The Sheriff's Sweetheart (15 page)

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.”

“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 cloud
free. “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.”