The Sheriff's Sweetheart (2 page)

“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…”

S
o 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.