The Sheriff's Sweetheart (11 page)

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.

S
am 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.