The Sheriff's Sweetheart (7 page)

“Howdy, Miss Prissy, Sheriff,” the man called, raising
a hand in greeting. “Thought I'd take our young'uns to the creek t'git cooled off. Are y'all havin' a nice picnic?”

“We sure are, Mr. Edwardson,” she called, grateful she could remember the man's name in spite of the way her head was spinning, and hoping he and his wife couldn't see the way she was blushing in the shade of the old live oak.

“Have fun at the creek,” Sam said.

The buckboard rumbled on, and she turned back to Sam, suddenly self-conscious.

The silence under the tree was broken only by the buzzing of a fly swooping low over the remains of the picnic feast. Sam waved the insect away.

She should start a new conversation. Her mother always said a lady should be able to make sparkling conversation about any interesting topic under any circumstance.

“Sam,” Prissy began, “tell me about your home. You said you were from Tennessee originally? And your family—I don't believe you've ever mentioned them.”

He was silent for a long minute.

“I'm sorry,” she said, thinking she must have sounded nosy. “I didn't mean to pry—”

He held up a hand. “You weren't, Prissy. No reason to apologize. It's a natural enough question. Yes, I was born and raised in the hills of Tennessee.”

“Did you live on a farm?”

He gave a short, mirthless bark of laughter. “To call those rocky acres a farm would be stretching the truth, but yes, I did.”

“Are your parents still living? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“No brothers, just three younger sisters, and our parents both died of a fever when I was about sixteen.” His face
had gone bleak, his eyes unfocused as he stared off into the distance.

She sighed and gazed at him, pity welling up in her. “How awful for you! Did you go to live with grandparents, or an aunt or uncle?”

His mouth tightened as he pretended great interest in a couple of ants marching determinedly across their picnic cloth. “No, our folks had come there from back East and burned their bridges behind them, I guess you could say.”

“But there must have been someone,” she said. “Some family to take you in.”

“If we were willing to be split up, sure. One family was willing to take one of my sisters to mind their handful of young'uns, another wanted me to work on their farm that was about as hardscrabble as ours, another wanted one of my sisters to cook and clean for a family of twelve. And then there was the sixty-year-old widower who was willing to marry the oldest of my sisters—if our farm was included as part of the deal, and the rest of us found another place to live.”

Prissy couldn't stifle a gasp of horror.

“But Bishops take care of their own,” he went on, after a quick glance at her. “They don't take charity—if you could call what we were offered charity. I worked from sunup to sundown and kept food on the table and clothes on our backs until my sisters were older and made good marriages to good men. Then I left.”

“You don't keep in touch with your sisters?”

He shrugged. “I've moved around a fair amount. If they tried, the letters probably got lost in the mail.” He looked back at the ants, who'd been joined by a couple of their
fellows. Prissy sensed there was more to the story than what he was telling.

“What about you?” she asked. “Didn't you try to write to them?”

He shrugged again. “I wrote a couple of times. Didn't hear anything back. There's no telling if they even received them.”

“You might be an uncle several times over, for all you know.”

His lips quirked upward. “They'd already had at least two young 'uns apiece last I heard. There's probably more now. Could be I'll try writing them again. I'll probably send it to Etta, the oldest—she'd be the one most apt to write back. I'll tell her I've met this wonderful girl in Simpson Creek with blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair, one Prissy Gilmore by name…”

Prissy couldn't help but smile.

Sam got to his feet, peering at the position of the sun through the gnarled branches of the live oak. “I suppose we'd better get back, before your papa sends out a search party for us,” he said, extending a hand to help her up.

“Or before evildoers take over Simpson Creek,” she responded wryly. She imagined it was likely her father was still enjoying the company of Mariah Fairchild and hadn't even missed her yet. She only hoped the fair widow hadn't been invited to supper, too.

Then she felt guilty for the selfish thought. She had spent a wonderful afternoon with Sam—should her father have to sit home alone, staring at the portrait of her mother that hung in his study?

But my mother only died a few months ago.

No. She wouldn't think of that now. She was too happy to let her worry about the widow spoil her joy. Sam had
bared his very soul to her, daring to confess the real reason for his coming to Simpson Creek, risking her disapproval of the lie he had told her father, promising to confess it and apologize for it soon. And he'd confided in her about his arduous growing up, trusting that she wouldn't think less of him for his humble beginnings. He wouldn't do those things unless he cared deeply for her, would he?

“You're smiling,” he said, as they neared Gilmore House in the shay. “Penny for your thoughts?”

She opened her mouth to speak as Sarah's words rang in her ears about being in love with love. She quickly tempered her response.

“Oh, I was just thinking what a pleasant afternoon I've had,” she said lightly, as if she spent many afternoons so occupied with a variety of adoring swains. No matter what she thought she was feeling for Sam, it was necessary that she keep it to herself and use caution. A little self-protection never hurt anyone.

S
am stretched, feeling all his muscles tense and release, before settling into the chair he'd set outside against the jail. He tilted back in it till the front legs came off the ground and the back of it hit the wall. From here, he could keep an eye on most of the town to his right, as well as the church, doctor's office and adjoining house to his left.

He reckoned it was going on six o'clock, but after all that tasty picnic food, he wasn't hungry enough to amble down to the hotel for his supper yet. No, he'd just “set a spell,” watching the town settle into early evening—and think about the afternoon.

He couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from turning up as he thought of Prissy. He hadn't imagined in his most optimistic daydreams that the picnic would go as well as it had. Not only had events conspired to allow them to go on the outing without the chaperoning presence of the Walkers, but he had confessed his lie to the lovely lady, and she still seemed to like him. He found her trust in him touching.

He only wished he felt like he'd earned it.

Before coming to Simpson Creek, he'd have thought
the best thing about Prissy's innocence was that she would be easier to woo and win, and thus secure a comfortable life for himself. But now he found himself valuing it for its own sake. He'd felt a certain protectiveness well up in him as they talked and shared their stories.

None of the females he'd spent any time with since leaving Tennessee had cared a lick about his hard upbringing—except that it meant luring him into marriage would not provide them with all the comforts wealth provided. And so his experience with all females besides his sisters had been unsatisfying at best.

But not only had Prissy not thought less of him because his folks had not been the social equals of hers, but she actually appeared to
ache
for the hardships he had endured. And though she'd been quick to realize that his confession meant he had lied to her father in front of her about his reason for coming to Simpson Creek, she hadn't gone all self-righteous on him about it. She'd taken at face value his pledge to make it right with her father.

Would she have been so sweet and understanding, though, if he'd told her the
whole
truth? That he wasn't quite sure he had a relationship with God? That he'd never been a sheriff, that he was nothing but a down-on-his-luck cardsharp, a gambler on the run from a man more unscrupulous than himself? That he had stolen an item of great value from that man? No, probably not. But Kendall Raney would never find him here, and he vowed he'd
become
the man Prissy thought Sam was—honorable, upright and law-abiding.

He was going to settle down in Simpson Creek and be the town's sheriff. He was going to marry Prissy Gilmore just as soon as he could make it happen, and raise up a passel of children with her—little girls with her sweet
temperament and prettiness, and boys as wild and fun-loving as he had been, before his parents' death had brought all enjoyment in life to a halt. Yessir, life was going to be good.

The only thing that could make it sweeter was if the Walkers came back early with news of a baby and Sarah Walker allowed him to be the one to go tell Prissy. He wouldn't mind having an excuse to mosey down the street and knock on the Gilmore House door. Maybe he'd stroll by anyway, after he'd taken his dinner at the hotel and checked on the saloon, since the mayor's grand house was so close by. He might find her sitting on the lawn, playing with that rascally dog he'd given her. It would just appear that he was merely a dedicated lawman making his rounds, as the citizens of Simpson Creek had entrusted him to do—not some lovesick fellow who couldn't wait to see her again.

He wondered what his next move in the courtship should be. He could invite her to supper at the hotel. Or perhaps she would stop by the jailhouse with news of some social event that the Spinsters' Club was hosting—or the church.

“You look like a man with happy thoughts on his mind,” a voice said, startling him so completely that he nearly lost his balance in the tilting chair. Once he'd righted it with a clatter, he saw that it was Reverend Chadwick who stood there.

“Good evening, Reverend,” Sam said, wondering how undignified he'd appeared, nearly falling out of his chair. “Just enjoying the peaceful view of the town, and wondering what was on the menu at the hotel tonight. Anything I can do for you, sir?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Mrs. Detwiler sent her
son over with some beef stew for my dinner, and there's way too much for me to eat. Might I invite you to share my supper? I'll admit it gets lonely in the parsonage from time to time, and I wouldn't mind some company.”

“That's right kind of you, Reverend. I'd be pleased to accept.” It would be nice to eat with the preacher rather than alone in the hotel dining room, and maybe he could learn more about the town's inhabitants—especially the mayor and his pretty daughter. There'd be plenty of time afterward to patrol the streets of the town, and maybe still a chance to “accidentally” encounter Prissy.

Supper with the preacher, however, took longer than he had anticipated. Sam discovered the old man was a fount of information and interesting tales about the first settlers of Simpson Creek. He didn't try to lure Sam into a discussion of religion, but he exuded a faith so natural it seemed just like breathing. Sam was surprised to feel a touch of envy at that.

Dark had fallen by the time he thought to look out a window. He thanked the preacher for supper and took his leave. So much for his plan to encounter Prissy. The only person he met was Delbert Perry.

“Evenin', Sheriff!” Delbert called.

“How are you, Delbert?” Sam responded, wondering if he'd already been backsliding and visited the saloon.

“Just fine, thank you. I'm out walkin' and talkin' to the Lord. Keeps me from drinkin'. Fine night, isn't it?”

“It is indeed,” Sam said, ashamed at just how wrong his suspicion had been.

Well, if Delbert Perry could change his ways, surely Sam Bishop could become the man he saw reflected back at him in Prissy Gilmore's beautiful blue eyes. How hard could it be?

 

Prissy had just awakened the next morning when she heard a rapping at the door, which woke Houston from his slumber at the foot of the bed. He dashed to the door, yapping madly.

Who could that be at such an early hour? Throwing on her wrapper, she dashed to the window, peering discreetly out at first, then poking her head out all the way once she saw it was Sarah.

“Hello, Sarah! Is the baby born?” she called, just as Flora opened the door.

Sarah lifted her head, grinning. “Yes! Come on down, sleepyhead, and I'll tell you all about it in exchange for some coffee.”

Prissy splashed some water on her face, then dashed down the stairs, barefoot, with the dog at her heels. She was glad that her rumpled appearance wouldn't matter to Sarah. She found her friend already ensconced in the dining room, with Flora filling her cup.

Sarah looked tired, and she smothered a yawn as Prissy and the dog entered.

“Antonio is at the back door,
señorita,
” Flora said. “He will watch the dog outside while you visit with your friend.”

Prissy let the dog out the back door.

“Señora Sarah, you have some good news, eh?” Flora said as Prissy returned to the dining room.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Prissy asked.

Sarah's grin was broad. “A boy, born at five this morning. They named him Richard Nicholas—Richard for both our papa and Nick's brother the vicar. Nolan guesses he's about seven pounds, maybe seven and a half, and does he ever have a good pair of lungs!”

“Does he have any hair?” Prissy asked, for Nick's hair was as light as his wife's was dark.

“Lots of brown hair.”

“And Milly? Is she all right?”

“Fine, though she admits she feels ‘a mite wilted.'” Sarah grinned. “She was sound asleep with the baby beside her before we left, and I just came home to sleep awhile. Then I'm going gather up some things and go back to help her for a few days. I just wanted to come and tell you first.”

“How wonderful! The Spinsters' Club will have to give a party for her. We can get a wagon to take us all out there with the gifts and refreshments, so she and the baby won't have to go bouncing over the road,” Prissy said.

“I'm sure Milly would be thrilled,” Sarah said. “Thank goodness I finished crocheting that baby blanket in time. It came out quite nicely, if I do say so myself. I'm glad Mrs. Detwiler could teach me how, so Milly didn't know—” she tried unsuccessfully to smother the yawn that interrupted her sentence “—I was making it. Goodness, I'm a little wilted myself. I can't think when I last stayed up all night.”

“You better get home and get some rest. And tell Milly I'll get right to planning the party,” Prissy said.

“I will. Poor Nolan, it'll be a while before he can rest. Lulubelle Harding was already waiting in front of the office with all four of her youngsters when we arrived back at the house—says they've all got earaches. I don't doubt they've been putting beans in their ears again.”

Prissy barely heard Sarah's last few words, for she was caught up with yearning. How wonderful that must be to share a new baby with a husband who so clearly adored his wife as Nick Brookfield did.

An image of herself holding a newborn, with Sam tenderly bent over her, admiring their child, filled her heart.
Lord, please, I want that—is that Your will for me? Please show me…

Sarah's chuckle broke into her thoughts.

“You haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you? All right, we'll try a new subject. You haven't told me how the picnic went.”

Prissy's grin was all the answer she needed.

 

Sam had seen the doctor's buggy arriving back in town and had been told the good news by Dr. Walker himself while Sam helped him unhitch the horse. Sam thought he'd go have some breakfast and coffee in the hotel before going to see if Prissy had heard about the birth, but just as he drew abreast of the hotel, the stage pulled up, dust welling in its wake.

“Forty-five-minute stop for those passengers continuing on to Richland Springs,” the driver announced as the doors were flung open and the coach disgorged its passengers. Sam paused, honoring his duty as a sheriff to size up any newcomers arriving in town.

None of the half dozen people who descended stiffly into the dusty street, blinking sleepily, looked like desperadoes or cardsharps, however. There was a rumpled woman clutching the hand of a toddler boy who was intent on investigating a butterfly that had landed at the edge of a puddle; a middle-aged man and wife; a drummer with a big, black sample case; and a dapperly dressed man in a bowler that matched his light gray trousers and frock coat. He carried a silver-headed cane and looked as weary as the others, but Sam saw his eyes fasten on the tin star and his face brightened.

“Ah, the sheriff,” he said, squinting in Sam's direction and indicating him with the end of his cane. “I wonder if I might have a word with you, sir?” The man's flat, nasal accent marked him as an easterner. There was a certain rankling imperiousness about his gesture, as if he were summoning a lackey, but perhaps, Sam considered, he was too tired from the long, jolting journey to remember his manners.

Sam straightened from the hitching rail he had been leaning against behind the coach. “Sure. What can I do for you, mister?” Sam asked, coming forward and extending his hand. “I'm Sam Bishop, sheriff of Simpson Creek.”

The man shot a look at him as if surprised Sam thought his name was important. Then he feigned not to see Sam's extended hand and busied himself with brushing the dust of his travels off his coat.

“William Waters—William Waters the
Third,
to be exact. I'm here to claim my inheritance, and thought you might be able to direct me.”

“Your inheritance?” Sam asked, wishing he'd been in town long enough to know what the man was talking about.

A huff of impatience erupted from Waters. “I'm speaking of the Waters Ranch, of course, just out of town. I'm the late William Waters's heir—his nephew, in point of fact. The bank president notified me of his death late last fall, and I'm finally able to come look over my property with an eye to moving here and enlarging the house. Naturally I must see it—and the town—before I consider living here.”

“I see. Welcome to Simpson Creek, Mr. Waters,” Sam said. He was glad he'd had supper with the preacher last night, for he'd told Sam about Milly and Nick Brookfield's
erstwhile neighbor, the late Bill Waters. Waters had been an unpleasant, unscrupulous neighbor, and had caused Milly and Nick much trouble before being killed in the last Comanche raid. Since then his land had sat empty, and Nick Brookfield had been trying to scrape together enough money to buy it and join Waters's land to his.

It seemed Brookfield was to be disappointed, if William Waters the Third indeed stayed and made a go of the place. He couldn't quite picture the man before him as a rancher, but he supposed time would tell.

“Well, can you direct me to the property or not?” Waters snapped. “I would have thought a man in your position—” he narrowed his gaze on the tin star meaningfully “—knowledgeable about such things.”

“Mr. Waters, as it happens, I'm new in town myself, this being only my fourth day to wear this badge,” Sam said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact and nonapologetic, “but I'm told the Waters ranch lies about five miles outside of town out that road, yonder.” He pointed. “You must be tired and hungry, though, after your long trip. Why don't you go in and have yourself some breakfast, as I mean to do, and then you can make arrangements to hire a mount to go out and see the place?”