The Sheriff's Sweetheart (17 page)

“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.

T
hat 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.