff Wade Teague seemed as troubled as Sam was about the encroachment of the three-man partnership, but had no idea what action to take.

“I heard that last partner’s comin’ up from Houston. You don’t want to ruffle this Kendall Raney’s feathers, from what I hear tell. Real ruthless character, he is. You watch your back, Bishop. Don’t rile him less’n you have no choice.”

You don’t know the half of it, Sam thought.

“Time was, we could sic the Texas Rangers on a bunch like that,” the San Saba lawman went on. “But it don’t look like they’ll be reorganized any time soon. Them Texas State police—” he spat to show what he thought of that organization “—didn’t do nothin’ Throckmorton didn’t want ’em to do, and they ain’t apt t’be any different with Pease now he’s governor. Shoot, I dunno if you could even count on the Army unless those fellows came in with their hired guns at their back and tried to take your job and the mayor’s.”

So he was alone.

On Sunday, Reverend Chadwick preached on the topic of fear, as if he could sense what was on Sam’s mind and the minds of so many other Simpson Creek residents.

“The words of Romans 8:31 ring true for us now just as they did when the Apostle Paul wrote them—‘If God be for us, who can be against us?’” The pastor’s voice quavered with age but nevertheless rang with authority and assurance.

But Sam wondered if he had the right to think of himself as part of “us.” Though he’d always made sure he and his sisters attended Sunday services back in Tennessee when they were growing up because it was the proper thing to do, he’d never quite felt that they had God on their side. He’d taken His name in vain when the hand of cards he’d been dealt had gone against him, had cheated when he could get by with it.

And he’d stolen that ring.

By thunder, he was going to have to find a way to do some good with that ring, to get it off his hands—and off his soul. Then he wouldn’t imagine he felt it burning a hole through his shoulder at night when he lay on his mattress trying to sleep. Maybe then he’d feel worthy to become part of the “us” of the Simpson Creek Church.

Beside him, Prissy sat listening attentively, unaware of the turmoil of his thoughts.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together today to bless the union of Emily Thompson and Edward Markison,” Reverend Chadwick intoned the following Saturday afternoon.

Prissy glanced at Sam, sitting on the pew beside her, sitting ramrod-straight in his freshly brushed black frock coat. He’d promised to put the town’s problems aside while attending the wedding and the festivities afterward, but clearly he was having trouble doing it despite his best intentions.

He’s so dedicated. Simpson Creek is fortunate to have him.

As if sensing her thoughts, he smiled down at her and took her hand for a brief moment, squeezing it gently. Although they had still not spoken of his preliminary proposal, something had shifted between them after the incident at the ranch—after she’d thought she’d lost him.

“Emily looks so happy, doesn’t she?” she whispered, returning his smile.

“So does Ed,” he whispered back, nodding toward the groom, who stood facing his bride at the altar, grinning from ear to ear. “He told me she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.” He held her gaze for a moment longer, studying her face.

Prissy felt her face flush with color as he stared at her. She suddenly found herself imagining walking down the aisle toward Sam.

In the row ahead of them, Sarah Walker, who was sitting with her husband, Milly and Nick turned around, and winked, as if she knew exactly what was happening. Prissy smiled at her, then cast a hasty glance on her other side, where her father was sitting. He was staring toward the bridal pair, completely focused on them, unaware of his daughter’s blushing at the possibility of marrying the handsome man next to her.

Beyond her father sat Mariah Fairchild, resplendent in another dress of the dove-gray she looked so dignified in. The widow seemed forever at Prissy’s father’s side these days. He was going to marry her, Prissy knew that now. He hadn’t said as much, and Prissy would never dare to ask him, but she now saw it was inevitable. It was just as well—her father deserved happiness, even if it was with the widow.

“‘Charity suffereth long, and is kind, charity envieth not’—now, we know Paul meant love when he wrote about charity, didn’t he?” Reverend Chadwick was saying.

Prissy winced inwardly. It served her right that she should begin listening again in time to feel convicted by the Scriptures. She hadn’t been kind in her thoughts just now. Her father wasn’t the only one who deserved happiness—Mariah Fairchild did, too. It was time she started being a bit more charitable, more welcoming.

She felt Sam would approve. And she realized she quite enjoyed his approval.

After the service, the bride, groom and guests feasted on food contributed by the Spinsters’ Club and the magnificent four-tiered wedding cake Sarah had baked. The bouquet was tossed and caught by Polly Shackleford, who giggled about the suggestion that one of the bachelors coming to Prissy’s barbecue next Saturday might turn out to be her match.

“Pooh, anyone with eyes in their head can see that you’ll be the next one married, no matter who caught the bouquet,” Sarah whispered, while Polly paraded around the social hall with her prize.

Prissy laughed. “Time will tell,” she said.

“Tell what?” asked Sam, who had just rejoined them.

“Who will ask me to dance first,” she told him, fluttering her lashes at him. “Listen, the fiddler’s tuning up outside.”

“You don’t have to wait for time to tell you, sweetheart, I’ll be the one to ask you first,” he said, sweeping her along with the guests thronging for the door. “And I hope you’ll save most of your dances for me,” he whispered in her ear.

The worst of the heat had faded with the sun’s setting. Prissy and Sam and the rest of the wedding guests spilled out of the church social hall and onto the lawn, where lanterns had been strung and lit, and a temporary platform for the fiddler erected. The bride and groom were already dancing, soon joined by Emily’s parents and the best man and his wife, who had come for the wedding from Buffalo Bayou, where Ed Markison was from.

Later, when they were breathless and thirsty from dancing, Prissy sat on one of the benches around the dance area while Sam went to fetch them some punch.

“Sure miss some of the old faces that used to come in from the ranches to attend doin’s like a wedding these days,” Mrs. Detwiler, sitting nearby, was saying to Prissy’s father, the widow and old Zeke Carter, who usually sat outside the mercantile whittling. “You didn’t get to meet them, Mrs. Fairchild, but there are so many longtime settlers who’ve just packed up and moved away. Don’t know what things are coming to in Simpson Creek.”

“It’s worse than that,” the old man said. “Some folks are actually joinin’ that Alliance, can you believe it? I heard tell Clyde Knight’s joinin’ so’s he kin keep his ranch, he says. Huh! I gave him a piece a’ my mind, let me tell you.”

Prissy sighed. Even at a wedding, the threat of the Alliance and the changes it was bringing to Simpson Creek was a topic that couldn’t be forgotten.

“And I’ve seen them strangers on the street with that emblem on their shirts,” Zeke went on. “I passed right by ’em without so much as a nod. The very idea! Sheriff, you got to do something!” he said, as Sam returned with two cups of punch.

“Pardon me, sir?” Sam listened politely, head bent, as the old man told him what they had been talking about. How patient Sam was being with the old man, she thought.

“It’s a wedding, Zeke. Let the sheriff have a little time away from the troubles,” Mrs. Detwiler said, with an apologetic look at Prissy.

But the graybeard was not to be deterred. “And what about that murdered easterner, Sheriff Bishop?” he demanded. “He wasn’t exactly one a’ us, but it ain’t right that a man inherits a piece a’land and he ends up dyin’ afore he ever gits t’live on it.”

“I’m doing everything I can to discover the identity of the murderers,” Sam began.

“Pshaw, you know sure as God made lil’ apples them Ranchers’ Alliance fellas did it,” Zeke retorted. “If you was to go arrest a couple of ’em and string ’em up, I reckon that would put them scoundrels on notice.”

“Zeke, Sheriff Bishop can hardly arrest men at random and hang them just to teach the Alliance or anyone else a lesson,” her father put in hastily. “Simpson Creek has always been run by laws and principles of justice. And maybe we ought to save this discussion for a more suitable time,” he said heavily, with a meaningful glance at the ladies present.

The old man snorted. “I ain’t forgot you’re up for election soon, James Gilmore.”

It was a retort Prissy was all too used to hearing aimed at her father.

“Feel free to run against me, Zeke,” her father said, unperturbed. “Ah, the fiddler’s striking up a waltz. Mariah, would you do me the honor?”

Sam turned to Prissy, about to speak, but he paused at the sound of hoofbeats approaching.

A moment later she saw them—Ranchers’ Alliance men approaching on horseback, with Tolliver riding in the center of the pack.

Tolliver raised a hand and they all reined in their horses. “Well, lookee what we got here, fellas,” he said. “An’ here we was sayin’ the saloon didn’t have no pretty girls t’dance with. That was ’cause they were all down here dancin’. And here they got fancy food an’ even fiddlin’. We’re lucky we found the party afore it was over. Reckon we’ll join y’all,” he said, dismounting from his horse. All around him, his cronies were doing the same, eyeing the Spinsters and the punchbowl.

Sam felt Prissy bristle beside him and saw Reverend Chadwick leave the folks he was sitting with and begin to make his way toward the interlopers.

“Stay here, Prissy,” Sam murmured. He then moved to intercept the elderly preacher. “Let me handle this, Reverend.”

Striding rapidly over to where the saddle tramps were tying up their horses, he called out, “Sorry, fellows, but this is a private party, a wedding. You’ll have to ride on.”

Tolliver faced him, hands on his hips. “Ride on? But we want t’ dance with th’ bride, offer her our very best wishes, drink a toast. Ain’t that right, boys?”

The others chorused their agreement.

“Not this time. Ride on,” Sam repeated, pushing his frock coat back to display the gun belt he wore, glad he’d listened to Nick’s advice to wear it everywhere he went, even at social events. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nick and Dr. Walker and other men of the town move, some of them behind him, others forming a solid barrier between the Ranchers’ Alliance men and the ladies.

“Now that ain’t very hospitable of ya,” Tolliver complained. “We was just tryin’ t’be neighborly, t’be a part of the town. I have a notion I’d like t’dance with your sweetheart,” he said, throwing a leering look toward Prissy.

Sam ignored the personal gibe. “I said ride on, Tolliver.”

“Or what?” jeered Tolliver, the others echoing him with catcalls.

Sam hated the fact that this happy event was about to be marred by an ugly scene, at best. He wished he could to turn around and indicate to Prissy that he wanted her to herd the women into the safety of the church social hall. But he dared not shift his eyes away the cold-eyed saddle tramp.

“Or spend a night in my jail again, Tolliver. Your boss won’t like that.”

“Shoot, I don’t reckon he wants me to take any more guff from no law dog like you,” Tolliver sneered, stale fumes of whiskey drifting toward Sam. “We’re fixin’ t’ run this town, an’ it’s time you learned what that means. Fellas, make sure this fight’s just between th’ sheriff and me, would ya?”

As one, the rest of the Alliance men drew their guns and aimed them at the men who’d come to back Sam up. Then he clenched his fists and began circling Sam.

Sam watched Tolliver’s eyes, waiting for the sign that presaged his lunge.

“I’m gonna mess up that purty face a’ yours, Sheriff,” Tolliver taunted. “I don’t reckon you kin fight worth beans.”

All at once Reverend Chadwick threw himself between them. “Please reconsider, son,” he entreated. “You don’t want to spoil a happy event. Come back tomorrow morning, come to church. We’ll welcome you with open arms, I promise.”

“Get outta my way, preacher!” snarled Tolliver, shoving the preacher so roughly that he fell backward, cartwheeling his arms in a vain attempt to regain his balance before he landed heavily on the ground.

Somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed. Sam darted a glance over his shoulder to see that Nolan was tending the fallen preacher, then launched himself with a roar of rage at the sneering Tolliver.

The man was waiting for him. Tolliver threw a fist that took Sam on the chin and rocked him back for a costly moment, then punched him in the abdomen, sending nausea—and fury—surging through Sam. A red mist drenched his brain, a hatred of these vermin who’d had the gall to intrude on a happy, innocent event and soil it with their presence.

He threw himself at Tolliver, landing a staggering right hook that snapped the other man’s head back. They went down on the lawn with a crash, arms flailing, legs thrashing.

Tolliver gained the uppermost position on top of him as the heavier man, but Sam was wiry-lean and had the strength to throw him off. Tolliver rolled and crouched, spitting, then threw himself at Sam again, grabbing at Sam’s pistol. Sam knew he must not let Tolliver gain control of his firearm or all could be lost. It gave him a desperate energy that propelled him on top of Tolliver, and he rained blow after blow down on the struggling man, bloodying his nose, splitting his lip, punching his abdomen and knocking the wind out of his assailant.

He leaped off of Tolliver, his chest heaving. “Give up, Tolliver,” he ordered. “The rest of you men take off, and he’s the only one who’ll be behind bars.”

But Tolliver still had plenty of fight left in him, and wasn’t ready to admit defeat in front of his cronies. He used the second Sam had taken to address them to whip a Bowie knife out of his boot.

Sam yanked his gun out of his holster and shot the knife from Tolliver’s grasp. Tolliver clutched his bloody hand, howling in pain. Half a dozen guns were cocked behind Sam as Nick, Nolan and the rest drew on the saddle tramps to cover Sam.

“Come along, Tolliver, the doctor can treat you in jail—” Sam began.

And then he saw something, lying in the grass where they had been struggling only a moment ago. It gleamed dully in the light from the lanterns—a pocket watch. Keeping the pistol trained on Tolliver, who stood hunched over, his bloody hand clutched against his belly, Sam picked it up.

“Where’d you get this?” he demanded of Tolliver.

Tolliver said nothing.

Sam turned it over and saw the engraving—W.W.III.

He walked over to Tolliver and grabbed his arm, forcing him to stand upright.

“Leroy Tolliver, I’m arresting you for the murder of William Waters III.”

Chapter Fifteen

“I found that watch,” Tolliver whined. “You cain’t prove I killed that tenderfoot, just ’cause I have his watch.” Prissy could tell by the sound of his voice that he was lying.

“Yeah, you don’t have no proof,” insisted another of the Alliance men. “You can’t hang a man for findin’ a watch and pickin’ it up.”

Sam ignored them for a moment, his eyes searching until he found Reverend Chadwick, who had been helped to his feet. “Reverend, you all right?” Sam called.

The old man nodded. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

He turned back to Tolliver and his cronies. “He’ll have a fair trial. Any of you other Alliance men want to share a cell with Tolliver? We could let the judge decide which one to hang.”

The others eyed each other uneasily, then stalked off toward their horses.

Sam turned Tolliver roughly around, and using a length of rope someone had brought from their wagon, tied the man’s wrists behind him.

No one suggested resuming the celebration—the festive mood had been ruined. Now all the townspeople clumped together, including the new bride, who huddled tearfully against her groom. Prissy was still astonished by the fact that Sam had been able to shoot that knife right out of Tolliver’s hand. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“I’ll come with you to the jail and treat his injuries,” Nolan Walker said to Sam. “Sarah, you go on home. I’ll be along when I can.”

“You fellows tell Pennington an’ Byrd what happened!” Tolliver called after the men who were already mounted and heading for the road. Then he wrenched around to glare at Sam, though one of his eyes was rapidly swelling shut. “I reckon this’ll bring Raney up from Houston, right enough. You done poked a hornet’s nest, Sheriff. This town won’t survive to hang me.”

Sam ignored his bravado. “That’s enough out of you,” he said calmly.

Prissy was overwhelmed with pride over Sam’s bravery, even though she knew it would mean she wouldn’t get to see him for quite a while. Now that he’d have a murderer in his jail, worse yet a murderer with powerful allies, he couldn’t just leave it unguarded.

Luis Menendez materialized out of the crowd. “Reckon you need a deputy now, Sheriff,” he said.

“I reckon he’s right, Sam,” her father agreed. “At least for the time being. Deputize him. And I’m calling a town council meeting. We’ll have to set up a rotation of guard duty, so there’s always two men guarding the jail till the circuit judge can arrive to convene a trial. Mr. Jewett,” he said, addressing the telegraph operator, “I’d appreciate it if you’d notify the circuit judge. We’re going to need him and a prosecuting attorney soon as he can get here.”

She watched as Sam began to lead his prisoner away while the townspeople thanked him over and over.

“Much obliged, Sheriff!” Ed Markison called after him, his arm still protectively draped around his bride. “Reckon you saved us from much worse.”

“You must be very proud of your beau,” Mariah Fairchild said, smiling at Prissy. “Such a courageous, handsome man. And he loves you—I can tell.”

Prissy felt herself thawing toward the woman who had a hand over her father’s arm. “Yes, I am. Very proud. And I love him, too,” she said, shifting her gaze toward her father, to see what he would say.

James Gilmore cleared his throat, his eyes glistening as he looked back at her. “I couldn’t approve more, Prissy. Come on, let’s walk Mrs. Fairchild back to the hotel, and then we’ll go on home.”

“But we—the Spinsters’ Club—were going to clean up the social hall—”

“Time enough for that after church tomorrow,” he insisted.

Houston’s shrill barking woke her in the early dawn. He jumped from his cozy place at her feet and threw himself against her bedroom door. Someone was pounding at the front door below.

Struggling to orient herself, she threw on her wrapper and padded barefoot into the hallway. Her father was just emerging from his bedroom and pulling on his dressing gown, his thin hair askew, his face wrinkled from sleep.

Antonio was already at the door.

“You got t’ wake the mayor!” someone at the front door shouted to Antonio. “The church is on fire!”

Prissy gasped. With the front door open, she could smell it now—smoke.

“Organize a bucket brigade with water from the creek!” her father shouted down the stairs.

“Already done!” the voice called back up the stairs. “But it had a good start afore th’ smell woke the reverend and the sheriff.”

“Antonio, bring every bucket you can find from the stable,” her father called over his shoulder, already heading back to his room to dress. “Prissy, bring some old bedsheets to tear into bandages in case anyone gets burned.”

They dressed as fast as they could. Prissy secured Houston in the kitchen, and then they joined the throng running toward the church in the pale light of dawn, their ears filled with the roar of the blaze and the shouts of the townspeople, their eyes on the ominous black cloud that stained the purity of the morning sky.

Prissy’s heart sank as she neared the end of the street. It was true—Simpson Creek’s only church was engulfed in flame. As they drew to a horrified stop in front of it, a shower of sparks flew upward and the roof caved in. The bell in the steeple fell into the midst of the inferno with one last, desperate clang.

Her eyes sought and found Sam, already at the head of the bucket brigade, throwing water onto the conflagration. She wanted to tell him it was useless, to step back and just watch the building die lest flying sparks singe him and the others, but she knew that in the tinder-dry conditions of a Texas August, nearby buildings such as the parsonage and the undertaker’s were still in danger.

Luis Menendez stood at the door of the jail, a rifle held at the ready in case someone tried to take advantage of the emergency to break Tolliver out. She saw Reverend Chadwick, too, standing next to Mrs. Detwiler, unashamed tears streaking down his pale cheeks.

“Prissy, there you are,” Sarah said. “Good, you brought bandage material. Take this bucket of water and dipper and see if any of the men need a drink. They’re working so hard they won’t even notice being thirsty. And send anyone who’s burned to me.”

By the time the sun had fully risen, the church and social hall were nothing but a smoking, blackened ruin. A total loss. No one would ever worship again in the building that the first settlers had erected when they founded the community in the decade before. The townspeople stood in disbelieving clumps in the churchyard, some hollow-eyed, some weeping.

Sam, his shirt sweat-drenched and gray with soot, found her in the throng. He reached out a hand and she went into his embrace, sobbing against his shoulder.

“It’ll be all right, sweetheart,” he said, his hand smoothing her hair.

He couldn’t understand, she thought. He hadn’t lived here all his life, hadn’t grown up worshipping in that church. He probably hadn’t imagined her walking down that aisle to meet him at the altar, as she had just hours ago at Ed and Emily’s wedding.

Or maybe he had, she thought as he gazed at her with such concern it nearly made her heart break.

Sam turned to Reverend Chadwick. “Could there have been a candle left burning in the social hall?”

The old pastor’s eyes were red-rimmed. He shook his head. “I made sure they were all out before I went to the parsonage, just as I always do every time there’s an event at church. Everything was in order.”

Sam cast an eye at the sky, which was clear and cloudfree. “There wasn’t a storm, so lightning couldn’t have caused this.”

“Wasn’t no lightning. Those Alliance fellers did this, for revenge,” Zeke Carter muttered, voicing the suspicion that had been in everyone’s mind.

“Did you see them? Did anyone see them?”

No one had, though Reverend Chadwick had thought he might have heard horses galloping off.

Sam heaved a sigh. “It probably was Tolliver’s men, but proving it is another thing.”

Reverend Chadwick cleared his throat. “In the meantime, we must get ready for our worship service today.”

Prissy gaped at him, along with everyone else, thinking perhaps the tragic event had addled his mind. Their church was a smoking ruin.

“We have much to be thankful for,” Reverend Chadwick said. “No one was hurt, neither fighting the fire or last night, and the outcome could well have been much different. And don’t you see, if we don’t have our worship service, and we sit around today mourning over the loss of a mere building, these men win in a way. We cannot allow that to happen. We must find a place to worship together.”

Everyone was silent, digesting his words.

Prissy’s father rubbed his chin. “I suppose everyone could come to the ballroom at Gilmore House,” he began.

“Why don’t we just assemble in the meadow across the creek?” Reverend Chadwick suggested. “That will do in good weather, and we can use the ballroom when it rains. An open-air worship, in the midst of God’s creation. What could be better?”

There was a murmur of assent, even approval.

“Very well then. Let’s all go home and clean up, change into our Sunday best, and assemble back in the meadow, say, in an hour.”

“Go on over to the worship service. Luis and I’ll watch him,” Nick Brookfield said, laying his hat on Sam’s desk.

“Yeah, go on over and pray with them pious people,” Tolliver jeered from inside his cell. “You kin both go,” he said to Nick. “Me ’n’ the greaser’ll pass the time a’ day together till Pennington comes fer me.”

“Silence, malvado!” snapped Luis, who sat in the jail office’s only other chair, facing the prisoner, a rifle across his knees.

Sam and Nick both ignored Tolliver. “I’m the sheriff. I should stay,” Sam said. “Thanks anyway.”

“Nonsense,” Nick said in his clipped British accent, but his blue eyes were warm. “You’ll be right across the creek in the meadow,” he said, pointing out the cell window. “We could shout for you, if need be—and it’s only for an hour. Then you’ll return here and we’ll meet with the town council. Go ahead. I’ll bet Prissy’s waiting for you. They’re already singing the first hymn.”

Was Nick too polite to say Sam needed to attend church more than he did? Still, he supposed he should go. As sheriff, perhaps his presence would be encouraging to them. “All right,” Sam said at last. “Much obliged.”

He could hear them singing as he stepped out the door.

“Lord of all to Thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.”

He could see them now, too, as he stepped onto the wooden bridge, facing the creek where the choirmaster led them in their piano-less singing. He could see Prissy in the midst of them, singing along with the rest. They looked happy. They sang of being grateful, of praising—after their church building had been burned to ashes by hateful men.

And then he realized his presence wouldn’t be their encouragement. They didn’t need the support represented by a man with a tin star on his vest. They already had a relationship with the source of all encouragement.

He felt suddenly humbled. He was the one who needed encouraging, not only because they knew he was a lawman facing a challenging time, but because of what they didn’t know—that he was unqualified for the job, that he was nothing but a scapegrace gambler and a thief.

It was all he could do not to break into a run the last few yards so as to be with them that much faster. It seemed he was finding his way back to God, something he didn’t quite believe would ever happen.

“We’re glad you could join us, Sheriff,” Reverend Chadwick said, beckoning him with a smile. “Come here, we’d like to pray for you.”

Sam knelt in the sun-warmed grass. Chadwick hadn’t asked him to kneel, but as undeserving as he was, it seemed like the right thing to do. Then the preacher laid his hand on Sam’s head and prayed for the Lord to protect and guide him as he dealt with the accused murderer in his jail and the powerful band of men bent on taking over their town. Prissy stood by him on one side and the mayor on the other, and folks had come forward to lay their hands on his back and shoulders, murmuring their own prayers for him.

He was so unworthy. He kept his eyes shut tight, afraid the tears would escape down his cheeks and he would have to confess everything.

I’m sorry for the man I’ve been, Lord. Please change me and make me clean, so they don’t find out what I really am. I don’t want to be that man anymore. Please show me what to do. He felt Prissy’s hand in his, and he squeezed it. From here on in, Prissy, with God’s help, I’ll be a new man. I’ll be a man deserving of your love.

Everyone sat in the grass on blankets and sheets, some with traces of soot still streaking their faces, as Reverend Chadwick gave his sermon about laying up treasures in Heaven rather than on earth.

“Our church wasn’t fancy, and the new one we build on this site isn’t likely to be, either, for we’ve always believed worship doesn’t rely on how many stained-glass windows we have or gold offering plates,” he said. “The church building we had is gone, but the church is not, for we, the townspeople of Simpson Creek, are the church, and we’re still right here.”

When the service was over, people milled about, exchanging opinions about how the new church should look and wondering how soon it could be built. Many wanted to speak with Sam, but he needed a moment with Prissy.

“I’m not sure when I’ll see you, Prissy,” Sam said. “We’re having the town council meeting now, and after that, I have a prisoner to guard. But I do need to speak to you—soon.”

She just nodded as if she’d already assumed as much. “I understand,” she said. “And yes, I need to speak to you, too. We have much to discuss. The Spinsters are meeting now to decide if the barbecue should still take place next Saturday, otherwise I’d steal you away for just a minute.”

“What do you think the group will decide?” he asked. It would be too bad to call off the party they’d been looking forward to so enthusiastically, especially since he’d decided after recent events that it would be the perfect occasion to officially propose to her. He’d already taken Mrs. Patterson at the mercantile into his confidence, and had purchased a sapphire ring from her. He couldn’t wait any longer to declare his love for her. But he needed to come clean with Prissy and tell her everything, and hope that she would still have him.

“I’ll suggest we go ahead,” she said, “but change it a bit—use it to raise money for the new church. Papa and I will still provide the barbecue, of course, but we ladies will all make pies and cakes, and auction them off to the highest bidder. And I’ll see if Mrs. Detwiler will auction off one of her quilts—did you know she was an accomplished quilter?”

He shook his head, charmed by the undefeated enthusiasm of this girl he loved.

“You know, Papa could just pay for the new church materials, and he has already pledged a substantial contribution, including a new stained glass window in memory of Mama. But Reverend Chadwick says that it’s important for the town to feel that the church belongs to all of them—do you see what I mean? It won’t mean as much if Papa just hands over the money. Does that make sense?”

Sam nodded. Dread filled him as he looked at the wonderful woman in front of him and imagined telling her about his past, and his lies.

It was almost more than he could bear.

Chapter Sixteen

Much to Sam’s surprise, neither Pennington nor Byrd came to protest Tolliver’s being accused of murder. As far as anyone knew, they remained holed up at La Alianza.

“Looks like they abandoned you, hombre,” Luis taunted Tolliver, after a second day passed without a word from either man, or even a visit from one of his cronies. “They won’t even come to see you hang.”

“They’ll come, and it won’t be t’see me swing, neither,” Tolliver snarled back. “They’re jes’ waitin’ fer the right time, greaser.”

That’s what Sam thought, too. He maintained constant vigilance with the rotating two-man guard shifts that had been set up on Sunday. He insisted on being one of the men of each two-man shift, and Luis Menendez, who’d proved himself utterly reliable and dedicated, served as the other at least half of every day or night. Brookfield and Walker also took stints, as did other men of the town.

Every time a new man came on guard duty, one of the men whose time was up fetched food from the hotel, so there would never be a moment without two fully armed men on guard. Even at night they took turns, one man sitting up guarding the sleeping prisoner while Sam or the other man caught a few winks. Sam never slept soundly when it came his turn, fearing the attack would begin while he slumbered.

The circuit judge had sent word he and the prosecutor couldn’t be there until next week because they were in the middle of a trial in Harkeyville. That meant an even longer time to guard Tolliver than Sam had anticipated, a longer time for everyone’s nerves to be stretched thin.

Prissy had come down to the jail on Monday to bring him fried chicken and biscuits she’d made herself, and they had sat in front of the jail while they ate, away from Tolliver’s leering gaze. He’d drunk in the sight of her in her pretty gingham dress, listening as she recited all the details of the upcoming party. It wasn’t that he longed to know that Milly was bringing fried chicken and Faith Bennett shoo-fly pie, but he loved the sound of her voice.

Just as he’d begun to wonder if it was the right time to talk to her, two Alliance men rode by and gave them a long look. Fearing it presaged an attack, Sam hustled her across the street to have Dr. Walker see her home. Letting her see his regret, he’d asked her not to come again for the time being, fearing the Alliance men would make some move specifically because she was there and his attention was divided. He figured he couldn’t be too careful about her safety, even if it meant seeing her hardly at all.

The next day, via Antonio, she sent him a small, brown-wrapped bundle. He unwrapped it to find an oval-framed daguerreotype of her. In an accompanying note, she confessed it belonged to her father, but he’d agreed to loan it to Sam until they could see each other again. He placed it in his desk where only he could look at it, so Tolliver couldn’t feast his eyes on it, too. Sam believed Prissy loved him, too. Would it be enough to get them through everything he had to tell her?

She started writing him a daily note, which she sent to the jail with Antonio or her father. Redolent of the lilac scent she usually wore, the notes were light and newsy, telling him what amusing thing Houston had done, or how she had changed the menu for the barbecue yet again. Then she told him, simply and honestly, how proud she was of the dedicated way he did his job. And she’d copy some verse from the Bible to encourage him, and asked him to read a chapter a day from the book of John, saying she was doing that, too, and that it was nice to think of both of them reading the same thing.

He read her notes over and over again and he started writing her back from his desk, telling her how he missed her, how much he longed for the trial to be over and the Alliance banished from Simpson Creek forever so they could once again go on carefree picnics under the Wedding Tree. He imagined her smiling as she read those words.

“Bet he’s writin’ that purty yaller-haired girl agin, th’ one I saw him with at the weddin’ we busted up, ain’t he, greaser?” Tolliver gibed from behind his bars. “I heard tell it was the mayor’s daughter. Ain’t you the smart one, Bishop, sparkin’ a rich girl? Soon as you marry her, you kin stop bein’ a law dog chasin’ desperadoes like me and become a man of leisure, cain’t ya?”

“Shut up or I’ll tie your noose so you slowly strangle to death on the gallows,” Luis threatened. Sam held up a hand to quiet his deputy. Tolliver thrived on baiting them, but Sam thought it was better to pretend not to hear the snake hissing behind the bars.

Simpson Creek was a law-abiding town, but inevitably, there were still times when Sam had to see to other problems not related to the Alliance. Two days before the barbecue, Nolan took over guard duty while Sam walked down Travis Street to the boardinghouse to resolve a dispute between a boarder and the proprietress. After he’d enforced the latter’s right to make the rules in her own establishment, he walked back to Main Street just in time to see Pennington driving past in his carriage, with another man sitting beside him—a man Sam recognized the instant he met his hooded, intense gaze.

Kendall Raney.

At the sight of his nemesis, Sam felt a chill of icy sweat trickle down his spine. It was all he could do to stand still on the boardwalk and force himself not to pull his hat down a bit in an attempt to escape notice.

He knew any such effort was in vain, for Pennington had spotted him and ordered the driver to halt.

“Why, Sheriff Bishop, we meet again,” Pennington crowed. “And what a fortunate encounter, for I have the pleasure of presenting our third partner, Mr. Kendall Raney.”

Sam straightened, his throat gone dry as a mud puddle in August. His heart thudded dully in a chest suddenly too small for it. He cleared his throat to make sure his response came out level and not croaking.

“Mr. Raney. Welcome to Simpson Creek.”

Did Raney look at everyone that way, the way a snake stared at a mouse that it had cornered, or was he recognizing the bruised, bloodied, half-unconscious gambler in the lawman who stood before him? Sam’s ribs ached as if in remembrance of this man hitting him until a couple of them cracked. His face stung as if Raney had just laid his cheek open with that ring.

“Sheriff Bishop,” said Raney, looking him up and down. “Thank you. Happy to be here.”

Sam wanted to say he needed to get back to the jail but he dared not be the one to cut the encounter short. It would cause Raney to think about him too much.

Pennington was also watching him. Sam wanted to taunt the man with the fact that he had Tolliver in a cell, accused of murder, that he knew that his men had burned the church down, that he would find a way to prove it and make them pay. But that would extend this encounter, and in any case, Pennington would probably claim he’d fired Tolliver prior to Waters’s murder.

So Sam forced himself to relax, to appear politely interested in Raney’s arrival.

“Are you here for a visit, or are you relocating?” he asked, his tone casual. “Mr. Pennington tells me you hail from Houston.”

Raney gazed at him a moment too long before replying. “Wonderful city, Houston—completely unlike this part of Texas. Ever been there?”

Sam needed. “I’ve been there. A little too humid for my taste. I like it better here.”

That hooded gaze missed nothing, Sam thought, seeing the black eyes narrow as they dueled with his.

“As to whether I’m staying,” Raney said, “it remains to be seen. A pleasure to meet you, Sheriff. I’m sure we’ll—”

At that moment, Prissy came out of the mercantile, her arms laden with packages. She smiled at Sam and started toward him.

Then she caught sight of Pennington and halted uncertainly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were speaking to someone,” she said, and looked to Sam in a clear plea for direction.

Pennington touched his hat brim. “Miss Gilmore, no apologies necessary, your interruption is a happy accident and our pleasure.” He turned to Raney. “Miss Priscilla Gilmore, the mayor’s daughter,” he explained, almost as if presenting a commoner to royalty, Sam thought, feeling his jaw tighten in anger. “You’ll remember I spoke of her father, Mayor Gilmore.”

“Yes.” Raney tipped his black derby with a flourish to her. “Miss Gilmore, enchanted. I pray we will meet again.” His eyes slid back to Sam after he said this, as if daring him to object.

Sam remained immobile, fighting the urge to leap into the carriage, yank Raney out, and beat him senseless. Now Raney’s gaze returned to Prissy and crawled over her. Sam felt his hands clenching into fists.

“Miss Priscilla,” he began, hoping she’d take her cue from Sam’s formality, “I’ll walk you home. I need to speak to your father.” He wasn’t going to allow Raney to breathe the same air as his beloved a moment longer.

Tentatively, she came forward, putting a hand on his arm.

“Miss Gilmore, nice to make your acquaintance. Good day,” called Raney, but she merely nodded with a chilly hauteur Sam would have found humorous if not for the circumstances.

He stifled the urge to take a huge, relieved gulp of air. Raney hadn’t appeared to recognize him—yet. Thank You, Lord.

But What if Prissy had had Houston with her, the very dog Raney had planned to feed to the alligators along with him? The dog might well have been enough to trigger Raney’s memory. Perhaps he should tell her to keep the dog at home from now on. But what excuse could he have for saying that?

“’Miss Priscilla?’” she teased, as soon as the men in the carriage were out of earshot. Then, when he did not respond with a smile, her own faded and she murmured, “Did you really need to speak to my father?” Her voice trailed off and she peered up at him.

He nodded. It was probably a good idea to notify the mayor that the third member of the triumvirate had arrived in Simpson Creek. “Sweetheart, let me carry your packages,” he said, forcing his voice into a normal tone.

“Thanks,” she said, handing them to him. “Mrs. Patterson got in some lovely tablecloths that will be just perfect for the party. And she had the prettiest ear bobs that will set off my dress perfectly,” she continued, clearly trying to distract him.

Why had Raney come just now? Did the fact that he had finally arrived have anything to do with Tolliver being accused of murder, or was it merely coincidental? Were they going to intervene to set him free, or leave him to his fate?

You are not alone. I’m fighting alongside you.

He was so astonished at the reassuring voice within him that he almost stopped stock-still in the middle of the street.

“Sam? Are you all right?” Prissy asked him, her pretty brow furrowed with concern.

He smiled now, and felt a surge of hope in spite of the dangers he faced. He gazed down at the woman he loved. “It’s a beautiful day, and I’m walking with you and the Lord. I couldn’t be better.”

The following day the Spinsters came to Gilmore House to help prepare for the party. Prissy had already helped Flora make sure everything sparkled within the mansion, of course, and Antonio had groomed the grounds to perfection. But they couldn’t leave everything to the two servants, and so Gilmore House was a beehive of activity on Friday. With Houston yipping with excitement and following everyone around, begging for tidbits, the ladies prepared the food that could be cooked ahead, set up tables, and decorated them with gaily colored streamers and centerpieces they’d made.

“But what if it rains?” Polly Shackleford wondered aloud, staring at the crepe paper that festooned the tables, the verandah, the fiddlers’ stand, and even the big live oak that shaded the tables.

“It won’t,” Caroline Wallace said with calm assurance. “I consulted Papa. His big toe would be aching if it was going to rain. It’s not, so quit fretting.”

“Caroline showed the bachelors to the hotel today,” Hannah Kennedy said. “After serving them all dinner, the clever girl! The rest of us haven’t caught so much as a glimpse, and she’s already on speaking terms with them.”

Caroline reddened as if she’d been caught stealing cookies. “Well, goodness, they all showed up at the post office about the same time, right at noon, and they were hungry from traveling. It wouldn’t have been hospitable not to.”

“You said they’re all nice and quite handsome, right, Caroline?” Hannah prodded.

Caroline nodded with a half smile. “I think you’ll all be pleased, ladies,” she said.

“But what about you, Caroline? Weren’t you just the least bit interested in any of them?” asked Jane Jeffries curiously.

“You deserve happiness, too, Caroline,” Maude Harkey chimed in.

Caroline held up a warning hand. “Now, let’s not start that all over again, ladies. I’m enjoying helping with the party, but this is just something to get out of the house for a while, so I don’t constantly have to be hearing about the state of Papa’s big toe.”

Everyone chuckled.

“Listen, ladies, I learned one of them has a partiality for green dresses—didn’t you say your dress for the barbecue is green, Polly?”

Polly nodded excitedly.

“And another has a penchant for pecan pie. Wasn’t that your contribution, Hannah? Half a dozen pecan pies?” Caroline asked.

It was, Hannah confirmed.

“And the third man says he’s crazy for girls with freckles,” Caroline said, looking right at Bess Lassiter, who clapped her hands over her freckled cheekbones.

“And to think I’ve been trying to get rid of these for years!”

Maude Harkey gave Caroline an admiring look. “And you learned all this with skillful questioning while they ate? You could have been a spy in the war!”

Caroline shook her head. “I didn’t ask any questions, ladies. It’s all a matter of listening.”

“But which man had which preference?” Polly Shackleford asked. “Tell us, so we’ll each know which man to concentrate our wiles upon.”

“Ah, but where would be the fun in that?” Caroline asked coyly. “Those things are for you ladies to discover!”

“Caroline, how dare you tease us so!” Polly cried, exasperated.

They stayed till dusk, and finally only Sarah Walker, whose husband would be coming down to walk her home, remained.

“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?” Sarah asked.

“Papa? No, I’m sure he’ll be home any minute now. He and Mrs. Fairchild are dining at the hotel tonight, so as to stay out of our way, and—”

“No, I mean Sam,” Sarah said seriously. Prissy had told her earlier about their encounter with Pennington and his newly arrived partner, Kendall Raney.

“No, I’m sure it’ll all—” Prissy began, then dropped her gaze. “Yes, I am,” she admitted with a sigh. “He’s just got so much on his shoulders right now, what with holding that accused murderer in his jail and wondering if the Alliance men are going to try and break him out.”

“Is he going to be able to come to the barbecue, at least for a little while?” Sarah asked, her eyes warm with sympathy and understanding. “From what you and Nolan have been telling me, he could use a little time away to relax and enjoy himself.”

Prissy sighed again. “I don’t think so. He has so much he has to look out for right now. I’ll enjoy watching the other ladies meet the bachelors, and I hope we raise some money for the church rebuilding, but it’d be so much more fun if I could do it…with Sam.”

Sarah gave her a thoughtful look. “You’ve come a long way, Miss Prissy Gilmore,” she said.

Prissy blinked. “What?”

“Only a few weeks ago, you would have stomped your foot and pouted that your beau couldn’t make it. That man loves you. I’ll bet he going to ask for your hand.”

Prissy smiled at her friend. “I can’t hide anything from you, Sarah, can I?”

“No, you can’t,” Sarah agreed with a grin.

“I know that these troubles won’t last forever. I just wish that old judge could have come this week, and the trial could be over. But I know Sam and the rest of the men will find a way to bring peace back to Simpson Creek.”

“We just have to be patient, and pray for wisdom for the sheriff and the other men,” Sarah said.

“Like your Nolan.”

Sarah smiled again. “I take back what I said about you being in love with love, Prissy. Sam Bishop’s been good for you.”

Prissy threw her arms around her friend and hugged her, tears springing to her eyes. “Thank you, Sarah. Your approval means the world to me.”

Flora came in just then, carrying Houston, who had a length of crepe streamer tangled in his collar.

“That dog just treed my cat again, after chasing her all across the tables,” Flora scolded. “You’d better keep him in your room tomorrow, Señorita Prissy, or he’ll undo all your hard work—if he doesn’t get trampled underfoot by someone’s horse as the carriages arrive.”

“I’ll keep him locked in my room, I promise, Flora,” she said penitently. “Thanks for bringing him in.”

Just then Dr. Walker arrived to collect his wife. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Prissy. The party starts at one, doesn’t it? I’ll be there at noon to help you. And perhaps Sam will get away for a moment, even if just to say hello to you.” Sarah winked at her.

Prissy could only hope so. She wasn’t sure she could go on much longer without seeing Sam Bishop—and telling him exactly how she felt.

Chapter Seventeen

That night, when it came time to get some sleep, Sam tossed and turned, then fell into a restless sleep, only to dream he was once more tied up in Raney’s back room in the Houston gambling den. In this dream, however, he wasn’t working to free himself. Raney and his henchmen stood over him, gloating at his misery, preparing to carry him and the dog out to a waiting wagon for their trip to the bayou and the alligators. Once more, he’d felt compelled to feel the underside of his mattress, to reassure himself that the ruby ring was still there. He had to find a way to rid himself of that thing, especially now that Raney was here.

In the morning, his deputy dozed in his chair, facing the cell that held Tolliver, who also slept, snoring with buzzing gusto. No troubled conscience there, apparently. Sam stood in front of the window that looked out on Main Street, drinking coffee and awaiting the arrival of whomever was to relieve Luis—his sleepy brain couldn’t remember who it was supposed to be. There was a list somewhere.

The weather looked fine for Prissy’s barbecue. Sunny, but with a pleasant breeze. If only he could be there. He could tell himself till he was blue in the face that there would be a lifetime of other celebrations with Prissy, but he wanted to ask her to marry him—today. Before the party started. He could picture her, radiant with joy, telling everyone, showing off the sapphire ring he now fingered in his pocket.

If she accepted him, that is. After he’d told her everything. He supposed a man shouldn’t be too confident.

He sighed and dipped his head toward his coffee again, only to raise it when a wagon trundled past with Milly Brookfield on the driver’s seat next to one of their cowhands. Her husband and another man rode beside it. Then Brookfield and the other horseman peeled off and stopped at the hitching post in front of the jail.

So it was the Englishman who would keep him company guarding Tolliver today. He was glad of it, but it seemed a shame Nick would miss the barbecue, too. Nick took down a basket that had been tied onto his saddle horn.

The other man tying up his horse looked vaguely familiar. When he turned to follow Nick to the door, Sam recognized the sheriff of San Saba, Wade Teague.

Sam opened the door before the men could knock, wondering if Teague was here because there had been trouble at the county seat. But Brookfield’s cheerful countenance belied that notion.

“Good morning,” Nick Brookfield said. “My good wife’s sent breakfast, and then perhaps you ought to go down to the barbershop and spruce up. You’re looking a little the worse for wear, Bishop.”

Sam rubbed his beard-roughened cheek. It had been days since he’d allowed himself the luxury of the barber’s attention, and he’d done a poor, hurried job of shaving himself. “Yeah, I know, but—”

“And that won’t do, Bishop,” Nick went on, interrupting without apology, “for you’ve a party to go to. Teague here, good fellow that he is, has come to help me mind your prisoner for the day while you go Miss Prissy’s barbecue.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “But I can’t leave like that. It wouldn’t be right.”

“You not only can, you will,” Nick told him with a smiling firmness. “I’ve secured the mayor’s approval, and Teague’s ridden all the way from San Saba to do a good turn, so we mustn’t waste that, must we? Of course not. Sit down and eat, then hie yourself down to the barber. Have a bath while you’re there. You’d frighten the ladies, looking like you do now.”

Sam couldn’t believe his ears. “But surely you’d like to attend with your wife. I should stay here with Teague—thanks for coming, by the way, Wade—”

“Nonsense.” Nick interrupted him. “Milly will be so busy showing off the baby she won’t know if I’m there or not. I’ll wager you and Miss Prissy haven’t had a proper moment together since that blackguard took up residence, have you?” he said, jerking his head toward the snoring Tolliver. “Think how happy and surprised she’ll be to see you.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Sam said, grinning in spite of his misgivings. He told the two men how he’d been wishing he could ask Prissy to marry him before the barbecue began.

“And now you can,” Teague said, grinning.

“Ah, that is good news, Señor Sam,” Luis added, yawning and stretching his lanky frame.

“Congratulations, old fellow,” Brookfield said, clapping him on the back.

Sam dug into his pocket and brought out the ring.

“That certainly ought to persuade her, if she weren’t already willing,” Nick said approvingly. “Right, then. A man about to propose marriage needs sustenance,” he said, taking the basket and spreading the breakfast his wife had sent out on the desk. The four men tucked into the bacon and freshly baked biscuits and jelly Milly had sent. For a moment, Sam almost believed everything would turn out just as he hoped.

“You bring any grub for me, limey?” demanded Tolliver, who had woken up at clatter of forks and crockery. “I’m hungry, too, ya know.”

Brookfield eyed him narrowly. “Mind your manners, fellow, and I might give you a share. But only if we don’t have to listen to your prattling.”

Sam ignored their byplay, caught up in a wave of hope. Thanks to the selfless kindness of these two men and the mayor, he would be at Prissy’s side during the barbecue, hopefully with his ring on her finger.

He pulled open the drawer and glanced at William Water’s pocket watch, which he was keeping as evidence. Nine o’clock—he’d have plenty of time for a bath and a shave before the party started. He dashed back into his room and grabbed up his good trousers and shirt, making sure he transferred the ring into the new trouser pocket.

“I can’t thank you enough,” he told Nick and Teague. “Whatever I can do for you, Nick, and anytime your jail needs minding, Wade—”

“Bring me back some barbecue, Sheriff,” Tolliver demanded. “Must be nice, hobnobbing with the mayor’s daughter.”

All four of the men ignored him.

Nick made shooing motions. “Run along now, my good man, and don’t come back until you can tell us you’ve won the fair Prissy.”

He felt as if his boots had sprouted wings as he headed down to the barbershop-bathhouse.

Prissy bent to pull a tablecloth even, hearing footsteps behind her.

“You can put those last chairs at that table over there, Mr. von Hesse.” The German carpenter from Fredericksburg had come from the hotel early—to get a jump on the competition, Prissy suspected with amusement—and had been agreeable to being put to work with the last-minute touches. “Goodness, I’m glad the hotel was willing to loan us some chairs. Ordinarily, we’d have borrowed them from the church social hall, but as you’ve no doubt heard or seen, our church burned down—”

“Who’s Mr. von Hesse?” asked a familiar voice. “The name’s Bishop.”

She whirled, hardly able to believe her eyes. “Sam! You came!” she said. “But how—who’s at the jail?”

He told her how Nick had shown up with Teague in tow and taken over his duty during the barbecue.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I could cry, I’m so happy! I so wanted you here, but I thought there was no way you’d be able—”

He looked at her with a seriousness she’d never seen before in his eyes. “Well, I need to ask you something before any more guests arrive,” he told her.

All at once she thought there was something wrong after all, and reached out to him with a shaky hand. “What is it?”

Something sparked in those dark brown eyes, and then suddenly he was kneeling before her, taking hold of her hand. His other hand held a sapphire ring.

“Priscilla Gilmore, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

And then before she knew what she was doing, she was kneeling in the grass with him, heedless of her new pink marquisette dress, laughing—yes, and crying—all at once.

Around them, the Spinsters, Flora and Antonio stopped what they were doing and applauded. Then they were crowding around them, too, congratulating and embracing each of them in turn. Someone must have run and told her father, for suddenly he was there too, smiling proudly and embracing both of them.

“But what is happening?” Prissy heard Mr. von Hesse ask Polly.

“That,” Polly said, “is how a Spinster graduates from the Spinsters’ Club.”

Prissy looked back to Sam, full of joy. He looked happier than she’d him look before, but there was something in his eyes, something off. She could only hope he was still worried about the Alliance, but a little voice inside her told her something else was amiss.

Prissy had to admit that their sudden, unexpected engagement had been just the thing to get the party off to a good start. As the townspeople arrived and learned the happy news, the intense focus was taken off the Spinsters and their bachelor counterparts, and they were able to meet one another without being the cynosure of all eyes.

Later, full of barbecue and all the trimmings, as well as Hannah’s pecan pie, she sat on the wooden swinging bench on the verandah with Sam’s arm around her and they lazily watched the ladies flirt with the new candidates.

“Looks like the Spinsters made a lot of money for the new church,” he said, nodding toward the basket near the refreshment table that was full of coins of various denominations.

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful? Hmm, I see Bob Henshaw’s partial to a lady dressed in green, just as Caroline reported,” she murmured, watching the way Polly Shackleford flirted outrageously with the hardware store owner from Austin, and he just as obviously relished it. “And that rancher from Mason must have been the one who liked freckles,” she added, seeing Bess Lassiter dimpling and blushing as a tall, rangy fellow with the weathered face of a man who spent his life outdoors teasingly reached out and touched one of Bess’s freckles.

“Who’s that handing that German fellow another huge piece of pie?” Sam asked. “I’ve kept track, and it’s his third.”

She chuckled. “Hannah Kennedy,” she told him. “It’s her specialty. Caroline was able to gather some preliminary intelligence on these bachelors, and the Spinsters are putting it to good use.”

Love was in the air. She sat on the gently swinging bench with Sam and saw the beginnings of courtships. Faith Bennett, Jane Jeffries and Maude Harkey were chatting animatedly to a group of cowboys who had caught wind of the festivities and ridden in from a ranch between Simpson Creek and Sloan. Emily and Ed Markison, the newlywed couple, were arm-in-arm, talking to Reverend Chadwick. And of course, Mariah Fairchild had come to the party and never left her father’s side.

Caroline Wallace, however, had gathered up the townspeople’s children and was supervising a game of “Duck, Duck, Goose” over by the barn—as if she were already their teacher. Laughter rang from the circle of children and Caroline looked content, Prissy thought. But she wished Caroline could find her special someone, too. Silently, she said a little prayer for Caroline’s happiness.

Prissy turned to Sam, about to inquire as to the hint of sadness she saw in his eyes today when the clinking of a spoon against the punch bowl startled her. She straightened on the swinging chair.

“Looks like that rancher from Mason—what was his name?—is going to make a toast,” Sam said.

The rancher clinked against the glass again, and conversation subsided.

“Thank you. I’m no speechifier, but the other bachelors elected me to thank Miss Priscilla Gilmore and her papa the mayor, before th’ fiddlin’ starts, for havin’ this party so we fellas who’d like t’ git hitched could meet a passel a’ nice like-minded young ladies. We appreciate yer hospitality, Miss Prissy, Mayor Gilmore. But not only that—we’re happy for your news that you’re about t’ git hitched soon, too, to th’ sheriff. To Miss Prissy and Sheriff Bishop—long life and much happiness.”

Glasses clinked, and those who weren’t holding them applauded as a blushing Prissy and Sam stood, his arm about her waist, and took a bow.

“Well, now, isn’t this a pretty picture.”

The townspeople turned as one to see Kendall Raney, the man she’d been introduced to when he was riding in Pennington’s carriage. Pennington had accompanied him again today, as well as another man, wraithlike in his thinness and paleness—could this be Francis Byrd, whom Sam had told her about meeting?

Beside her, Sam went rigid, his face a mask. She saw Raney’s gaze focus on Sam, as if trying to place him, just as it had the other day. Her father bustled forward, bristling.

“Mr. Pennington, this is a private party, and I don’t believe you were invited.”

Pennington affected great surprise. “Is that so? My apologies, Mayor Gilmore. From the way the town was buzzing about it as the social event of the summer, I was under the impression it was ‘come one, come all.’ I believe my feelings have been hurt.”

“Come one, come all” was indeed the message she and her father had given out, Prissy knew, but they had never imagined Pennington and his partners would even hear about the event, much less put in an appearance.

Sam stepped forward, the sun glinting off the five-pointed star on his shirt. He took a wide stance. “You heard the mayor, gentlemen,” he said, tight-lipped. “You aren’t welcome here. I’m asking you to leave.”

“But surely the townspeople would like to meet their future mayor?” Pennington countered, his pale amber eyes gleaming with vulpine slyness. “Everyone, may I present Mr. Kendall Raney, your next mayor.”

“What are you talking about?” Mr. Avery demanded. “I’m the head of the Simpson Creek Elections board, and I’ve had no applications for anyone to run against Mayor Gilmore, with the exception of myself.” Avery ran against her father every election, “just to make it fair,” and every election, he lost. He was so good-natured about it, it had become something of a joke between the two men.

But Pennington didn’t look as if he was joking.

“But you aren’t eligible to run,” Avery told Raney. “You haven’t been living here long enough.”

“According to your bylaws, which you were so kind to let me see last week,” Pennington said to Avery, “he’s eligible to file after he’s been here a month. And as the election is not until November, that’ll be plenty of time to convince the populace of the benefits to having Kendall Raney as your mayor.”

“Not that he’ll have to convince as many as there used to be,” Byrd added in a raspy voice. “According to my calculations, more and more residences are becoming Alliance properties in and around Simpson Creek every day. By fall we ought to have an easy majority.”

Prissy gasped, watching her father’s face turn a dangerous purple. “Who do you plan to have live at the Waters ranch, you murderous scoundrels?” he demanded. “Don’t think we’re unaware you had that poor easterner killed, and I don’t doubt we’ll be able to prove it. The judge will soon be here to try your man Tolliver, and he’ll say who paid him.”

Raney shrugged, looking untroubled. “I don’t have the least idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Gilmore, but I was brought up to be polite to my elders. And to ladies. Good day, ladies.” He doffed his cap and bowed deeply to Prissy and the silent, watching Spinsters before turning on his heel.

Just then, Prissy saw the side door open. Antonio backed out of it, carrying two fresh pitchers of punch. As he did so, a black and gray and white blur streaked past his legs and headed straight for Prissy, yipping his joy at finally achieving freedom and rejoining his beloved mistress.

“You come back here, you naughty dog!” scolded Flora, dashing after him. She reached down to grab the little canine but came up with empty air. “Oh, I am sorry, Señor Gilmore, I don’t know how the dog escaped. We had him tied to a chair leg in the kitchen, for he whined and carried on so in Señorita Prissy’s room, we were afraid he would damage the door trying to claw a hole through it—”

By now, Houston had reached Prissy, and he leaped up into her waiting arms.

“It’s all right, Flora, no harm done,” Prissy said. “I’ll just take him back inside, and give him a bone to chew on.”

At that moment, Prissy looked at Sam and was startled to see that all the color had drained from his face.

Sam saw Raney’s eyes narrow at the sight of the dog, and then fill with recognition. Raney looked from the dog to Sam, back to the dog, and finally at Sam again. His lips curled in a terrible smile.

“Folks, we’ll take our leave,” Kendall Raney said, bowing again. “But you’ll be seeing a lot of us around your fair town. I look forward to getting to know you all better.”

His gaze caressed Prissy, standing at Sam’s side. Then the small black eyes once more found Sam. “I’ll be seeing you in particular…Sheriff,” he said.

The crowd turned to watch the three men go as the carriage took them away. A buzz rose from the townspeople like the hum of an insect swarm.

“Why, I never…”

“The nerve a’ them fellows! Why, I would never vote for the likes a’ that man.”

“Mayor Gilmore’s the man for me. Always has been.”

“Yeah, I didn’t like the look a’ that man. Somethin’ about him makes me think he an’ the devil are on a first-name basis.”

Prissy, still clutching Houston, went to the trio of bachelors and apologized for the unpleasant confrontation they had been forced to witness, reassuring them that the party would continue. Then she signaled to the fiddler to commence playing before disappearing into the house with the dog.

If only he hadn’t given in to the impulse to bring that dog along with him or had left him near some town or ranch house. If he’d done so, Raney might never have made the connection between the hapless, beaten gambler and the sheriff of Simpson Creek. Raney’s gaze promised that now that he’d recognized Sam, he would do something about it.

But what? And when?

He also cursed himself for giving in to impulse and proposing to Prissy without telling her about Raney, without telling her the truth about who he was.

There was nothing he could do about it now, except wait it out or explain the situation to her right away.

Neither was an option leading to a good outcome.

Chapter Eighteen

Raney waited only an hour after Sam returned to the jail before appearing at the window, beckoning.

Sam stepped out into the darkness. A half moon and the glowing red tip of Raney’s cheroot were the only sources of light. He let his hand linger near the pistol riding in its holster at his hips, wondering if Raney’s men lurked in the alley across the street, ready to cut him down in a hail of bullets. His heart hammered in his throat.

Lord, please protect me.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Bishop—sheriff of the town, soon to marry the prettiest, richest girl in it…very well indeed.”

Sam waited, seeing the black eyes glitter in the moonlight. Raney blew a smoke ring, and Sam could smell the acrid stench of the cheroot. He felt a trickle of cold sweat trace its way down his backbone.

“What do you want?” he asked at last.

“What do I want? I want what you took from me,” Raney said, feigning surprise.

“You can have your ring,” Sam said. “I just can’t get at it right now.” Luis was sleeping over it, unaware of what lay hidden in the mattress. “Other than that, I only took what was mine—the money you won by cheating.”

“You took my dog,” Raney pointed out, amused. “And gave it to your sweetheart.”

“As if you miss him. You were going to feed him to the gators—along with me.”

“No, I don’t care about the cur,” Raney admitted, his voice still light, convivial. “What I do care about is the deal we could make.”

“Deal?” Nothing Raney could have said would have surprised him more—or made him warier.

“You left a considerable sum of money in my safe, after you took that pitiful amount I won from you.”

Sam shrugged. “It wasn’t mine.”

Raney rolled his eyes at him. “Don’t be a self-righteous prig, Bishop. It could be.”

Sam shook his head, amazed—and thankful—that it was so easy to refuse it. “I don’t need it.”

The black eyes glittered again. “But you’re marrying the daughter of the richest man in a one-horse town. I can offer you much, much more, Bishop.”

“Is that right?” Sam was careful to keep his tone bored, even disdainful, while his eyes searched the darkness. “Not interested.”

“A wise man would be interested enough to hear me out.”

“A wise man wouldn’t have walked into your gambling hall.”

Raney’s smile was sardonic. “True enough. But you did, didn’t you? And I’ll wager you don’t want sweet Priscilla Gilmore to know that, do you? She has no idea the kind of man you were.”

Sam shrugged again. “Gambling’s not illegal, only a fool’s way to earn a living. It’s not as if I murdered someone, like your fellow in the cell in there,” he said.

Raney’s jaw clenched and his mouth tightened to a thin line, then relaxed again. “All right, here’s the deal, Bishop. I have the money you left in the safe with me. It’s yours if you want it—”

“I already said I didn’t. Who’d you steal that money from, anyway?” Sam asked, allowing his contempt to show.

But Raney wasn’t insulted. “I swindled it from a bank in Houston. As I said, the money can be yours, along with a position in the Alliance. Power. Property. Women. It’s richly rewarding, working with us, Bishop.”

Sam had only recently read about the time Jesus had been tempted by the devil in the wilderness. The devil had offered Him all the same sort of things. Now Sam could guess how Jesus may have felt.

“In return for what?” There was always a cost, Sam had learned from that Bible story. And from life.

“For testifying on behalf of Tolliver in there.”

“I’m surprised you care about him,” Sam said, making his voice callous instead of curious. “Let him hang, Raney. What’s it to you? Hired guns are a dime a dozen, aren’t they?”

“Oh, I don’t care about him, not really. He was an idiot to get caught with stolen goods—but then you know all about that, don’t you, Sheriff? I do care about the Alliance’s reputation, and I’ve found it’s very nice indeed to have a sheriff or two in my pocket. Comes in handy at times.”

Sam thought of the sheriff of Colorado Bend, who hadn’t been willing to discuss opposing the Alliance. “Like I said, I’m not interested. Now, if that’s all you have to say, I’ll bid you good night.”

The black eyes flashed. “Don’t be a fool, Bishop. Take the money and join us. Or I’ll see to it that the town learns you’re nothing but a thieving gambler. How do you think your precious Priscilla will feel about her gallant sheriff then, Bishop? Especially when you’re hauled off to prison.”

Prissy hardly slept that night. Her mind whirled with the plans she and Sam would have to make for the wedding. They’d have to discuss a date, of course. It was now late August—could they pull everything together by October? That was a lovely time in the hill country of Texas, with the worst of the summer heat gone and plenty of clear days with only a hint of chill in the early morning…

Some decisions about the wedding, of course, would be hers alone. She had already asked Milly after the party if she would be able to make her dress. To Prissy’s delight, Milly said she’d love to do it. Prissy would need to go out to the ranch as soon as possible for a fitting and to discuss the design. And who should be her bridesmaids? Sarah would be her matron of honor, and Milly…but who else? She’d always imagined having four. She would ask Caroline, but Caroline would decline, Prissy was sure, for it would mean donning something other than the mourning black she seemed determined to wear the rest of her life. Perhaps Hannah and Bess? She could not have all the Spinsters stand up with her, of course, and they would understand that, but it was hard to choose just four ladies when she liked all of them so much.

Who would Sam choose as his best man? As a newcomer to town, he wouldn’t have many choices—she supposed it would be Nick or Nolan, but both men would stand up with him. He might want to invite Luis Menendez, the youth who had proved such an invaluable help of late, to be a third. But they would still need one more man, if she had four bridesmaids. She made a mental note to consult Sam on that issue.

They’d return to Gilmore House for the wedding dinner, of course. What should be on the menu? She’d have to consult Sarah about that, and commission her to bake the wedding cake. But—white cake or yellow? Or even strawberry?

She and Sam would have to meet with Reverend Chadwick about the wedding service. She hoped he’d pick his text from First Corinthians, Chapter Thirteen—she thought one could not hear the beloved words describing the qualities of true love too much.

Prissy realized with a pang that she was still picturing the wedding taking place in the old church as it had been. The idea of everyone having to travel to San Saba to use a church there for the ceremony didn’t appeal to her. It involved too many arrangements, and inevitably, someone wouldn’t be able to make the trip. They would have to use the ballroom below, she supposed. While it would be easy and comforting to be married in the house she had grown up in, she’d always pictured being married in a church. By the time October arrived the townspeople would probably be hard at work on a new church, but it wouldn’t be finished by then.

And she didn’t want to wait till it was finished to be Sam’s wife. Mrs. Samuel Bishop…. Sam and Prissy Bishop… She smiled in the dark as she whispered the names, trying them out.

Both Sam and Papa would need new suits. Would they be willing to make a trip to Austin to have them expertly tailored?

Prissy sighed, realizing that as much as she loved the idea of a trip to Austin, it was impractical. Unless matters improved in Simpson Creek rapidly, neither Sam nor her father could leave town right now. Even after the trial was over, there was still the threat of the Alliance to deal with.

Suddenly Prissy remembered the unease she’d seen in Sam’s face earlier when Raney had showed up. She’d been reminded in that moment of all things she still didn’t know about Sam.

But there was plenty of time to find out—the rest of her life, in fact.

Prissy had already asked Flora to make up a basket of leftovers from the barbecue for her to take to the jail after church. She knew Sam would not feel free to leave his duty to attend the church service in the meadow—even as close as it was to the jail—as he had last week, not after Nick had substituted for him there most of the day yesterday. And especially not after the way Kendall Raney and his cronies had so rudely invaded the barbecue, with Pennington obnoxiously boasting about his partner beating her papa in the next election. Sam didn’t trust the Alliance not to try to break their man out of jail, and so he would feel bound to stay on guard.

Raney and his two partners cast the only cloud over their happiness, Prissy thought with resentment. Why did they have to choose San Saba County, and particularly Simpson Creek, as their center of power, and use ruthless, murderous toughs like Tolliver to carry out their will? Not only had their choice cost poor William Waters his life, but it cast a pall over the entire town.

She only hoped discussing the wedding over delicious food would distract Sam, at least for a little while, from all the trouble that faced the town. It seemed to weigh so heavily on him, especially after Raney had shown up. The enmity appeared especially strong between the two men, even more so than between Sam and Pennington or Byrd.

Which was surprising, since he had only met Raney the other day in front of the mercantile. Had they had a confrontation after that meeting, and he had not wanted to worry her by telling her about it? That would be just like him, she thought, as she began to fall asleep, drifting toward dreams of her life with Sam Bishop.

Sam appeared to do his best, hours later when they sat together in front of the jail and devoured barbecued chicken sandwiches washed down with lemonade, to join in her excitement over the wedding plans, agreeing with every suggestion she brought up.

He agreed early October would be a fine time for their wedding. With any luck the trial would be past them by then, and with God’s help and the town standing together, they might have also persuaded the Alliance to pack up and move on. Yes, he thought First Corinthians Thirteen would make a fine wedding text, once she started reciting the verses of it. She had to remember Sam hadn’t grown up reading the Scriptures as she had.

He chose Nick to be his best man, though he was happy to have Nolan Walker stand up with him, too. Prissy guessed the two men would have been sufficient for him, but when she said she wanted four bridesmaids, he mentioned Luis, as she’d thought he might. She offered to compromise by having only three bridesmaids.

Yes, he supposed he needed a new frock coat and trousers made for the wedding, and promised to go see Señora Menendez without delay. But even though they were in complete harmony with the choices she suggested, she sensed there was something else on his mind—the upcoming trial?

After all, if Sam was able to prove that Tolliver’s possession of the gold pocket watch meant Tolliver had murdered William Waters, the man would be executed. A sobering thought. Her father would push for any execution to take place outside Simpson Creek town limits, for he’d never held with the common practice of making a hanging into a social event in the middle of a town, with everyone turning out as if it were a picnic. She shuddered at the thought and deliberately introduced a new subject.

“Sam, I realize what with all that’s happening, you probably won’t be able to finish fixing up the house down the street before the wedding,” she began. “Realistically, we might have to start our marriage in that little cottage on my father’s grounds, much as I know you wanted us to start out in our own place.” She reached out a hand and touched his beard-roughened cheek, wishing she could smooth away the furrows in his brow. Poor Sam, he looked as if he hadn’t slept much last night.

He gave her a rueful smile before kissing her forehead. “Once the murder took place, I didn’t even had time to go talk to Mr. Avery about buying the house, let alone working on it. After all my fine talk about providing for you.” He sighed. “I appreciate your understanding, Prissy. I’m a lucky man.”

“Wherever we are, darling,” she added, “if I’m with you, I’ll be happy.”

He smiled at her again, but his attention was captured a moment later by something beyond Prissy. She looked around to see a man walking toward the jail. As the man drew closer, she recognized Mr. Jewett, the telegraph operator. He waved a paper.

“Afternoon, Miss Prissy, Sheriff,” he murmured, reaching them. “Good news. The judge will be arrivin’ a little early, Tuesday ’bout noon. He says to notify the prisoner that the trial will begin on Wednesday, so his lawyer better be ready. Oh, and he asks that you secure him and the prosecutor hotel rooms for the duration of the trial.”

“Oh, but that won’t be necessary,” Prissy said. “Papa wouldn’t hear of him staying at the hotel. We’ll put him up at Gilmore House.” She’d met Edwin Everson, the circuit judge, once before, and remembered him as a dry, austere man.

The news of the judge’s arrival seemed to relieve some of the heaviness which had weighed down Sam’s smile. Prissy was glad, though she knew proving Tolliver’s guilt would be no easy task. The prosecuting attorney would have to prove his case without a shadow of a doubt.

“Any lawyer show up for Tolliver yet?” Jewett asked. “Th’ law says even a man like Tolliver’s entitled to legal representation.”

Sam shook his head. “Not yet, but the Alliance might send someone now that the judge is coming.”

“Probably some no-account carpetbagger that Raney b—uh, scoundrel—” Jewett corrected himself hastily, with a glance at Prissy “—will haul out of a Houston swamp, the ink still wet on his forged lawyer papers.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we,” Sam said with a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

I won’t let the sun go down today without telling Prissy the whole truth about what happened in Houston, Sam resolved that morning. Everything Raney had done—and what he had done, as well. Before things go any further.

Judge Everson and the prosecutor, Gabriel Bryant, arrived promptly at noon, as promised, but the judge announced they would be staying at the hotel rather than Gilmore House—to avoid any appearance of bias, as he put it, though he and Bryant accepted an invitation to supper with the mayor, Sam and Prissy. And he stated they would begin the trial the next day, whether the defense was ready or not.

“No use in dillydallying,” he announced in his dry, no-nonsense way over supper at Gilmore House. “I have trials waiting to start in Chappel and Sloan, then back in Harkeyville again. And I understand you two have an upcoming wedding to plan, as well, so there’s no use wasting time,” he said to Prissy and Sam across the table. He had a way of smiling without the smile ever reaching his hound-dog-sorrowful eyes.

“The accused man’s lawyer visited him this morning,” Sam informed the judge, picturing Lamar Hammond, the attorney who had shown up without warning to speak with Tolliver. If Pennington reminded Sam of a fox, this fellow was a javelina, with his small, mean eyes and coarse, bristly hair. All he needed was a pair of protruding tusks. “He’s got a room at the hotel. I can stop by on my way back to the jail and tell him to be ready to start tomorrow morning.”

He hoped Everson would offer to inform Hammond himself, since he was going to the hotel, too, but the judge apparently wanted to keep a sense of separation between himself and the defense attorney, for he said, “Good, good. Tell him nine o’clock sharp. I won’t abide lateness. A delicious dinner, Miss Gilmore. I’ll bid you good night now.”

“I’ll tell our cook,” Prissy said, smiling as she rose also.

“Prissy, may I speak to you for a few minutes before I leave?” Sam asked, knowing that the conversation he’d put off for so long couldn’t be postponed any longer.

“Of course, I’ll walk you out.” Her smile was so innocent. She was unaware he was about to shatter her belief in him. When he was done talking, she would know him as a liar and a thief. Would she still love him after that? Would he still be the sheriff, after she had told her father?

The judge put up a hand. “Sheriff Bishop, I think you and Mr. Bryant should discuss the case, since you’re the chief witness.”

“You gentlemen can use my office,” James Gilmore said, rising.

Sam stifled a groan. He wished he could refuse. He didn’t want to wait another minute to get his confession to Prissy over and done with. But hopefully he could steal a few moments alone with her when the attorney was done with him.

He had to tell Prissy what Raney knew about him before Raney exposed his character flaws in front of everyone. He’d heard nothing further from Raney, and he hoped his own silence had served as his answer to the man. But he had little hope that Raney wouldn’t carry out his threat to expose Sam, and he couldn’t risk embarrassing Prissy by not confessing to her first.

He saw Prissy looking at him, and when their gazes met, she gave him an encouraging smile. This will all turn out all right, her eyes seemed to say. You can do this.

Sweet Prissy, you don’t know what “this” is.

Chapter Nineteen

Darkness had fallen by the time Gabe Bryant was done going over the facts of the case and let Sam go. He agreed Tolliver’s possession of the watch might not be enough to convict him, but he hoped by skillful questioning to trip Tolliver up while he was on the witness stand and get the man to convict himself with his own words.

Flora came out of the kitchen when Sam left the study. “Señorita Prissy has gone to bed, Sheriff. She knew you had a lot to do and needed to get back to the jail, so she said she’d see you at the trial.”

Sam sighed in frustration as he bid the servant good night. Prissy couldn’t have guessed how deep his need was to speak to her. As he stepped out into the night, he looked back up at Prissy’s window, but no light shone through the curtains there.

He went on to the hotel and found Tolliver’s lawyer in his room, curled around a bottle and holding a losing poker hand. At the table sat Pennington, Byrd and the last man Sam wanted to encounter, Kendall Raney.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” Raney said, rising. “Deal me out, fellows.”

Sam shook his head. “I have to get back to the jail. I only came to tell Mr. Hammond the trial begins at nine tomorrow. The judge said not to be late.”

Hammond nodded, his eyes bleary. “I’ll be there.”

“I’ll walk with you, Sheriff. I know you’re a busy man,” Raney said smoothly, and gestured Sam out of the room. There was no way he could gracefully refuse.

They walked down the shadowy boardwalk, their way illuminated only by the half-full moon.

“Is this what you were after?” Sam asked without preamble, reaching into his shirt pocket and holding out the ruby ring he’d retrieved from his mattress.

“Among other things,” Raney murmured, reaching out for it, his teeth gleaming in the dimness like a wolf’s. “Tell me this, Bishop. Why did you take my ring, of all things? You don’t seem a man of expensive tastes,” he said, with a meaningful look at Sam’s simple trousers, shirt and vest.

“I’m not,” Sam agreed. “But at the time it seemed important to make sure you couldn’t ever lay open some poor fellow’s cheek with it again.”

Raney’s lips curved upward. “I did leave a bit of a scar, didn’t I?” Then his face hardened. “But I didn’t come along with you to discuss your looks, Bishop. You know I want an answer.”

“I would have thought you’d have guessed, a clever fellow like you,” Sam said. “The answer is no.”

Raney blinked. “No? Have you found some loco weed to chew on, Bishop? Do you know what you’re giving up?”

“I’m not giving up anything I want,” Sam said. “My good name’s become more important to me than what you’re offering, Raney.”

Raney shook his head and smiled as if he was trying to explain philosophy to a lunatic. “I don’t think you understand, Sheriff. When I get done with you, you won’t have that, either. Think the mayor’s daughter’s going to stand by you when you’re a disgraced ex-sheriff? Not on your tintype! Want to change your answer? This is your final chance,” he warned.

Sam shook his head.

Raney stared at him. “You’re a fool, Sheriff. You’re going to wish you’d given me a different answer.”

The trial would take place in the Simpson Creek Saloon, since the town lacked a courthouse and the church had been burned. Prissy’s father had offered the ballroom of Gilmore House, but the judge deemed the saloon a better choice as it was neutral ground. The saloon was the only other building with enough space to seat everyone who would want to attend, and as it was, George Detwiler had had to borrow every chair and bench Gilmore House and the hotel could spare.

Since she had only to walk down the street to reach the saloon, Prissy had taken her time with her toilette, wanting to look suitably dignified and a credit to her father and to Sam. As a result, it was five minutes to nine o’clock when she left the house in her sedate but pretty skirt and waist of navy trimmed with white piping and its short matching jacket. She suspected the day’s heat would soon cause her to shed the jacket and rue the long sleeves of the blouse, but for now she felt her ensemble would strike just the right note.

The chairs had been set into two sections with a narrow aisle in between, with the bar serving as the judge’s bench. Her father’s big chair from his study had been pressed into service, and was raised slightly above the level of the bar on a hastily built platform.

It appeared half of Texas sat in that room. Every chair was occupied and people were crammed together on the benches. Prissy knew that if she hadn’t been the mayor’s daughter, she might have had to stand in the back, but her father had motioned her to an open seat in the second row. She saw Pennington, Byrd and Raney sitting in the first row on the other side. The room buzzed with speculation about Tolliver and the murder.

As she started to make her way toward the front, Sam appeared at her side. Apparently she’d missed him standing at the back.

“Oh, there you are, Sam,” she began with a smile. She peered at him more closely. His gaze was tense, his eyes haunted. “What’s wrong?”

He bent and spoke in a low tone into her ear, “Prissy, I only have a minute before the judge will come down from upstairs, so please listen.”

“I’m listening—”

“Prissy, I—”

“All rise.” Her father’s voice rose above the hum of the crowd, and Prissy and Sam turned to see Judge Everson making his way down the steps from the upper floor.

Next to her, Sam closed his eyes for a second. Under the rustle of clothing and the creaking of chairs, he whispered into her ear, “Prissy, no matter what you might hear, I love you. Believe that, will you?”

“Sheriff Bishop, is the prisoner present and ready to stand trial?” the judge called out as he reached the bottom.

Sam turned away from her and faced the judge. “He is, Judge Everson. I’ll escort him from the back room now.”

Prissy was left to make her way quickly to her seat, aware of the judge’s eyes on her, wondering what was troubling Sam. As she settled herself in her seat, murmuring a greeting to Nick and Nolan in the front row, Sam brought the prisoner, followed by his lawyer, out of the back room.

Tolliver wore come-alongs on his wrists, which Sam now bent and unfastened before taking his own seat in the front row across from the three men of the Alliance. If he realized he was on trial for his life, it didn’t seem to bother Tolliver. He smirked at the crowd as her father directed him to place his right hand on the Bible and swear to tell the truth. He winked at Pennington, Byrd and Raney as he sat down, and Prissy saw them grin back at him.

The judge pounded his gavel. “The prisoner will remember he is in a court of law,” Everson snapped, evidently irritated by Tolliver’s cocky expression. “Mr. Bryant, you may call your first witness.”

“Sheriff Samuel Bishop.”

Prissy watched, her heart full of pride as Sam raised his hand and took the oath. But something was wrong—very wrong. She could see it in his eyes. She’d heard it in the words that still rang in her ears. What could it be?

Sam’s voice was strong and sure as the lawyer led him into a recital of the facts—how William Waters III, the nephew of the late William Waters, who had owned a ranch southeast of Simpson Creek, had come to town to take possession of his inheritance, how Sam had ridden out with him to inspect the property and had first seen him consult the big gold pocket watch that would later be the critical piece of evidence.

“Is this the watch in question, Sheriff?” Bryant asked, dangling the object in front of Sam so that he and the crowd could see it.

“It is.”

“And when did you become aware that Mr. Waters felt threatened?”

Sam told how Waters had come to him and said he was being pressured to sell the property to the men who headed the Ranchers’ Alliance, who had lately been buying up property in San Saba and neighboring counties, and how he had ridden out to their large ranch, La Alianza, and told Pennington and Byrd to order their men to cease harassing the easterner.

“And are these men present in the court today, Sheriff?”

“They are.”

“Will you indicate them to the court, Sheriff Bishop?”

Sam pointed. “That’s Garth Pennington there, and Francis Byrd, next to him.”

“And is it your understanding that there is a third man who also heads the Ranchers’ Alliance?” Bryant inquired.

“Mr. Kendall Raney, sitting next to Mr. Pennington, is also part of the Ranchers’ Alliance, but he had not come to town as yet,” Sam answered.

Prissy saw Raney smile as Sam pointed at him. She thought the devil himself could have no more sinister a smile.

“Please tell the court about the day William Waters III was found murdered.”

Sam recounted how he and the ladies of the Society for the Promotion of Marriage had gone to the neighboring ranch of Nick and Milly Brookfield to celebrate the birth of their new son, and how he and Nick had heard shots, seen smoke, and had ridden over to investigate, finding Waters dead in front of his burning ranch house.

“And did you suspect the employees of this so-called Ranchers’ Alliance of being guilty of his murder?”

Sam said he did. “But I had no proof—until Leroy Tolliver was witnessed by several people to have the watch in his possession.”

“Tell us about that event, Sheriff.”

Prissy listened as Sam painted a picture of the intrusion of Tolliver and the other hired guns at the wedding reception, of the struggle that had ensued and the pocket watch that had fallen out of the accused man’s pants.

“And how did you know the watch did not belong to Leroy Tolliver, Sheriff Bishop?” Bryant asked.

“Apart from the fact that I didn’t believe a hired gun like Tolliver could have afforded to buy such a valuable object,” Sam said, glancing at Tolliver, who glared sullenly back at him, “the watch had the initials ‘W.W.III’ engraved on the back.”

Prissy expected Tolliver’s lawyer to object to Sam’s disparagement of his client, but he remained still and untroubled, a bland expression on his face, seemingly content to be bide his time and wait for his turn.

“Your honor, I have nothing further,” Bryant said.

Apprehension gripped Prissy’s mind like an icy glove. What was the lawyer up to?

Judge Everson had listened intently throughout Sam’s testimony, and now he turned to Tolliver’s lawyer. “Mr. Hammond, do you wish to cross-examine Sheriff Bishop?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“No?” Judge Everson repeated, eyebrows beetling. “You don’t wish to question the state’s witness against your client, sir? Why ever not, may the court inquire?”

Prissy, staring at the lawyer along with the rest of the courtroom, saw Hammond’s lips curve into a slick smile.

“Because, Your Honor, we accuse Sheriff Samuel Bishop of being an unreliable witness, and unfit for the office he holds.”

Prissy’s jaw dropped. She stared, first at Hammond, then at the man she loved sitting in the chair to the left of the judge. The color had drained from Sam’s face, leaving it white as bleached bones. The haunted look which Sam’s eyes had held earlier had transformed itself into a hunted look, as if he was now cornered prey.

What on earth was Hammond saying?

The saloon-turned-courtroom had gone utterly silent. Not a bench creaked, not a petticoat rustled. Women who had been fanning themselves laid down their fans. Even the half-dozen flies which had been bedeviling those in attendance seemed to cease their infernal buzzing. Prissy could feel her heart thudding in her chest.

“Explain yourself, Mr. Hammond.” The judge ground out the words, leaning forward, his chin jutting pugnaciously out. “And I warn you, I won’t allow my courtroom to be turned into a circus.”

Prissy shifted her gaze to Pennington, Byrd and Raney. Even from the side, she could see that they were grinning from ear to ear.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Hammond said with obsequious deference. “We do not make these charges lightly. Samuel Bishop is unfit to be the sheriff, upholder of the law in Simpson Creek, because he himself is a thief, having swindled the sum of two thousand dollars from the First Bank of Houston, Texas, as well as a ruby ring from Mr. Kendall Raney, here present.”

Sam jumped to his feet. “It’s a lie! Your Honor—Judge Everson—he’s lying!”

Prissy froze in her chair as everyone started talking at once. The judge pounded his gavel repeatedly until the room was once more quiet. She saw everyone staring at Sam, and then some turned and fixed their gazes on her.

Furious at their avid curiosity, she trained her eyes on Sam, but his eyes were fixed on the judge the way a drowning man’s eyes would be fixed upon a man who might or might not throw him a rope.

Judge Everson cleared his throat, which had the effect of hushing those who had begun to whisper and point.

“Mr. Hammond, I warn you that I will not tolerate mischief, even from a so-called lawyer. Do you have any proof of these outrageous charges you’re making?”

The lawyer’s face was the epitome of smugness as he nodded. “Yes, Your Honor, you have but to send someone to search Sheriff Bishop’s quarters. You’ll find the money and the ring there, I’m sure.”

Everson stared at him for a long moment. “And just who do you suggest I send to do that, Mr. Hammond? I’m certain you had someone in mind.”

“I did, Your Honor,” Hammond answered. “I took the liberty of asking Sheriff Hantz of Colorado Bend to be present today as an impartial party capable of making such a search. Sheriff Hantz, will you stand, sir?”

Prissy turned in time to see a stocky man rise from a bench at the back of the room, a man wearing a tin star similar to the one on Sam’s shirt. She gasped, remembering how Sam had told her how the sheriff of Colorado Bend had been unwilling to listen to his concerns about the Alliance.

“He shouldn’t go alone,” her father said, standing too. “I’ll go, to verify anything he finds—if he finds anything, which I doubt he will.”

“And I, too,” Reverend Chadwick said, getting to his feet.

“Very well, gentlemen,” Everson said. “This court will be in recess until you return.”

He raised his hand to bang the gavel once again, but Hammond stepped forward. “Your Honor, surely you don’t mean for Bishop to be at liberty while they search,” the lawyer suggested in his oily voice. “Why, he could do anything—flee, or even follow Sheriff Hantz and attack him.”

Judge Everson glared at Hammond, but the man merely smiled with a meekness Prissy knew was false.

“Mr. Hammond, you’re treading on thin ice,” Everson said. “Please don’t presume to advise me again.”

“No, Your Honor.”

Everson ignored him and looked at the man sitting next to Prissy. “Nicholas Brookfield, it’s my understanding you have served as a deputy in times past. Would you be willing to stand guard over both Mr. Bishop and Leroy Tolliver in the back room of this saloon while these three men leave to search Mr. Bishop’s quarters, until such time as they return and report to this court?”

Nick Brookfield stood. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Everson banged his gavel again. “Very well. Mr. Brookfield, I’m holding you responsible. Sheriff Bishop and Mr. Tolliver are not to speak to one another, much less—ahem!—come to blows.”

“Yes, Your Honor, I understand.”

Sam threw Prissy a look desperate with entreaty before he allowed Nick to march him and Tolliver toward the back room.

Her father looked at her, too, a look she couldn’t interpret, before he followed Reverend Chadwick and the Colorado Bend sheriff out of the courtroom.

So that’s what Sam had been trying to tell her, she thought, sick with horror. He’d been trying to confess that he was a thief and a swindler. Was the love he’d professed for her nothing but a lie, as well?

Sarah reached her side before anyone else and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Prissy, I’m sure they won’t find anything. It’s all trumped-up nonsense.”

“Yes, Tolliver’s lawyer is only making trouble, trying to obscure the facts that clearly point to his client’s guilt,” her husband agreed.

“Prissy, dear, everything will be all right,” Mariah Fairchild, who’d been sitting down the row, chimed in.

But Prissy couldn’t answer them, couldn’t even thank them as they kept the gawkers and the nosy gossips at bay during the painful hour that followed. She kept her face buried in her hands, heedless of the tears that soaked through and trickled onto her skirt as she replayed each moment she’d shared with Sam over the past weeks, looking for a sign.

How could she have been so wrong about a man?

Chapter Twenty

Sam walked back into the improvised courtroom on legs that felt like wooden stilts and listened as Sheriff Hantz was sworn in. He tried to catch Prissy’s gaze, but she only stared with tear-swollen eyes at some point on the saloon wall closest to her.

She believed he was guilty, he realized. Well, of course she did. Why wouldn’t she?

Hammond stepped forward to question the other sheriff. “Sheriff Hantz, tell the judge what you found in Sheriff Bishop’s quarters.”

“I found the money, all two thousand of it, hidden within the mattress on the sheriff’s bed. I sent the mayor to the bank to fetch this sack that now holds the money, Your Honor—” he raised a sack, grunting slightly as if it was very heavy “—but I kept the Reverend with me to guard the money. Oh, and we also found this, Your Honor.”

Sam saw the Colorado Bend sheriff shove a meaty hand into his vest pocket and come forth with the ruby ring he’d returned to Kendall Raney only last night. He closed his eyes in misery.

“Count out the coins, Sheriff Hantz, right here on the bar—ahem!—bench—in front of me,” the judge ordered.

Sam opened his eyes but kept his gaze lowered as the coins spilled out of the sack, clinking together on the wooden bar. He listened as the Colorado Bend sheriff counted the twenty-dollar gold coins into stacks, each one thudding like a death knell, until the sheriff had counted one hundred coins.

Sam knew with a sick certainty that Raney had had the money and the ring planted there as soon as he and Luis had marched their prisoner down to the saloon-courtroom. The jail was empty then, and no one would have been watching it—everyone for miles around Simpson Creek had gone to the saloon to attend the trial.

“That must have made for a pretty lumpy mattress, Mr. Bishop,” the judge commented. “How did you ever sleep on it?”

“I—” Sam began. What was the use? He could tell by the fact that the judge had called him “Mister” instead of “Sheriff” that he doubted him already. How could he possibly fix this?

“Your Honor,” Gabe Bryant said, rising to his feet. “With all due respect, any questions you have for Sheriff Bishop should be held until the sheriff is once more on the witness stand.”

“I’m considering Samuel Bishop still under oath from his earlier testimony,” Judge Everson snapped.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Lamar Hammond ooze forward.

“Your Honor, as Mr. Tolliver’s lawyer, I’d like to suggest Mr. Tolliver be freed, since the state’s key witness has been revealed to be a criminal. His testimony is clearly unreliable, and so Mr. Tolliver should be let go, as there is no convincing evidence to hold him.”

Judge Everson gaped at him, then snapped his jaws shut and fixed Hammond with a furious glare. “Silence!” he roared, leaning on the bar with both hands. “The court will entertain no such outrageous suggestions from you, Mr. Hammond. You make any more and I’ll cite you for contempt!”

“Sorry, Your Honor.” Hammond said, but his lips twitched as he attempted to smooth out his satisfied smile. He darted a glance at the three men in front, who had received no such orders from the judge and were grinning broadly.

Sam wished he could shove a fist into each of their faces in turn—Raney’s first, of course.

“The Simpson Creek jail has two cells, doesn’t it?” the judge demanded, his question aimed at Nick.

Brookfield looked uncomfortable. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge turned to Tolliver’s lawyer. “Mr. Hammond, I assume you can prove your outrageous allegation with testimony by this Houston banker?”

Hammond inclined his head. “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Gregory Timkin, president of the First National Bank of Houston, is due to arrive in Simpson Creek tomorrow, if the weather holds.”

“Very well. Mr. Brookfield, I understand you were acting sheriff until Mr. Bishop came to town, and I’m giving you that job back until further arrangements can be made. Are you able to carry out that job impartially, even though you and Bishop have been friends?”

Nick Brookfield’s face was stony. “I am, Your Honor.”

“Samuel Bishop,” the judge said, “you’re under arrest on suspicion of stealing two thousand dollars from the First National Bank of Houston and a ruby ring belonging to Kendall Raney.” He turned to Nick. “Acting Sheriff Brookfield, you and Deputy Menendez are to take this man—” he pointed straight at Sam “—and Mr. Tolliver back to the jail and install them in their cells.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Sheriff Hantz, do you have a set of come-alongs he could borrow?”

“I do, Your Honor,” Hantz said, and handed them to Nick.

“Stand and stick out your hands.” There was no hint of warmth in Nick’s tone, and no hint of regret in his eyes.

Sam complied, nausea churning in his stomach, and held out his wrists, feeling Hantz’s come-alongs snap with cold, metallic finality over his wrists.

Prissy jumped to her feet and opened her mouth to protest as Sam was being led away, but no sound would come. Once the batwing doors swung shut again after the men had left, her father turned to her.

“We’re going home, Prissy.”

“But—but you have to do something, Papa!” she cried. “You can’t just let them put Sam in jail! He didn’t do anything—I know he didn’t! You can’t let them put Sam into a cell next to that murderer as if Sam was a criminal, too!”

Everyone was staring, whispering. Her father’s face seemed to have transformed itself into stone, just like Nick’s. “We will talk at home, Priscilla.” He put a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Come.”

Mariah Fairchild fluttered behind them, clearly at a loss as to what to do. Her father seemed to remember her at last.

“Mariah, perhaps it would be best if I called upon you later. Priscilla and I need to discuss what has happened. Will you be all right, my dear?”

“O-of course, James…”

Sarah said, “I’ll come see you later, Prissy. It’ll be all right, you’ll see. There will be an explanation.”

And then her father put Prissy’s hand upon his arm and guided her out of the makeshift court.

Flora met them at the door of Gilmore House, her eyes full of questions, but her father just shook his head, and the servant let them by.

“Prissy—” her father began, but she waved her hand helplessly at him and ran up the stairs.

She made it to the sanctuary of her room before she collapsed into tears and threw herself on the bed in a paroxysm of weeping. Houston leaped onto the bed and tried to console her, but she pushed him gently away. At last he contented himself with huddling close to her on the quilt, and she drew what comfort she could from the dog Sam had given her.

Her father came to her room some time later, after she had cried herself out. She’d been staring at the sapphire ring on her finger when he entered, but she shoved her hand under her skirt so as not to remind him that she wore it. She wasn’t going to give it up, any more than she was going to give up on Sam—at least not without hearing what he had to say.

“Priscilla, sometimes we make mistakes,” her father began, “in trusting—loving—certain people, and I know it hurts when events prove us wrong.”

“I’m not wrong,” she said. “I love Sam, and he loves me, and I know there is more to this story than what we’ve heard so far. We have to go to him, to listen to what he has to say. There has to be an explanation!”

“I went to see Bishop after I brought you home,” her father said. “I made sure he was comfortable. But he wouldn’t talk to me. Evidently he has nothing to say, now that he’s been found out as a thief and a swindler.”

“Papa, we have no one’s word for it but that snake of a lawyer’s!” Prissy retorted indignantly. She could hardly believe her ears. Was this her father, who had always been open-minded, never believing the worst of a man until he’d given him every chance to prove otherwise? Evidently his open-mindedness stopped when it came to her.

A muscle jumped in her father’s right temple and his jaw set. “Priscilla, that stolen money and that fancy ring didn’t stuff themselves into Bishop’s mattress. He’s been caught red-handed with stolen goods, daughter.”

“I don’t believe he took those things. I’ll never believe it. Why should he take such a big sum of money and then apply for a job that pays as little as being sheriff does? He could have bought property, set himself up as a gentleman of leisure,” she argued. “I think the money and the ring were planted.”

Her father sat down heavily on a chair by her bedside, looking suddenly twenty years older. “I spoke to Nick Brookfield, Priscilla. It seems he had his doubts about the man from the start. He suspected Bishop had never been a lawman before he came to Simpson Creek. He admits he’d thought he was wrong about Bishop, but he put the question to him when he put him in the cell. Bishop admitted it, right before I came to the jail.”

Prissy stared at her father as the words thudded dully against her aching heart. “He admitted to Nick that he lied about being a sheriff in Tennessee and Louisiana?” she repeated.

Her father nodded, his face downcast. “Prissy, honey, I know it’s hard for you to hear, but you’re a young lady of means, and some men…well, they’re willing to take advantage of a trusting heart. They don’t want to work for their fortune. They merely want to marry it.”

“But…but Sam didn’t want us to live off of you, when we’re married. He said so,” she protested. “He wanted to buy that old house on Travis Street and fix it up for us, and live on his sheriff’s salary. He told me that, and I believe it! Why are you so quick to think the worst of him?”

“Prissy, did he ever actually buy the house, or was it all just fine talk to convince you he loved you for yourself?” her father asked, his red-rimmed eyes sad.

“He-he didn’t get a chance to!” she cried. “Before he could speak to Mr. Avery, Tolliver was arrested, and Sam was spending every spare moment at the jail guarding him!”

Her father cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, the engagement is over now. My daughter will not be marrying a convicted thief. We should just thank God we found out before you married him and he dragged your good name into the mire along with his own.”

Who was this cold man who got heavily to his feet now? It couldn’t be her papa, for her papa would never have been so unfeeling. Beside her, Houston growled, and her father glared at the dog.

Prissy rose from the bed with as much dignity as she could muster and placed herself between the dog and her father, eyeing the latter through eyes swollen with shed tears. When she spoke, her voice croaked. “I think I have something to say about whether or not my engagement to Sam is over, and I say it isn’t. I won’t believe anything you’re saying about Sam, not unless I hear it from Sam himself. I’m going down to the jail right now.”

Her father stood before her. “No, you’re not. I forbid it. You’ll hear all his sordid lies soon enough when that bank president from Houston arrives and Sam’s trial begins, if you insist on going. If I were you, though, I’d stay home and spare yourself the embarrassment.”

She was silent for a moment, wondering what the best tactic was to use with her suddenly obdurate parent. “He’s going to be proved innocent, Papa, you’ll see.”

“And what if he isn’t, Priscilla?” her father countered. “What if he’s convicted of stealing two thousand dollars from that banker? And the ring?”

“Then I’ll wait for him, Papa. I love him, and he won’t be in prison forever.”

Her father’s eyes bulged and his face flushed a dangerous purple. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I love you, daughter, more than I love my own life, but the day you marry a convicted felon is the day you will be disinherited, Priscilla. Imagine what it would be like, marrying him years from now, your youth gone, with nothing but the clothes on your back, daughter, and nowhere to live except shabby rented lodgings he might be able to provide for you. And what will he do to earn a living then? I’m sorry, but I don’t think he’s worth it, and after you have time to reflect, neither will you.”

All she could do was look at her father. Astonishment had robbed her of speech for the second time today.

“You are not to go to the jail, Prissy, do you hear me?”

Slowly, she nodded. “Yes, Papa, I hear you.”

“Reckon yer not so high an’ mighty now, are you, Bishop, now you don’t have that star on yer chest no more,” Tolliver sneered from his cell. “Soon as that bank president gets here from Houston t’confirm Mr. Raney’s story, I reckon I’ll be a free man, yessiree. They ain’t gonna put no rope around my neck on the word of a thief. Maybe Raney can even find a way to pin that tenderfoot’s killin’ on you, and you’ll be the one on the gallows.”

Sam didn’t show by so much as a twitching muscle that he’d heard this latest taunt from Tolliver, who’d been at it ever since they’d returned from the saloon—when he wasn’t griping that Sam had gotten the cell with the window. He didn’t bother telling Tolliver Waters’s murder was the one thing they couldn’t pin on him, since he’d been with a group of ladies on the day of the murder, and had been standing with Nick Brookfield in his barn when the shots were fired. And Waters’s body was still warm when he’d been found, so it was not as if he could have killed him earlier in the morning and then ridden back to Simpson Creek in time to escort Prissy and her friends out to the ranch.

Not that it mattered. The only thing he feared had come to pass. His past had been exposed, and all of Simpson Creek now knew he was not the upright man they’d thought him, but a fraud. A thief and a liar. And the loss of their good opinion, as much as the idea hurt, paled in significance next to the stricken look he’d seen in Prissy’s eyes, the look that told him she didn’t believe in him anymore, either.

Because he’d lied, his testimony was no longer believable, and the murderer in the cell next to him would probably walk free. There was nothing he could do to change that now, and after realizing he’d lost Prissy forever, he could hardly bring himself to care. Even if Tolliver could be convicted of Waters’s killing, Waters would still be dead.

He’d listened silently when Prissy’s father had come to tell him that he would forbid Prissy ever to see him again. Gilmore didn’t have to do that, he’d thought. He’d seen the hurt in her eyes when Hantz had announced what he’d found in the mattress, and he knew she’d never want to see him again anyway.

He’d thought loving Prissy, taking on an honorable job, and learning to believe in and trust the Lord Prissy served was the answer to putting his past behind him. But it wasn’t true. His past had risen up and defeated him, all because of one good thing he’d done—saving the dog Raney would have killed—and one wrong thing—taking Raney’s ring. God didn’t care about him, just as he’d always thought.

I am with you always, a voice whispered inside him. I have forgiven your sins, and I will save you.

He uttered a short, mirthless bark of laughter. What a time to be hearing voices again. No doubt he’d be good and loco by the time he was sentenced to prison.

“What are you laughin’ about, Bishop? Seems t’me you ain’t got nothing t’ laugh about,” Tolliver jeered. “You’re in a cell, same as me, an’ that purty lil’ girl you been sparkin’ don’t want nothin’ t’ do with you no more. Even if she did, her rich papa told you she can’t see you agin. Soon as that fellow gets here from Houston, you’re goin’ t’ prison for swindlin’, so I figger you ain’t got nothin’ t’ laugh about.”

Luis Menendez still believed in him, wonder of wonders. Sam couldn’t imagine why. Or perhaps it was just that Sam had been decent to him, so he wouldn’t let Tolliver torment him.

It went some ways to make up for the cold contempt Nick Brookfield had favored him with ever since he’d led him away from the saloon. Brookfield now thought his first instincts about Sam had been correct, and he wasn’t a man who liked being made a fool of.

Sam heard the door, but he didn’t bother to open his eyes and see who’d come to gawk at him or tell him off for trying to pretend he was what he wasn’t. Then he heard a voice he never thought he’d hear again, and it took all his self-control to keep his eyes closed and pretend to go on sleeping.

“Nick, I need to see Sam,” Prissy said, her voice anxious and strained. He knew she had spotted him in his cell. “Sam, wake up,” she called. “I’m here. I have to talk to you!”

He heard the scrape of Nick’s chair—which had been his chair only this morning, Sam thought bitterly—as it was scooted back. “Sorry, Miss Prissy, but your father left strict instructions that you were not to see Bishop. I need you to leave.”

“But you can’t do that! I have to see him, Nick! I have to tell him—to find out—”

“I’m sorry, but I really must insist, Miss Prissy.”

Sam heard her start to cry and it broke his heart. He rolled over on the narrow cot and stood.

“Go home, Prissy. I don’t want to see you,” he said, keeping his eyes on the worn wooden floor so he wouldn’t see her eyes shining like flooded blue jewels in the heart-shaped face he loved. “There’s no point. It’s over. Forget about me.” Then he turned back to his cot and lay down, his face to the wall.

Chapter Twenty-One

Prissy heard voices in her father’s study when she returned to the house. “But, James, if you forbid her to see Sam now, you’ll break her heart,” said Mariah Fairchild. “If that nice young man is convicted, he’ll go to prison for years. She may never see him again.”

“Mariah, no daughter of mine is going to be allowed to breathe the same air as a liar and a thief,” her father snapped. “She’s upset, and I’m sorry about that, but I have to be thankful we found out now and not after she married him. Sam Bishop saw her as an easy way off the outlaw trail, nothing more.”

“James, surely that’s too harsh,” Mariah protested.

“Mariah, he was caught with the money and that big, gaudy ring right in his mattress!” her father thundered. “The guilt was written all over his face—didn’t you see it?”

“But we haven’t heard his side of it,” Mariah argued. “Isn’t a man innocent until proven guilty in this country? He hasn’t even been tried yet, and you’ve already convicted him, James.”

She had to give the widow credit for spirit, Prissy thought, appreciating the woman’s attempt to defend Sam. If only Sam had this much spirit left to defend himself.

Now if she could just avoid the step that creaked, she could ascend the stairs and get into her room without her father ever knowing she’d sneaked out and gone to see Sam against his express orders.

However, Houston, who’d been dozing on her bed when she’d left, scampered pell-mell down the stairs, yapping happily to see her.

The door to her father’s study was thrown open.

“Prissy! I thought you were upstairs,” her father said, then looked at her more closely. “Where have you been, young lady?”

“At Sarah’s,” she began. It was the truth, she told herself. She had just come from Sarah’s, for she had been too upset by Sam’s refusal to see her and his dispirited manner to go straight home. Sarah had done her best to console her friend, but once Prissy stopped crying, she’d realized all the tea and sugar cookies Sarah could serve wouldn’t change anything.

Prissy suddenly decided there was no reason to lie to her father. She was a grown woman, and the man she loved was in trouble. She’d done what she had to do.

She lifted her head and faced him. “But before that I went to see Sam, Papa. You needn’t worry,” she added, when his eyes narrowed at her. “Nick told me to leave, and even if he hadn’t, Sam wouldn’t speak to me.”

Her father studied her a moment. “Very well, then. I-I’m sorry you’re so upset, Pris.” He opened his arms to her, and with Mariah looking on, she went into his embrace and wept all the tears she had left.

Tolliver had finally ceased taunting him and subsided into a snoring slumber, but Sam couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t banish the vision of Prissy stumbling with tear-blinded eyes out of the jail, shrugging off any attempt by Nick to comfort her.

She can learn to love again, he told himself. There were bachelors coming into town all the time, thanks to the efforts of the Spinsters’ Club. The mistake of loving him need not haunt her for a lifetime. He loved her enough to make a clean break of it so she could start over.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, promising rain before morning. That might delay the Houston bank president’s arrival, which only meant more time to spend in this miserable cell before he was convicted and sent off to prison for the crime he hadn’t committed as well as the one he had.

“Do you mind taking the first watch?” Sam heard Nick ask Luis.

“No, Señor Brookfield. Good night.”

Luis didn’t call the Englishman “Sheriff,” Sam noted, though he was unfailingly respectful.

Nick favored Sam with a last frosty glare before stalking between the cells to the living quarters and shutting the door. Sam figured he had to be missing his wife and resenting Sam for making it necessary for him to take on the sheriff’s job again.

“Do you need a blanket, Sheriff?” Luis asked Sam. “Or a glass of water, or water to wash with? And there is chocolate cake left that Señora Walker brought if you want some.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need anything, Luis.”

“We will find a way out of this problema, you’ll see,” Luis assured him.

Sam wished he had Luis’s faith. Nothing would ever make him worthy of Prissy again or bring back the town’s respect. He pretended to sleep, so Luis would stop trying to cheer him. Soon Luis’s eyes grew heavy and he nodded off in his chair.

At first Sam thought he heard an animal rustling about outside. The window that Tolliver coveted faced the narrow alley between the jail and the mercantile, and cats frequently hunted there at night.

Then he heard the whisper. “Hssst! Bishop, you awake?”

Sam had to stand on his bed to look out the narrow window, and as he did so, the cot creaked so loudly he turned to see if the sound had awakened the deputy. But Luis only stirred and shifted his position before settling into sleep again. He really ought to warn the youth about falling asleep on the job, Sam thought, even if he wasn’t the sheriff any more.

“Who’s there?” he called softly, and then a figure separated itself from the shadows.

“I come from th’ boss.” The man’s hat was pulled low over his head, but even so, Sam thought he recognized the scarred jaw of one of the Alliance henchmen, one who had ridden with Tolliver before Tolliver had been arrested. “Which boss?”

“Raney. He says if you change yer testimony when th’ trial begins again, and say you saw Waters give Tolliver that watch—”

“Why would Waters have done that?” Sam interrupted, disdain in his voice. “It was engraved with his name.”

“Mebbe he owed him money or somethin’, how should I know?” the other man snarled. “Anyway, he says he kin get that bank president that’s comin’ to say you ain’t guilty a’ what yore accused of.”

“Are you saying the bank president’s part of the plot?” Sam demanded, furious at the idea that a bank official could be bought off in these circumstances.

“Sssh! Keep yer voice down!” the man hissed. “I ain’t sayin’ that, I’m sayin’ Mr. Raney could make the whole thing jes’ go away—mebbe he’d give the money back or somethin’.”

It might keep him out of prison, but even if Raney paid off the missing amount, the damage had been done. Sam’s reputation lay in ruins and Mayor Gilmore had forbidden him any further relationship with his daughter. Once Prissy thought about it hard enough, she wouldn’t want anything to do with him, either, for he would have no job, no way to provide for her. He couldn’t afford to buy the humble house on Travis Street, let alone fix it up.

“Tell Raney to go to blazes!” he whispered to the shadow by his window.

“That yer final answer, Bishop? You’ll be sorry.”

“Bishop, who are you talking to?” said a voice behind him, startling Sam so completely that he nearly fell off the cot.

Sam turned to see Nick standing in the passageway between the two cells that led to his quarters. His blond hair was rumpled, as if he’d just gotten out of bed, but there was nothing sleepy about the suspicious gleam in his eyes.

Luis had awakened, too, and looked sheepish.

Sam looked back out, but of course the Alliance man had disappeared. Thunder cracked again, and then the heavens opened and rain descended in a solid sheet that would erase any trace the man had been there—if his boots had even left any impression in the dry, hard ground.

“Raney sent one of his men to try to bribe me,” Sam said, raising his voice over the rain drumming on the tin roof. “He said if I’d say I knew Waters had given Tolliver that watch, he’d make the swindling accusation go away.”

Nick snorted. “A likely story.”

“Why else would I be standing on the cot?”

Tolliver woke then, his ugly face twisted with irritation. “Cain’t a man git some sleep around here? Whatever you two’re shoutin’ about, cain’t it wait till morning?”

“It certainly can,” Nick snapped. “And since Bishop’s claiming a midnight visitor, you can sleep in the cell with the window. Luis, help me switch the prisoners.”

“I get the window?” Tolliver crowed. “About time!”

Sam scowled, for the sheets on Tolliver’s bed were sure to be as malodorous as he was. Probably vermin-ridden, too. “Make him take his sheets with him,” he said, and pulled his own off the cot.

Within minutes the two men had switched cells and remade their beds, and Tolliver was snoring in his new cell with the window. Sam didn’t want any more late-night visitors anyway, so the new arrangement suited him just fine.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep.

The bolt of lightning just before dawn struck inside the jail, so loud it had Sam half falling out of the narrow cot. Only it wasn’t lightning, Sam realized as he saw the haze of gunsmoke and smelled the acrid stench of burnt gunpowder. He leaped to his feet, about to demand to know why Nick or Luis was shooting, only to see Nick take hold of the bars of the other cell, stare into it, then dash out the door into the rain. A second later, Luis stumbled out of the bedroom, still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“What happened, Sheriff?” Luis asked.

But Sam could only point into the other cell, where Leroy Tolliver lay dead on his cot of a gunshot wound to his chest.

“Someone must have shot him through the window.”

“Dios mio,” breathed Luis, staring.

“That bullet was meant for me.” Whoever had offered the bribe earlier had come back to kill him, since Sam had refused it. He couldn’t have known the prisoners had switched cells.

Nick returned a few minutes later, panting and wet, his pants mud-splattered. “I lost him, whoever he was. But he left the bucket he stood on—how he managed to put that in place, stand on it and take aim, all without my seeing him…”

His voice trailed off and his gaze dipped to the newspaper lying on the floor. Sam guessed the Englishman was wondering if he’d dozed off, too, just for a moment.

Now they wouldn’t need two trials, for Tolliver had been their only murder suspect. There was only Sam left to stand trial for Raney’s trumped-up swindling charge.

Which would do nothing to rid the town of the problem of the Alliance.

Had the Lord saved his life, just to allow him to be sent to prison and lose Prissy, not to mention his short-lived good name?

Prissy learned of Tolliver’s assassination over breakfast when a haggard Nick Brookfield came to notify her father.

After he blurted out the news, Prissy bolted out of her chair. “Sam could have been killed! Is he all right?” she cried. “He—he wasn’t wounded? Please, tell me the truth, Nick!”

“He’s all right, Prissy,” Nick said. “No, he wasn’t wounded. Luis is boarding up the window even as we speak.” He turned back to her father. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to catch the b—the blighter, sir,” he amended, after a glance at the Prissy. “I ran out of the office as soon as I realized what had happened, but he had too big of a head start and I lost him in the rain. I heard someone take off on a fast horse at the other end of Travis Street, but of course the rain wiped out his trail.”

Prissy threw down her napkin and dashed to the door as she called over her shoulder, “I’m going to make sure Sam’s all right! Disinherit me if you want, Papa, but I have to be sure!” She ran down the hall, threw open the door, and pelted down the steps.

“Wait, Prissy, I’m coming with you!”

Prissy skidded to a halt and turned, astonished to see Mariah throwing on her shawl as she sprinted down the steps after her, moving with amazing speed for a lady of her mature years.

“You don’t have to do this,” Prissy assured her, touched by the woman’s caring and the anxious expression in her eyes. “It won’t change anything—Sam will probably refuse to see me again even if Nick doesn’t catch up and keep us from going in—and there’s no need for Papa to be angry at both of us. I just have to see Sam with my own eyes to be sure he’s all right.”

“I want to go with you, dear. You shouldn’t be alone if…if Sam refuses to see you,” said Mariah. “You’ve had so much to contend with for a young lady. And if your father’s angry at both of us, well…” She snapped her fingers. “He’ll just have to be angry with both of us, or get over it. When I left, Nick was calming him down, telling him to let you at least see Sam. Your Papa’s just worried about you, Prissy dear. He wants the best for you.”

Impulsively, Prissy hugged her. “Thank you,” she said, meaning it.

By tacit agreement, they hastened off toward the jail. As they reached it, Prissy spotted Luis Menendez pacing around outside, rifle in hand.

“Luis, has—has something else happened? Is Sam all right?”

“Nothing else, señorita,” he assured her. “Señor Brookfield only asked me to guard him from out here, in case that malvado Raney and his hombres try again. Doctor Walker is on guard inside. It is good you have come.”

“Will he see me?” she asked, her heart in her throat. She couldn’t bear it if he turned his back on her as he had yesterday.

Luis shrugged. “I don’t know, señorita, but he needs to see you, whether he admits it or not.”

She entered, with Mariah right behind her, to find Nolan Walker sitting in the sheriff’s chair, another rifle lying at the ready on his lap.

“Hello, Nolan. I—I have to see Sam,” she said.

“I figured you’d be here. Sarah said you’d come, once you learned about Tolliver.”

Her gaze flew past the Yankee doctor to where Sam stood behind the bars of his cell, staring at her.

“I’m all right, Prissy,” he said. “Luis has boarded up the window, as you can see. Raney won’t try anything again. He doesn’t need to, now that Tolliver’s dead.”

She stared at the empty cot in the next cell, where a board nailed over the high, narrow window shut out most of the light and air. Then her gaze flew back to Sam.

“I’m all right,” he said again, as if she hadn’t heard him before. “You can go home now, Prissy. There’s no use in you being here. You need to start over, forget me.” His eyes drank her in, though, like a dying man drinks his last cup of water.

Before she knew what she was doing, she’d joined him at the bars and taken hold of his hands. “I’m not leaving until you tell me why you’ve given up, why you’re not willing to stand up for yourself, Sam Bishop!”

He smiled sadly at her. “It’s no use, can’t you see that? I didn’t take the money from that bank. Yet Raney managed to plant those double eagles in my mattress, and that judge isn’t going to believe I’m innocent. I did take that ring, but only after Raney had practically sliced open my face with it when I called him a cheater…never mind, Prissy. I’ll be convicted, and I don’t want you in the courtroom when it happens, do you understand?”

“No, I don’t understand,” she retorted. “You have to try, Sam!” She struggled against the fear and panic that threatened to swamp her.

Someone came into the jail then, and Prissy heard Nolan uttering a greeting, but she paid no attention. She had to convince Sam to fight before he insisted she leave. “I’ll be there, and I’ll tell that judge what a good man you are, how you raised your sisters and didn’t let your family be broken up and parceled out to others…”

He squeezed her hands before letting them go. “That’s not going to be enough to convince a judge that I’m innocent now, sweetheart.”

“No, but what this man has to say might,” said a voice behind her.

Prissy turned to see Reverend Chadwick, his gnarled old hand resting on the shoulder of Delbert Perry.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mr. Gregory Timkin, president of the First National Bank of Houston, arrived in a hired carriage late the next day, accompanied by his head teller, Marcus Howell. The two were immediately escorted by a very smug-looking Kendall Raney to Gilmore House, where the judge was once again dining. Prissy, who’d answered the door, was gently waved aside by her father.

“These gentlemen can come in, but you’re not welcome here, Raney,” Prissy’s father said, intercepting Raney on his doorstep. “You can go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under.”

Still hovering in the hall, Prissy heard Raney chuckle. “That’s fine, Mayor,” he said with a voice that dripped with mock humility. “I understand completely. I’m sure I’ll see you in court.”

Her father ignored him and gestured for the other men to enter. “Mr. Timkin, Mr. Howell, you are welcome, of course. Judge Everson will be glad to know you’ve arrived. You’re just in time to have supper with us, gentlemen.”

Both men’s clothes were rumpled and travel-stained. Over Flora’s excellent roast beef, they recalled how they’d been drenched to the bone yesterday when the carriage became mired in a muddy creek bed. Then a wall of water had come roaring at them, and they’d been fortunate to escape with their lives. They’d been forced to take shelter at a nearby ranch until this morning.

Mr. Timkin said he’d be very glad if Sam Bishop’s trial could proceed tomorrow, so he could regain the money Bishop had stolen and go on with the business of running his bank. And did Mayor Gilmore think he would be able to hire reliable men in Simpson Creek to guard him and the money on the way home?

Her father assured him all that could be arranged when the time came.

Prissy wanted to question the man herself, to know just why Timkin thought Sam had ever even entered his bank, let alone stole two thousand dollars, but like her father, she held her peace. Timkin didn’t need to know she was engaged to marry the very man he was here to help convict. There would be time for all that tomorrow.

Judge Everson said starting Bishop’s trial tomorrow suited him just fine, too, then suggested that to be ethical, they should not discuss the particulars of the case outside the courtroom.

The next morning, the saloon-turned-courtroom was even more packed than it had been previously, if that was possible. She got some odd looks as she carried Houston into the courtroom, but if anyone thought it odd that the mayor’s daughter was bringing her dog into such crowded surroundings, they were too polite to say so. She’d already assured the judge she had a good reason.

The prosecutor started the morning by questioning the bank president.

“And just how did Mr. Bishop come to be employed by you, Mr. Timkin?”

“When I’m in need of a new employee, Kendall Raney, a longtime associate and friend, often suggests a likely prospect from among his acquaintances. Mr. Bishop must have been one of those.”

“‘Must have been one of those?’” Mr. Bryant echoed. “You don’t recognize the accused man, Samuel Bishop?”

Gregory Timkin harrumphed importantly. “I have many employees, First National Bank being the largest in the Houston area—much larger than, say, the one in Simpson Creek.” His voice, as he gazed over the assembled multitude in their closely packed seats, dripped with condescension. “I only became aware that a large sum was missing when Mr. Howell, the bank’s head teller, informed me of it, and said that one of the employees had failed to show up that morning. I was told the employee’s name was Samuel Bishop.”

Howell, his head teller, was sworn in and confirmed the story. “That’s the man,” he said, pointing at Sam. “He came well recommended by Mr. Raney, but it was after he came that the money disappeared.”

Howell must be the one in league with Raney, Prissy thought, seeing the way the narrow-faced man’s gaze slid over Sam. If only she were a man, she thought, her fists clenching on her lap.

The prosecutor cleared his throat. “I have another question or two for you, Mr. Timkin,” he said. “Consider yourself still under oath.”

Timkin nodded, clearly somewhat surprised, and took the stand again.

“Would you say your associate Mr. Raney is a man with many business interests?” Gabe Bryant asked.

“I would, sir. That helped form the basis for our friendship, as we are both…men of varied interests, shall we say?”

“And were you aware that your business associate owned a gambling parlor in an unsavory part of Houston, known as The Painted Lady?”

Timkin shrugged. “As I said, Mr. Raney is a man of many interests and concerns,” he said. “Hotels, restaurants, properties…he may have mentioned such a place, but I do not recall him mentioning it by name.”

Prissy guessed Raney had never mentioned owning such a notorious business.

The prosecutor next called Sam to the stand. Sam testified that he had never been a bank employee at any bank, let alone the First National Bank of Houston.

“And how did you earn your living while you were in Houston, Mr. Bishop?”

Sam shot an apologetic glance in Prissy’s direction. “I was a gambler, Your Honor.”

The residents of Simpson Creek gasped and exchanged glances with each other.

“Were you good at it, Mr. Bishop?”

“Not particularly.”

Prissy heard several chuckles.

“Please tell us what took place on your last night in Houston, Mr. Bishop.”

Sam recited the events he’d told Prissy about only yesterday, events which brought her to the verge of tears again now—how he’d suspected Kendall Raney of cheating in his own establishment at the table where Sam was playing poker; how Sam had accused him, only to be set upon by Raney’s toughs who beat him within an inch of his life before Raney landed the final cheek-lacerating blow to his face and knocked him unconscious. He’d awakened trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey as he was thrown to the floor in Raney’s back room, and overheard Raney tell his ruffians he wanted them to return after supper and throw Bishop, along with the little dog that was caged in the room, into the bayou for the alligators.

“And what happened to you and the dog?” the judge asked, not waiting for the prosecutor. “I see that you weren’t fed to the alligators, at least.”

Again, there were chuckles.

Sam pointed to where Houston sat on Prissy’s lap. “After I managed to untie myself and escape with the dog to Simpson Creek, I gave him to Miss Prissy Gilmore.”

Several turned to smile at Prissy and Houston, and Houston obligingly wagged his tail as if he loved being the center of attention.

“You’re accused of taking a vast sum of money, Mr. Raney,” Bryant said. “You’ve already testified that you took no money from Mr. Timkin’s bank, but did you take anything else from that room before you escaped?’

“Yes,” Sam said and looked the judge in the eye. “I broke into Mr. Raney’s safe and took back the money he’d cheated from me, and the ring he’d been wearing when he cut open my face,” he added, pointing to the jagged white scar.

“Would this be the same ring?” Gabe Bryant inquired, holding up Raney’s ring.

“It would.”

“And have you ever been a lawman, Mr. Bishop?”

“No,” Sam admitted.

“So you lied about the experience you claimed to have as a deputy in Tennessee and Louisiana.”

“Yes. But I took the oath with every intention of serving Simpson Creek well, and I believe I’ve done so.”

Bryant pulled a skeptical face. “And just how did you end up in Simpson Creek, Mr. Bishop?”

“I read an advertisement in an old newspaper about the Simpson Creek Society for the Promotion of Marriage, Your Honor. I decided I wanted to meet a nice lady and get married. So I came here.”

Raney stood up at that point, much to everyone’s surprise. “Your Honor, may I speak?”

Judge Everson’s brows rose most of the way to his hairline, but he nodded.

“Your Honor, it all boils down to Bishop’s word against that of an esteemed bank president and his chief employee, the word of an admitted liar and a thief. Who is more worthy of being believed?”

“I have another witness who might be able to help us on that issue,” Gabe Bryant said, and gestured to the back of the room.

Prissy caught Sam’s eye and gave him an encouraging smile.

Two men stood near one of the back rows of seats—Reverend Chadwick and Delbert Perry. As Sam watched, the old preacher put an encouraging hand on Perry’s shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear, and then Perry walked toward the witness chair, head held high, as if he was clothed in an immaculate frock coat, trousers and shirt like Kendall Raney instead of the worn and much-repaired shirt, trousers and sack coat he wore.

Still sitting in the defendant’s seat near the judge, Sam gazed at Prissy, still unable to believe that she was standing by him through all this. The moment of truth had arrived—what Perry was about to say was their only hope of proving Sam innocent. If the judge didn’t believe Perry, Sam thought, all was lost.

I am with you always.

This time Sam believed the truth of that.

Raney pointed at the weathered man about to take the oath. “Why is he testifying?” he called out, scorn lacing his voice. “Someone told me he’s the town drunk—and he’s going to be a witness? To what? The view inside a whiskey bottle?”

Hammond, sitting next to him, snickered behind his hand.

Judge Everson rapped on his gavel. “That’s enough out of you, sir. Any more outbursts like that will result in your removal from my courtroom.”

Raney looked pointedly around him at the rows of liquor bottles and glasses behind the bar and seemed about to argue, then shut his mouth.

Delbert Perry was sworn in, and Gabe Bryant stepped forward to question him.

“Mr. Perry, I’m going to start with the accusation Mr. Raney made. Can you tell us why you’d be a reliable witness? Isn’t it true you’ve been known as the ‘town drunk,’ just as he said?”

Sam saw Perry’s lips spread into a smile. “Yessir. I was exactly that, until the last time I shot up th’ saloon the day Mr. Bishop became the new sheriff. I nearly kilt Mr. Brookfield accidentally, an’ that’s a pure fact. An’ Mr. Bishop arrested me, and Mr. Brookfield talked to me that evenin’ while I was soberin’ up in my cell.”

“He talked to you? About what?”

“About Jesus. He’d talked to me before ’bout Him, but this time…I dunno, it jes’ took this time.”

Bryant’s brow furrowed. “Took? Explain what you mean, Mr. Perry.”

Delbert Perry beamed. “He’d been tellin’ me th’ Lord wanted to forgive me a’ my sins, ’cause He had better things for me t’do than stumble around drunk all the time. But I had to accept Him. This time I did, an’ I ain’t drinkin’ no more.”

Sam saw Perry look out over the sea of townspeople’s faces until he spotted the man he was looking for. “I ain’t been in th’ saloon to drink since, have I, George?”

George Detwiler half stood and called back, “He’s tellin’ the truth. I pay him to help me clean up after the saloon closes at night, but he doesn’t drink. Not even from leftover bottles.”

Judge Everson rapped on his gavel again. “I’m going to allow that last remark, but anything further anyone has to say, you have to be sworn in.”

Gabe Bryant cleared his throat. “So what do you spend your leisure time doing, now that you’re not drinking, Mr. Perry?”

“When I’m not doin’ odd jobs, like I do for George at closin’ time, I’m gen’rally out walkin’, talkin’ to th’ Lord. ’Specially at night, when I cain’t sleep. That’s when I’m most tempted t’slide inta my old ways, y’see.”

Bryant nodded. “And do you encounter people when you’re out walking?”

“Sometimes,” Perry said. “Early in the evenin’, before I’m at the saloon cleanin’, but once in a while late at night.”

“Do they speak to you, generally?”

“Folks I know do. Sometimes they just nod, friendly-like. But sometimes they don’t even see me.”

Sam darted another glance at Raney. He and his two partners looked distinctly uneasy now, and he saw Byrd begin to whisper to Pennington behind a cupped hand. Kendall Raney looked over his shoulder at the batwing doors.

“And on the evening of August fifteenth, did you happen to encounter some people talking, whose conversation you overheard?”

“Well, I wouldn’t ’zactly say I encountered them. I was jes’ sittin’ on the stoop out back a’ the saloon, watchin’ the heat lightnin’ flashin’ in the sky and talkin’ t’ th’ Lord like I told you, when these two fellows stopped to talk at the side of the saloon buildin’ near me. They didn’t see me sittin’ there in th’ dark, and they seemed like they had somethin’ important to discuss, so I jes’ held my peace.”

“Who were they, and what was being said?”

“That feller there—” he pointed at Raney “—he was talkin’ to another man, someone I hadn’t seen before or since. He was rough-lookin’—a saddle tramp sort a’ man.”

“Your Honor, I object!” roared Raney, on his feet now, his face beet-red.

“You can’t object, you’re not a lawyer in this case!” roared back the judge. “Now, keep your mouth shut, or I’ll have you gagged. Is that clear?”

Raney sat down. Sam thought he looked more and more like a trapped animal that wanted to flee but hadn’t found a way yet. Trapped animals could be dangerous. Sam wished he had his pistol in its holster on his hip.

Bryant turned back to Perry. “As I was asking you, what were Mr. Raney and the other man speaking about?

“Mr. Raney, he said he and his partners, Mr. Pennington and Mr. Byrd, wanted this fella—he called him ‘Jace’—t’go talk to Sheriff Bishop in th’ jail, but quiet-like, after everyone else there was asleep. He was t’ offer ’em a bribe—”

“A bribe?” Gabe Bryant repeated, turning to look at the court.

Everyone’s gaze was riveted on Perry and the prosecutor, Sam thought, and none more so than Kendall Raney’s. If Raney could have killed anyone with a look, he would have started with Delbert Perry.

“Yessir, a bribe. If Sheriff Bishop took the bribe, Raney would give the money back to th’ bank president so he’d drop the charges against Bishop, but after that Sheriff Bishop was to go along with anythin’ they said—he was to be their man, like the sheriff of Colorado Bend is, so the Alliance could take over Simpson Creek, too. From what this Jace was sayin’, it was plain he was the one who planted the money and the ring in Sheriff Bishop’s mattress while everyone was in here when the other trial was goin’ on.”

The buzz started then, only to die down when Everson pounded his gavel and shouted, “Order! Order in this court!”

“Was that the end of the conversation?” Bryant asked Perry.

Perry shook his head.

“Nossir. Mr. Raney said if Bishop refused t’go along with his offer, he was t’shoot Bishop through th’ window. Shoot him dead.”

Suddenly everyone was talking at once. Judge Everson pounded again on his gavel repeatedly, yelling “Order! Order!”

In the hubbub, Sam saw Pennington and Byrd try to slip unobtrusively out of their row and make their way to the door. They were ushered back to their seats by Luis Menendez, who had been standing sentinel at the door. Raney had stood, too, but Nick Brookfield, a hand resting on the butt of his pistol, stood in front of him and he sat back down.

Finally, quiet settled over the courtroom as everyone held their breath to hear the rest of what Delbert Perry would say.

“So you’re very sure that Mr. Raney said his two partners, Mr. Pennington and Mr. Byrd—” he pointed at them “—were in on the plan?”

“Yessir.”

“Then what happened?”

“Why, I followed them fellas till Mr. Raney turned in at th’ hotel, an’ then I followed that Jace till he got to th’ jail.”

“And he didn’t see you?”

“Not then, no. I followed real quiet-like an’ kept to th’ shadows. Jace got to th’ jail and he stood on a barrel and called Sheriff Bishop to th’ window.”

“You heard Samuel Bishop talking from inside the cell?”

“Yessir. I know his voice, ’cos he’s the one who arrested me that last time I shot up th’ saloon, remember? He coulda shot me dead, but he just shot the gun out of my hand. And then Mr. Brookfield talked to me about Jesus.” Perry beamed at Sam, and then at Nick.

“Yes, you’ve told us about that day,” Bryant said, struggling to hold back an amused smile. “So you heard Sam Bishop’s voice—what did he say when Jace offered him the bribe?”

“He turned him down flat. He told Raney to ‘go to blazes’! This Jace fella, he said he’d be sorry, but Sam Bishop didn’t change his answer none.”

“And did the man called Jace shoot him then, as he’d been ordered?”

“No, sir. I heard a commotion from inside, an’ suddenly Mr. Bishop’s face disappeared from the cell window, like maybe someone inside caught him talkin’. An’ Jace hightailed it into the bushes down by the creek.”

“Then what happened?”

“I stayed right there for a while, but then I figgered I’d better go up to the jail an’ warn them what that fella was goin’ to do. Only when I did, someone leaped up behind me and knocked me out, I guess.” He rubbed the back of his head, and turned around. “I still got a lump there, Judge, kin ya see it?”

“I see it,” Everson murmured. “Quite a bruise.”

“And when did you come to, Mr. Perry?” Bryant asked.

“I woke when Reverend Chadwick went out for his early mornin’ constitutional, and found me. I was all drenched from th’ rain. I told him what happened, what I’d seen. An’ he helped me go to th’ jail, but they was all in an uproar ’cos Tolliver had just been shot a few minutes before through the cell window as he lay sleepin’.”

“But I thought Bishop was the one with the cell window.”

“He was when I’d heard him an’ Jace talkin’, but when the preacher an’ me went back, we were told Sam Bishop and Tolliver had had their cells switched durin’ th’ night, after Nick caught Sam talkin’ to Jace outside. They said that Jace got clean away—which is too bad, I say.”

Everson then turned to Nick. “Sheriff Brookfield, I believe I’ve heard enough to declare Sam Bishop innocent of the theft of the money from the First National Bank of Houston…”

Sam could hardly believe his ears.

A second chance. He was being given a second chance.

God, I have no idea what to say, how to thank You. But I promise, I won’t let You down again.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Cheers erupted from all over the courtroom. Sam saw Prissy move shakily from her seat toward him, laughing and crying at once, when Everson began speaking again.

“Furthermore, Sheriff Brookfield, based on the evidence just presented, I am ordering you to arrest—”

Suddenly Raney lunged out of his chair and yanked Prissy against him, holding her in front of him like a shield. He turned and faced them all, his pistol held against her temple.

“Anyone comes close to me, she dies!”

Prissy turned her face toward Sam, her blue eyes large as dinner plates. Sam was already on his feet, his eyes scanning the courtroom, looking for a way to save her, fighting off the desperation that clutched at his heart.

Nick had been standing near Raney, but he was taken by surprise and he didn’t dare fire, for he couldn’t shoot Raney without risking hitting Prissy, too. Luis, at the door, had the same problem—if he shot Raney in the back, there was a risk the bullet would hit Prissy.

Everyone froze—everyone except Raney, who was inching toward the door, pulling Prissy with him, his eyes on Nick and Luis.

Help me, Lord, Sam prayed. Help me get Prissy out of this.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Nick turn and face him. Sam took his gaze from Prissy’s desperate eyes and read Nick’s intent as clearly as if the Englishman had spoken to him.

Nick tossed him the pistol and Sam caught it. Before Raney could adjust to the change in direction of the threat, Sam took aim and fired. It was a shot only a man who’d grown up shooting squirrels out of the trees could have been sure of making.

Raney’s arms flew up, and then he went down without a cry.

In the uproar that followed, Sam reached Prissy, holding her against him to shield her from the sight of Raney’s still body, while Nick arrested Pennington and Byrd on suspicion of conspiring to murder William Waters and Sam Bishop, and on suspicion of being part of the conspiracy to defraud the First National Bank of Houston.

Sam saw Nolan kneel by the sprawled corpse of Kendall Raney, feel for a pulse and shake his head when he found none. He motioned for Mr. Dixon, the undertaker, and together they carried the body out through the batwing door.

Everson was banging on his gavel once more.

“This trial is not over!” he roared. “Everyone sit down!”

Obediently, if a little confused, the people of Simpson Creek did as they were bid. But Sam knew what was coming. He hardly cared—Prissy was safe and he could see her love for him in her eyes, plain as day. Nothing else mattered.

“Sam Bishop, come back up here. There’s still the matter of the theft of an expensive ruby ring, which you admitted you stole from the late Mr. Raney.”

Sam let go of Prissy. When he heard her utter a cry of protest, he whispered, “It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s all right.” He went to stand in front of the judge.

Everson banged the gavel again. “Mr. Bishop, you admit you stole the ring.”

“Yes, I did, Your Honor.”

“After meeting Kendall Raney—” the judge glanced toward the door through which Raney had been carried “—it’s the judgment of this court that he probably didn’t come by such a ring honestly, either. But theft is theft, and you’re guilty of that, Sam Bishop.”

Sam felt a lump in his throat, but he swallowed and nodded. The truth was the truth, and it would set him free in the most important way, even if he had to serve time for foolishly taking a ring he should have left where he found it.

“Yes, sir.”

Judge Everson banged his gavel a final time. “I am finding you guilty of the theft of the ruby ring, Sam Bishop.” He raised a bony hand when cries of protest erupted. “But I am suspending the sentence, providing you continue to serve this town in the same exemplary fashion you have in the past as sheriff. Is that an acceptable solution to you, Mayor Gilmore?”

In a haze of disbelieving joy, Sam saw Prissy’s father smile at him before nodding at the judge.

“Sam Bishop, I am further ordering you to sell the ring, with the profit to go toward rebuilding the Simpson Creek Church. Is that solution acceptable to everyone?”

A roar of approval gave the judge his answer.

“Consider yourself still bound by the oath you took to serve and protect this town, Sheriff Sam Bishop,” the judge said. “You may go.”

Sam turned to Prissy, his arm around her waist, her head leaning against him, and walked unimpeded out into the sunlight, a free man once more.

“Everything is just perfect,” Prissy said with a blissful sigh, leaning back in Sam’s arms on the porch swing when they were at last alone that evening. A sense of peace overwhelmed her with a quiet joy.

A five-pointed star once again adorned Sam’s shirt, proclaiming him the sheriff of Simpson Creek. Both of them had been swept into an impromptu celebration by the townspeople after the judge had rendered his verdict, with everyone wanting to clap Sam on the back and assure him that they’d known all along he was innocent of any bank swindling and that he’d continue to be the best sheriff Simpson Creek had ever had. That was followed by a feast at Gilmore House with her father, Mariah Fairchild, Nick and Milly, Sarah and Nolan, Reverend Chadwick and Mrs. Detwiler.

Prissy had asked Flora to take a share of the feast down to the jail, where Luis and Teague were guarding the jail’s new prisoners, Garth Pennington, Francis Byrd and one Jace Marcum, whom Prissy had identified earlier when he’d been brash enough to ride right past the saloon just as they were leaving the celebration. Pennington and Byrd were indignant about having to share a cell, but neither wanted to share a cell with Marcum.

“There goes another pair of them,” Sam said, indicating a couple of scruffy-looking men riding by Gilmore House and heading onto the road that led southeast out of Simpson Creek.

“Like rats off a sinking ship,” Prissy commented. They’d seen others riding by when they’d left the party at the saloon—all Alliance men leaving town because their bosses were dead or in jail.

They might never be able to prove Tolliver had actually killed William Waters. So far, Nick had said, Pennington, Byrd and Marcum were still trying to deny everything. But it was likely at least one of them would turn on the others if it meant he could avoid a rope.

“The bank president says he’s going to try and contact anyone who was pressured to sell their properties to see if they wanted to return,” Sam said.

“That’s good,” Prissy said with a happy sigh. “I hope they’ll all come back.”

Sam nodded, then took a deep breath as he turned to face her. “Prissy, I’m going to make a promise to you right now—I’m never again going to keep any secrets from you, sweetheart. I’d told you I’d lied to your father and Nick about why I came to Simpson Creek, but the more I fell in love with you, the more awful I felt about the bigger things I was keeping from you—the truth of what kind of man I’d been—a gambler, a thief…”

She searched his face and saw only honesty there, with no shadow darkening his eyes. “I knew there was something wrong, something you weren’t telling me,” she admitted.

“I’ve never had the love of a good woman before, Prissy, a woman who believes in me, even though she knows the worst about me. I never knew before that God loved me, though I can’t imagine why. I surely didn’t deserve it.”

“That’s the best part,” she told him with a smile. “There’s nothing we can do to deserve it—any of us.”

“After all that’s happened, I’ve become a better man, thanks to you and the Lord—the kind of man I want to be all the days of my life. I love you, Prissy, and I always will.”

“Oh, Sam—I love you, too!” she cried, and then he had pulled her closer, and was kissing her, and she knew her whole life had been leading up to this very moment. She hadn’t known her heart could contain such joy, such peace—or that kissing Sam Bishop would be better than she could have ever imagined it could be.

“There’s still the problem of where we’re going to be married,” Sam reminded her a few minutes later. “You haven’t changed your mind and decided to wait until the new church is built, have you?”

“Of course not,” she said, and kissed him to show she was just as eager to be his wife as he was to be her husband.

“I know the perfect place,” they said simultaneously.

Epilogue

And so it was, on a crisp clear day in October, a wedding took place under the gnarled limbs and rustling leaves of the ancient Wedding Tree, where couples from Indian times on through the early settlement period had made their vows. As Sam Bishop and Prissy Gilmore promised to love and cherish one another forever, each felt that a grand cathedral with stained-glass windows could have provided no more glorious setting for their marriage.

There had never been a more beautiful bride wearing a more beautiful dress. Milly Matthews Brookfield had outdone herself with this bridal gown, everyone said so, but only Prissy could have worn the confection of white mousseline de soie over white taffeta with such style.

Everyone in town was there—including Houston, of course. As the happy couple stood in front of Reverend Chadwick, Prissy’s attendants stood to her left—Sarah Walker, Milly Brookfield and Hannah Kennedy, while Sam was attended by Nick Brookfield, Dr. Nolan Walker and Luis Menendez.

On one side of the front row, Prissy’s father beamed with Mariah Fairchild at his side, along with Flora and Antonio. Right behind them sat the rest of the Spinsters’ Club, some with new beaux of their own, all smiling, some weeping happy tears. On the groom’s side, the first three rows held three families who had traveled quite a ways to be there—Sam’s sisters Etta, Lida and Livy, and their husbands and children.

The rest of Simpson Creek occupied every remaining seat—Mrs. Detwiler, her son George, and all their family, Mrs. Patterson the mercantile owner, Mr. Jewett the telegrapher, Andy Calhoun the livery owner, and of course, Delbert Perry—just to name a few.

The celebration at Gilmore House which followed was the talk of the town for at least a decade. There was enough food there to feed all of San Saba County, and possibly a good portion of Lampasas County, as well. And no one had ever known a bride who had a cake with four layers—vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and another one of chocolate, so everyone could have their favorite flavor.

“Priscilla Gilmore Bishop is an original—everyone says so,” Prissy and Sam overheard Mrs. Detwiler telling Reverend Chadwick just before the dancing began.

Sam gave her hand a squeeze as they rose for the bridal dance. “Please don’t ever change, Mrs. Bishop,” he told her. “I think I quite like being married to an original.”

She grinned back up at him, loving the sound of his name attached to her. “I don’t think I could even if I would, Mr. Bishop.” They led off the waltz together, dancing in perfect harmony, until it was time for her father to come to the floor and dance with Mariah Fairchild. Seeing his happy face, she could not imagine why she had minded the widow’s coming to town so much. Love, real love, gave the heart extra room, she thought, so that no one, such as her mother, was squeezed out when the heart made room for someone new.

And so it was that when it came for the bride to toss her bouquet, Prissy smiled and very deliberately threw it to Mariah Fairchild.

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for choosing The Sheriff’s Sweetheart, the third book in my Brides of Simpson Creek series. I hope you enjoyed Prissy’s story—she’s truly a “girly” girl who would have been a “shop till you drop” girl if she’d been born in this time, but she has a tender heart for spiritual things, too. I have to admit I love “rascals” like Sam—they give an author an excellent chance to show how the power of God can transform a man into a hero.

I had already written the first books in the series when I actually got to visit San Saba County, the locale of the series, and the actual tributary of the San Saba River, Simpson Creek. During our time there, my husband and I got to visit the legendary Wedding Tree depicted in this book, a huge, venerable live oak whose spreading branches cover the narrow dusty road where it is situated. It’s well worth a visit, if you’re ever in the hill country of Texas, and it really did serve as a wedding place for Indians and early settlers. I could think of no better place for my hero and heroine to be married.

I love hearing from readers. You can contact me via my website at www.lauriekingery.com to hear about my upcoming books from Steeple Hill Love Inspired Historicals or through Facebook.

Blessings,

Laurie Kingery

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. Prissy Gilmore is a very fashion-conscious girl for her time and place. Do you think a girl who takes pleasure in fine clothing can be a woman of God? Why or why not?

2. What do you think of Sam’s motives for taking the ruby ring belonging to Kendall Raney? How does this act snowball for Sam?

3. What do you think of Prissy’s reaction toward her father’s romance with Mariah Fairchild?

4. How do you think Sam’s upbringing impacts his character?

5. How are Reverend Chadwick and the church a unifying force in Simpson Creek?

6. Is Prissy wrong to pressure Caroline Wallace not to give up on the idea of getting married and having children of her own some day?

7. How does Sam’s childhood result in his initial lack of faith?

8. What meaning does the verse I’ve chosen as the novel’s epigraph, Joshua 24:15—“Choose you this day whom you will serve…but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord”—have for Sam?

9. What are Sam’s values in the beginning of this story, and how do they change?

10. How does Prissy’s character grow during this story?

11. Have you ever met someone to date through a matchmaking service like the Spinsters’ Club? How did that work out?

12. Have you ever met anyone like Delbert Perry? Do you think such a transformation is possible?

13. How would you feel if your church building were suddenly unavailable to you? How much of the church experience is the building, and how much is the people?

14. Prissy Gilmore is not talented in sewing as Milly Brookfield is, or as skillful in baking as Sarah Walker. What is her chief talent?

15. Who should be the next heroine in the Simpson Creek series? What type of hero does she need?

ISBN: 978-1-4268-8985-1

THE SHERIFF’S SWEETHEART

Copyright © 2011 by Laurie A. Kingery

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[*]Brides of Simpson Creek