The Sheriff's Sweetheart (14 page)

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.

S
am'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.”