The Sheriff's Sweetheart (8 page)

The man glanced toward the hotel just as the door opened and the smell of frying bacon came wafting out from the restaurant like the olfactory equivalent of a beckoning siren.

“Perhaps that would be best,” Waters agreed, his tone more conciliatory. “Would you care to join me, Sheriff? And perhaps you'd be good enough to accompany me on my tour of inspection? I fear I'm not an accomplished horseman, nor do I have a great sense of direction…”

Sam agreed to both. While he didn't have any real desire
to ride out of town with this easterner, it was probably his duty as a sheriff to make sure the man didn't get lost or come to any harm.

Looks like he'd have to postpone that visit to Prissy—again.

 

Prissy trudged back down Simpson Creek's main street toward Gilmore House, Houston at her heels. It was only noon, and she had already sent Antonio with a note to the Brookfield ranch to ask when Milly would like the Spinsters' Club to visit with gifts for the new baby, and she had just finished notifying the rest of the club's members about the birth and the proposed outing.

She felt at loose ends. Sarah was at the ranch helping her sister. Papa was at a council meeting. Sam Bishop wasn't at the jail, nor had she seen him in the street.

Where could he be? Off at one of the nearby ranches on some duty? Or at the hotel, having his dinner? She wouldn't be so brazen as to go into the restaurant to look, but if she were to happen past the restaurant window, surely if he were there he'd see her and come out to ask her to join him. She had to admit she'd worn a dress of yellow sprigged muslin with a pretty shawl collar and had taken special care with her appearance, hoping she'd encounter him. She wasn't quite sure if that was a good thing—or a bad thing.

She could see no one in the restaurant as she glanced in the window. She might as well go home and have her own midday meal. The day had become uncomfortably warm, anyway. She turned to step off the boardwalk.

“Oh, Priscilla! How nice to encounter you, dear,” called a voice.

No one called her Priscilla. No one but the Widow
Fairchild. She stiffened as she turned and saw Mariah Fairchild coming out of the hotel. It wasn't fair that the woman had the perfect ivory complexion that made her look fragile and appealing in the dove-gray dress she wore, instead of washed out, nor that her elegantly dressed silver hair gleamed so that it complemented the gray dress rather than made her look old.

“Hello, Mrs. Fairchild,” Prissy said, keeping her voice civil.

Houston, traitor that he was, had no such reservations. He went bounding toward the widow, practically wagging his tail off, lunging at the end of the leash as if he would perish if he could not get closer to this lady.

Mariah Fairchild stooped with grace, heedless of the dusty boardwalk, and stroked the little dog's head. She cooed, “Well, aren't you a handsome fellow? What a
good
boy! What a friendly doggie you are!”

Was that a way of covertly criticizing Prissy's own lack of warmth? “Yes, Houston doesn't know a stranger,” Prissy murmured, wondering how quickly she could escape the woman without seeming openly rude.

Mariah Fairchild shaded her eyes and peered up at Prissy. “It's fortuitous that you happened by, dear. I was just hoping for a second opinion on some lace trim at the mercantile, as to whether it looks well with a particular dress fabric there or not. Mrs. Patterson is of the opinion it would be fine, but since she doesn't know me very well, I fear she's afraid to counter my opinion…”

And you think I know you well?

“Would you have a moment to accompany me to the mercantile to give your honest thoughts on the matter?”

You don't really want to know my honest thoughts,
Prissy thought waspishly, but then was ashamed of herself.
It was very apparent the woman wanted Prissy to like her. Satisfying her request wouldn't take much time, and perhaps the shopkeeper would have an item Prissy could buy for Milly's baby gift, since she wasn't talented—as many of the other Spinsters were—in needlework.

“Certainly, I can do that,” she said, watching as Mariah Fair child gracefully straightened. They descended the board walk and crossed the side street that separated the hotel from the mercantile, and after Prissy scooped up the dog lest he get into mischief, they went inside.

“Hello, Mrs. Patterson,” Mariah Fairchild called out breezily. “I'm back with Priscilla to give her opinion on that fabric and lace trim. I just cannot seem to make up my mind.”

“Sure, Mrs. Fairchild, here it is,” Mrs. Patterson said, turning around to reach on the shelf behind her for the bolt of cloth. “I kept them right up here, since you said you'd be back.” Now
that
was how a widow should dress, Prissy thought, eyeing the shopkeeper in her serviceable black skirt and waist. Mrs. Patterson had also lost her spouse in the flu epidemic this last winter. She spoke of him constantly. She certainly wasn't one who would put off her mourning clothes prematurely.

“Here's the lace I was speaking of, Priscilla dear,” Mrs. Fairchild was saying, holding a card of ivory lace against the bolt of mauve. “What do you think? Please give me your honest opinion.”

Prissy narrowed her gaze. There was nothing wrong with the combination, certainly, as far as its effect on the eye. But perhaps she might be able to discreetly hint about the proper behavior for a widow.

“You must do as you like, of course—this is just my
opinion—but perhaps the black lace, there—” she indicated another card standing upright on the shelf “—might be a more suitable choice,” she said.

Mariah Fairchild blinked and gave Prissy a swift, sidelong glance. “Do you think so? Hmm,” she said, as Mrs. Patterson held out the card of black lace to her. “Perhaps the black
is
more dignified, I suppose, for a woman of my years. I knew you could guide me, Priscilla! Thank you!” All of a sudden she reached out and enfolded Prissy in an impulsive hug. “Oh, I'm so glad I asked you! I'll take it, Mrs. Patterson. And I should have a look at your
Godey's
to see how I'd like to have this made up. Prissy, I don't suppose you would know a good seamstress, would you? I had a modiste back in Austin, but—” she shrugged with a smile —“I'm here now…”

And here she was determined to stay, the woman meant. Here in Simpson Creek, pursuing Prissy's father.

Prissy assumed a regretful expression. “Milly Brookfield is wonderfully talented as a seamstress, but she just had a baby, so I suppose it will be a while before she's taking on any sewing.”

“Oh, but I've heard that Mrs. Menendez over by the fort is very good, too, and quite reasonable, Mrs. Fairchild,” Mrs. Patterson put in. “It's the small white clapboard house right opposite the fort, just behind the bank.”

“Perfect,” Mariah Fairchild purred. “I'll go see her right after I pick out a style for her to copy. Prissy, since you have such good taste, would you like to look at
Godey's
with me, then accompany me to Mrs. Menendez's?”

Despite Mariah Fairchild's friendliness, the very last thing Prissy wanted to do this afternoon was dance attendance on this woman who was so blatantly setting her cap for her father. “Actually, Mrs. Fairchild—”

“Oh, please, call me Mariah, dear. No need to stand on ceremony.”

“Mariah, then. I have some things to do at home this afternoon, and I need to purchase a baby present for Milly while I'm here, so perhaps I'd better get on with that,” she said, and breathed a sigh of relief when the widow accepted her excuse and wandered over to a table where past issues of
Godey's,
full of patterns and dresses were displayed.

“What a nice lady,” Mrs. Patterson declared in a whisper when Mariah was out of earshot. “So genteel! I believe she said she and her late husband grew up with your father, dear?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Prissy murmured noncommittally. “May I see that silver cup and rattle on that upper shelf to your left? I believe that would make a lovely gift for Milly's baby, don't you?” The very last thing she wanted to do was fuel any gossip about her father and the widow.

She sighed as she realized how ungracious she was being. But she simply couldn't help herself. What if Mariah Fairchild's intentions were purely financial? She couldn't simply stand by and let her father be taken advantage of, could she?

She suddenly found herself thinking of Sam Bishop. Was it possible…that he had less than honorable intentions? Was she being a fool?

It wouldn't be the first time her trusting nature had gotten her in trouble, that was for sure.

W
illiam Waters III—or the Tenderfoot, as Sam had begun to call him in his mind—hadn't exaggerated about his inability as a horseman. As a result, it had been a long and tedious five miles out to his late uncle's ranch. Waters had fallen off his horse when the beast shied at a jackrabbit, forcing Sam to chase after his mount, and after that the man refused to go above a trot. Sam had hoped to give his horse Jackson some exercise during the outing, but it was plain that Waters was not up to enjoying a good gallop.

Finally they passed the arching gateway that read “Brookfield Ranch.” He'd have much preferred to be paying a call on the Englishman, his wife and new baby with Prissy instead of riding alongside the fussy, nervous easterner, but there would be time for that another day.

Coming to Waters's inherited property, they trotted up the rutted drive to the ranch house. As they drew closer, Sam saw the man's jaw drop and his eyes widen. Panes of glass had been broken out of the windows, though jagged shards still remained in the bottom of the frames. The door hung loose on its hinges. Inside, scorch marks scored the floor and walls. An arrow was still lodged incongruously
in a cushion on a horsehair sofa. A stain on the tile flooring looked suspiciously like blood. Waters stared fixedly at it. Had that been where the man's uncle had died?

It was evident that vermin had taken shelter in the house, and from the charred remains of a broken-up chair in the fireplace, Sam judged rodents were not the only creatures who had used the empty dwelling.

“This is appalling. It will never do,” muttered Waters, his whiny, nasal accent grating against Sam's ears. “I had assumed I would be able to move right in, but obviously I shall have to put up in the hotel until this can be rectified. Would you happen to know some workmen who could start right away?”

Sam scratched the back of his head. “You could probably ask at the lumber mill.” Had the man really expected the house would be pristine, after a Comanche attack and months of neglect?

“I shall have to have funds transferred to the bank. I don't suppose this backwater boasts a telegraph?”

“It does,” Sam countered, rankled at the man's disparagement of his town. Then he chuckled at his possessiveness of the town he had come to so recently.

Waters bristled. “I wasn't aware I said anything amusing, Sheriff.”

Sam rubbed a forefinger and thumb down his face as if to smooth away his smile. “You didn't, Mr. Waters, your question just made me think of something else. You'll find the telegraph office between the bank and the barbershop.”

“Fine, fine.” Once again, he pulled out his pocket watch and studied it. “We'd better start back. I don't suppose you could provide an introduction to the mayor, could you? It would be well to establish my credentials with him, I
suppose. And perhaps
he
could expedite the renovation of this place,” he added, wrinkling his lip as he took a last disgusted look at the disarray. Then he turned on his heel and stalked outside.

The pompous, little banty rooster. Did he think Mayor Gilmore was going to take charge of the project? He nearly lit into the man until he realized that escorting Waters to the house might afford him the opportunity to see Prissy.

“I'd be happy to make that introduction,” Sam said. He glanced at the sun's position in the sky. By the time they returned and rode to the mayor's house at the dismally slow pace Waters insisted on, it would be late enough that Sam might be able to wrangle a supper invitation.

But it was not to be. They were passing the side of the saloon just as somebody was hurled out of the batwing doors in front, landing with a great splash in the horse trough. The fellow erupted from the trough with a bellow of rage, spraying water in a radius of several feet, and went charging back through the swinging doors, his clothes streaming water as he went.

“Would you look at that!” exclaimed the tenderfoot, as if Sam could have missed it. “Is such ruffianly behavior common in this town?”

Sam sighed and smothered a pithy reply. “The mayor's house is over yonder,” he said, pointing. “I'm afraid you're going to have to go introduce yourself, Mr. Waters.” He reined his mount toward the front of the saloon instead. It seemed his partner at supper was going to be some liquored-up rowdy cowboy, rather than Prissy.

Parting the doors of the saloon, Sam took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the smoke-filled light and to take stock of the situation in front of him. He dearly hoped
he wouldn't have to do any shooting this time—or any fistfighting. His ribs still ached from Raney's beating, and the laceration on his cheek was finally almost healed.

Two men—or rather, one stocky man and a Mexican youth barely old enough to use a razor—rolled around on the floor, punching and clawing at each other. As he watched, the older man gained the ascendancy and, squatting on the boy, rained blow after blow on him, the blows landing with sickening thuds against the boy's face and trunk. Sam leaped forward to grab the back of the older man's shirt and drag him off the younger combatant.

The man turned on Sam, eyes wild, clearly intending to punish Sam in turn, but he found himself looking into the barrel of Sam's Colt.

“Stop right there, mister,” Sam said, keeping his eyes trained on the panting, glaring man before him, who still looked as if he might do something foolhardy, in spite of Sam's cocked pistol and his clearly visible badge. Behind them, the boy scrambled up from the floor, his chest heaving, wiping his bloody nose on the ripped sleeve of his shirt. It had been the youth whom Sam had seen thrown into the horse trough.

“All right, you want to tell me why you were whaling the tar out of that boy?” Sam demanded. “You'd better have a mighty good reason, or you're going to jail.”

The wild glare vanished from the man's eyes and a defiant smirk settled over his heavy features. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the boy he'd been beating stepped forward.

“This man, he insulted my honor, Señor Sheriff,” the boy claimed. “And the honor of my family. I could not call myself a man if I allowed that to go unanswered.”

“What'd he say to you?” Sam asked the boy without
taking his eyes off the smirking man he still held his pistol on.

“He called me a dirty greaser,” he said, his voice hoarse with rage. “He said he did not think he should have to drink with my ‘kind' in the saloon. And when I told him I had a right to be in here as much as he did, he said filthy things about my sister—things that are not true!”

“That's a fact, Sheriff,” George Detwiler confirmed from behind the bar. “I ain't never had a problem with Luis Menendez passin' time here—he pays for his drinks like anyone else. This stranger comes in and starts tellin' him he's gotta leave 'cause he's Mexican. I tried to point out it's my saloon and my rules, but this feller starts jawin' about Luis's sister, who he ain't even met.”

The man sniggered. “I wouldn't be too sure about that. I think she left just before this Mex came in. She told me not to tell the kid she works upstairs here. What's her name, greaser? Rosita? Lucita?” Before he could even get the words out, Luis launched himself at the man again, managing to knock him down by dint of sheer surprise—aided, no doubt, by the whiskey the stranger had consumed.

Limbs flailing, the man lost his balance, then fell heavily on his side, and before Sam could intervene, the boy had grabbed a spittoon and brought it down on the back of the man's head. The man sagged and went limp.

Sam studied the prone figure, then raised his gaze to Luis. “You'd better hope he doesn't die.”

The youth straightened, his dark eyes meeting Sam's without flinching. “I would go to the gallows proudly for killing this poor excuse for an
hombre,
Señor Sheriff.”

Just then George stepped from behind the pecan-wood bar with a coiled length of rope in one hand and a glass pitcher full of water with the other. Before Sam could
guess his intent, he upended the pitcher on the fallen man's head.

The stranger came instantly awake, raising up on his elbows, sputtering and wiping water out of his eyes and blowing it out of his nose.

“See? He ain't dead,” George said. “Ya might wanta use that rope to tie him up, though, afore he collects hisself.”

While Sam bent to do as the saloonkeeper suggested, George spoke again. “Like I said, he started the whole thing, insultin' Luis here, then talkin' nasty about his sister. There ain't a nicer young girl in Simpson Creek than Luis's sister Juana. She cain't be but what…fifteen, Miss Prissy?” he asked, looking over Sam's shoulder.

“Yes, that's right,” she said.

Sam jerked his head around and saw her framed in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he said, turning around again to keep an eye on the man still sputtering on the floor. “You shouldn't be in here.”

He heard her chuckle. “I'm only standing in the doorway, but I've known George Detwiler and his mama for years, haven't I, George?”

“That's a fact, Miss Prissy,” confirmed the barkeeper.

“And I just came in because I happened to be coming out of the house just as Luis was thrown in the horse trough, and then I saw you go in. Naturally, I was concerned.”

“Naturally, she was concerned,” mimicked the man on the floor. “That yer sweetheart, Sheriff?” he asked with a snigger.

“Shut up,” Sam snapped, putting his boot squarely on the man's neck. “Miss Prissy, please, you'd better go,” he said without looking at her. He was touched by her worry over both him and the boy but was too savvy to give the
man on the floor less than his full attention. The stranger had enough fight left in him to take advantage of it.

He knew Prissy had done as he asked when he heard a swishing sound as the batwing doors swung closed and the light within the saloon dimmed again. Pulling on the rope that bound the man's wrists together, Sam hauled the man on the floor to his feet.

“Now, what's your name, stranger?”

“Tolliver,” the man snarled. “Leroy Tolliver.”

Now that he had the time to study him, Sam could see that Tolliver had taken some damage from the altercation as well as dished it out—a bruise here, a cut there, several scrapes. “You just passing through, Tolliver? 'Cause I suggest you get back on your horse and ride on. After you spend the night in jail, that is.”

“Spend the night in jail?” the man demanded, his face incredulous. “What for? For teachin' a greaser where he don't belong?”

“For disturbing the peace and assault. Come along,” he said, shoving the man ahead of him toward the door. “You, too, Luis.”

“
Sì,
Señor Sheriff,” the youth said. “You do not need to tie me.”

Sam turned back in surprise. “You're not under arrest, Luis. I just want to talk to you.”

Hampered by his bonds and the whiskey he had consumed, Tolliver stumbled and would have fallen if Sam hadn't rushed forward and steadied him. Keeping a hand on the rope between the man's wrists, Sam marched his charge down the street toward the jail.

“I ain't no drifter,” Tolliver muttered as he trudged along. “I work for the Alliance bosses.”

Sam stiffened. “‘The Alliance?'” he echoed. That was the group the mayor had been concerned about, wasn't it?

“Yeah, the Ranchers' Alliance. The ones who're gonna be runnin' this county soon enough,” Tolliver said with a sneer. “My bosses ain't gonna be happy 'bout you puttin' me in jail, Sheriff.”

“Then you shouldn't have assaulted the young man.”

“You'll be hearin' from my bosses,” the man boasted. “You'll be regrettin' puttin' me behind bars, directly.”

“Is that so,” Sam said flatly. “Are you threatening me, Tolliver?”

“Me? Naw. But you don't wanna offend the men of the Alliance. I'm thinkin' you won't be wearin' that badge much longer, once they take over.”

By this time, they had reached the jail. Leaving Luis outside, Sam lost no time pushing Tolliver into one of the cells and locking the door behind him. “Make yourself comfortable,” he told him, then rejoined Luis.

“
Gracias
for not arresting me, Señor Sheriff,” the boy said, as soon as the heavy door creaked shut behind Sam. “
Mi madre
—my mother—she would be so ashamed.”

“My name's Sam Bishop,” he said, extending a hand. “Defending yourself isn't wrong, Luis.”

Luis shook his hand, still acting as if he couldn't believe his good fortune.

“You know anything about what Tolliver was babbling about? This Ranchers' Alliance?”

The young man hesitated, then said, “There have been many strangers in town in the last few days, Señor Sheriff. Wealthy-looking men, as well as
vagabundos
—how do you say it? Drifters, saddle tramps. They do not have the look of honest men, Señor Bishop. A couple of them have been swaggering around the saloon—Tolliver is one. His
compadre
bothered a woman who serves drinks there. Señor Detwiler sent her home early so the men could not bother her. The other man left before Tolliver started insulting me,
señor.
And I've heard wealthy men have been buying land from whoever they could frighten into selling it.”

It jibed with what the mayor had told him. Sam wished once again he weren't so new to town that he couldn't differentiate between a stranger and a longtime resident. Sounds like he needed to keep his eyes and ears open.

“Thanks, Luis.”

“It is my honor to assist you, Señor Bishop.”

“Could I ask you for a couple of favors? I'd like you to wait while I write a note to Miss Gilmore, then take it to her home. And would you be willing to fetch supper from the hotel for me and that sidewinder in there?” he asked, nodding toward the jail behind him. “I want to keep an eye on him.” He reached into his pocket and came out with four bits. “Here. For your trouble. And the information.”