The Sheriff's Sweetheart (18 page)

But Pennington didn't look as if he was joking.

“But you aren't eligible to run,” Avery told Raney. “You haven't been living here long enough.”

“According to your bylaws, which you were so kind to let me see last week,” Pennington said to Avery, “he's eligible to file after he's been here a month. And as the election is not until November, that'll be plenty of time to convince the populace of the benefits to having Kendall Raney as your mayor.”

“Not that he'll have to convince as many as there used to be,” Byrd added in a raspy voice. “According to my calculations, more and more residences are becoming Alliance properties in and around Simpson Creek every day. By fall we ought to have an easy majority.”

Prissy gasped, watching her father's face turn a dangerous purple. “Who do you plan to have live at the Waters ranch, you murderous scoundrels?” he demanded. “Don't think we're unaware you had that poor easterner killed, and I don't doubt we'll be able to prove it. The judge will soon be here to try your man Tolliver, and he'll say who paid him.”

Raney shrugged, looking untroubled. “I don't have the least idea what you're talking about, Mr. Gilmore, but I was brought up to be polite to my elders. And to ladies. Good day, ladies.” He doffed his cap and bowed deeply to Prissy and the silent, watching Spinsters before turning on his heel.

Just then, Prissy saw the side door open. Antonio backed out of it, carrying two fresh pitchers of punch. As he did so, a black and gray and white blur streaked past his legs and headed straight for Prissy, yipping his joy at finally achieving freedom and rejoining his beloved mistress.

“You come back here, you naughty dog!” scolded Flora, dashing after him. She reached down to grab the little canine but came up with empty air. “Oh, I am sorry, Señor Gilmore, I don't know how the dog escaped. We had him
tied to a chair leg in the kitchen, for he whined and carried on so in Señorita Prissy's room, we were afraid he would damage the door trying to claw a hole through it—”

By now, Houston had reached Prissy, and he leaped up into her waiting arms.

“It's all right, Flora, no harm done,” Prissy said. “I'll just take him back inside, and give him a bone to chew on.”

At that moment, Prissy looked at Sam and was startled to see that all the color had drained from his face.

 

Sam saw Raney's eyes narrow at the sight of the dog, and then fill with recognition. Raney looked from the dog to Sam, back to the dog, and finally at Sam again. His lips curled in a terrible smile.

“Folks, we'll take our leave,” Kendall Raney said, bowing again. “But you'll be seeing a lot of us around your fair town. I look forward to getting to know you all better.”

His gaze caressed Prissy, standing at Sam's side. Then the small black eyes once more found Sam. “I'll be seeing you in particular…Sheriff,” he said.

The crowd turned to watch the three men go as the carriage took them away. A buzz rose from the townspeople like the hum of an insect swarm.

“Why, I never…”

“The nerve a' them fellows! Why, I would never vote for the likes a' that man.”

“Mayor Gilmore's the man for me. Always has been.”

“Yeah, I didn't like the look a' that man. Somethin' about him makes me think he an' the devil are on a first-name basis.”

Prissy, still clutching Houston, went to the trio of
bachelors and apologized for the unpleasant confrontation they had been forced to witness, reassuring them that the party would continue. Then she signaled to the fiddler to commence playing before disappearing into the house with the dog.

If only he hadn't given in to the impulse to bring that dog along with him or had left him near some town or ranch house. If he'd done so, Raney might never have made the connection between the hapless, beaten gambler and the sheriff of Simpson Creek. Raney's gaze promised that now that he'd recognized Sam, he would do something about it.

But what? And when?

He also cursed himself for giving in to impulse and proposing to Prissy without telling her about Raney, without telling her the truth about who he was.

There was nothing he could do about it now, except wait it out or explain the situation to her right away.

Neither was an option leading to a good outcome.

R
aney waited only an hour after Sam returned to the jail before appearing at the window, beckoning.

Sam stepped out into the darkness. A half moon and the glowing red tip of Raney's cheroot were the only sources of light. He let his hand linger near the pistol riding in its holster at his hips, wondering if Raney's men lurked in the alley across the street, ready to cut him down in a hail of bullets. His heart hammered in his throat.

Lord, please protect me.

“You've done well for yourself, Bishop—sheriff of the town, soon to marry the prettiest, richest girl in it…very well indeed.”

Sam waited, seeing the black eyes glitter in the moonlight. Raney blew a smoke ring, and Sam could smell the acrid stench of the cheroot. He felt a trickle of cold sweat trace its way down his backbone.

“What do you want?” he asked at last.

“What do I want? I want what you took from me,” Raney said, feigning surprise.

“You can have your ring,” Sam said. “I just can't get at it right now.” Luis was sleeping over it, unaware of what
lay hidden in the mattress. “Other than that, I only took what was mine—the money you won by cheating.”

“You took my dog,” Raney pointed out, amused. “And gave it to your sweetheart.”

“As if you miss him. You were going to feed him to the gators—along with me.”

“No, I don't care about the cur,” Raney admitted, his voice still light, convivial. “What I do care about is the deal we could make.”

“Deal?” Nothing Raney could have said would have surprised him more—or made him warier.

“You left a considerable sum of money in my safe, after you took that pitiful amount I won from you.”

Sam shrugged. “It wasn't mine.”

Raney rolled his eyes at him. “Don't be a self-righteous prig, Bishop. It could be.”

Sam shook his head, amazed—and thankful—that it was so easy to refuse it. “I don't need it.”

The black eyes glittered again. “But you're marrying the daughter of the richest man in a one-horse town. I can offer you much, much more, Bishop.”

“Is that right?” Sam was careful to keep his tone bored, even disdainful, while his eyes searched the darkness. “Not interested.”

“A wise man would be interested enough to hear me out.”

“A wise man wouldn't have walked into your gambling hall.”

Raney's smile was sardonic. “True enough. But you did, didn't you? And I'll wager you don't want sweet Priscilla Gilmore to know that, do you? She has no idea the kind of man you were.”

Sam shrugged again. “Gambling's not illegal, only a
fool's way to earn a living. It's not as if I murdered someone, like your fellow in the cell in there,” he said.

Raney's jaw clenched and his mouth tightened to a thin line, then relaxed again. “All right, here's the deal, Bishop. I have the money you left in the safe with me. It's yours if you want it—”

“I already said I didn't. Who'd you steal that money from, anyway?” Sam asked, allowing his contempt to show.

But Raney wasn't insulted. “I swindled it from a bank in Houston. As I said, the money can be yours, along with a position in the Alliance. Power. Property. Women. It's richly rewarding, working with us, Bishop.”

Sam had only recently read about the time Jesus had been tempted by the devil in the wilderness. The devil had offered Him all the same sort of things. Now Sam could guess how Jesus may have felt.

“In return for what?” There was always a cost, Sam had learned from that Bible story. And from life.

“For testifying on behalf of Tolliver in there.”

“I'm surprised you care about him,” Sam said, making his voice callous instead of curious. “Let him hang, Raney. What's it to you? Hired guns are a dime a dozen, aren't they?”

“Oh, I don't care about him, not really. He was an idiot to get caught with stolen goods—but then you know all about that, don't you,
Sheriff?
I
do
care about the Alliance's reputation, and I've found it's very nice indeed to have a sheriff or two in my pocket. Comes in handy at times.”

Sam thought of the sheriff of Colorado Bend, who hadn't been willing to discuss opposing the Alliance. “Like
I said, I'm not interested. Now, if that's all you have to say, I'll bid you good night.”

The black eyes flashed. “Don't be a fool, Bishop. Take the money and join us. Or I'll see to it that the town learns you're nothing but a thieving gambler. How do you think your precious Priscilla will feel about her gallant sheriff then, Bishop? Especially when you're hauled off to prison.”

 

Prissy hardly slept that night. Her mind whirled with the plans she and Sam would have to make for the wedding. They'd have to discuss a date, of course. It was now late August—could they pull everything together by October? That was a lovely time in the hill country of Texas, with the worst of the summer heat gone and plenty of clear days with only a hint of chill in the early morning…

Some decisions about the wedding, of course, would be hers alone. She had already asked Milly after the party if she would be able to make her dress. To Prissy's delight, Milly said she'd love to do it. Prissy would need to go out to the ranch as soon as possible for a fitting and to discuss the design. And who should be her bridesmaids? Sarah would be her matron of honor, and Milly…but who else? She'd always imagined having four. She would ask Caroline, but Caroline would decline, Prissy was sure, for it would mean donning something other than the mourning black she seemed determined to wear the rest of her life. Perhaps Hannah and Bess? She could not have all the Spinsters stand up with her, of course, and they would understand that, but it was hard to choose just four ladies when she liked all of them so much.

Who would Sam choose as his best man? As a newcomer to town, he wouldn't have many choices—she supposed
it would be Nick or Nolan, but both men would stand up with him. He might want to invite Luis Menendez, the youth who had proved such an invaluable help of late, to be a third. But they would still need one more man, if she had four bridesmaids. She made a mental note to consult Sam on that issue.

They'd return to Gilmore House for the wedding dinner, of course. What should be on the menu? She'd have to consult Sarah about that, and commission her to bake the wedding cake. But—white cake or yellow? Or even strawberry?

She and Sam would have to meet with Reverend Chadwick about the wedding service. She hoped he'd pick his text from First Corinthians, Chapter Thirteen—she thought one could not hear the beloved words describing the qualities of true love too much.

Prissy realized with a pang that she was still picturing the wedding taking place in the old church as it had been. The idea of everyone having to travel to San Saba to use a church there for the ceremony didn't appeal to her. It involved too many arrangements, and inevitably, someone wouldn't be able to make the trip. They would have to use the ballroom below, she supposed. While it would be easy and comforting to be married in the house she had grown up in, she'd always pictured being married in a church. By the time October arrived the townspeople would probably be hard at work on a new church, but it wouldn't be finished by then.

And she didn't want to wait till it was finished to be Sam's wife.
Mrs. Samuel Bishop…. Sam and Prissy Bishop…
She smiled in the dark as she whispered the names, trying them out.

Both Sam and Papa would need new suits. Would they
be willing to make a trip to Austin to have them expertly tailored?

Prissy sighed, realizing that as much as she loved the idea of a trip to Austin, it was impractical. Unless matters improved in Simpson Creek rapidly, neither Sam nor her father could leave town right now. Even after the trial was over, there was still the threat of the Alliance to deal with.

Suddenly Prissy remembered the unease she'd seen in Sam's face earlier when Raney had showed up. She'd been reminded in that moment of all things she still didn't know about Sam.

But there was plenty of time to find out—the rest of her life, in fact.

Prissy had already asked Flora to make up a basket of leftovers from the barbecue for her to take to the jail after church. She knew Sam would not feel free to leave his duty to attend the church service in the meadow—even as close as it was to the jail—as he had last week, not after Nick had substituted for him there most of the day yesterday. And especially not after the way Kendall Raney and his cronies had so rudely invaded the barbecue, with Pennington obnoxiously boasting about his partner beating her papa in the next election. Sam didn't trust the Alliance not to try to break their man out of jail, and so he would feel bound to stay on guard.

Raney and his two partners cast the only cloud over their happiness, Prissy thought with resentment. Why did they have to choose San Saba County, and particularly Simpson Creek, as their center of power, and use ruthless, murderous toughs like Tolliver to carry out their will? Not only had their choice cost poor William Waters his life, but it cast a pall over the entire town.

She only hoped discussing the wedding over delicious food would distract Sam, at least for a little while, from all the trouble that faced the town. It seemed to weigh so heavily on him, especially after Raney had shown up. The enmity appeared especially strong between the two men, even more so than between Sam and Pennington or Byrd.

Which was surprising, since he had only met Raney the other day in front of the mercantile. Had they had a confrontation after that meeting, and he had not wanted to worry her by telling her about it? That would be just like him, she thought, as she began to fall asleep, drifting toward dreams of her life with Sam Bishop.

Sam appeared to do his best, hours later when they sat together in front of the jail and devoured barbecued chicken sandwiches washed down with lemonade, to join in her excitement over the wedding plans, agreeing with every suggestion she brought up.

He agreed early October would be a fine time for their wedding. With any luck the trial would be past them by then, and with God's help and the town standing together, they might have also persuaded the Alliance to pack up and move on. Yes, he thought First Corinthians Thirteen would make a fine wedding text, once she started reciting the verses of it. She had to remember Sam hadn't grown up reading the Scriptures as she had.

He chose Nick to be his best man, though he was happy to have Nolan Walker stand up with him, too. Prissy guessed the two men would have been sufficient for him, but when she said she wanted four bridesmaids, he mentioned Luis, as she'd thought he might. She offered to compromise by having only three bridesmaids.

Yes, he supposed he needed a new frock coat and
trousers made for the wedding, and promised to go see Señora Menendez without delay. But even though they were in complete harmony with the choices she suggested, she sensed there was something else on his mind—the upcoming trial?

After all, if Sam was able to prove that Tolliver's possession of the gold pocket watch meant Tolliver had murdered William Waters, the man would be executed. A sobering thought. Her father would push for any execution to take place outside Simpson Creek town limits, for he'd never held with the common practice of making a hanging into a social event in the middle of a town, with everyone turning out as if it were a picnic. She shuddered at the thought and deliberately introduced a new subject.

“Sam, I realize what with all that's happening, you probably won't be able to finish fixing up the house down the street before the wedding,” she began. “Realistically, we might have to start our marriage in that little cottage on my father's grounds, much as I know you wanted us to start out in our own place.” She reached out a hand and touched his beard-roughened cheek, wishing she could smooth away the furrows in his brow. Poor Sam, he looked as if he hadn't slept much last night.

He gave her a rueful smile before kissing her forehead. “Once the murder took place, I didn't even had time to go talk to Mr. Avery about buying the house, let alone working on it. After all my fine talk about providing for you.” He sighed. “I appreciate your understanding, Prissy. I'm a lucky man.”

“Wherever we are, darling,” she added, “if I'm with you, I'll be happy.”

He smiled at her again, but his attention was captured a moment later by something beyond Prissy. She looked
around to see a man walking toward the jail. As the man drew closer, she recognized Mr. Jewett, the telegraph operator. He waved a paper.

“Afternoon, Miss Prissy, Sheriff,” he murmured, reaching them. “Good news. The judge will be arrivin' a little early, Tuesday 'bout noon. He says to notify the prisoner that the trial will begin on Wednesday, so his lawyer better be ready. Oh, and he asks that you secure him and the prosecutor hotel rooms for the duration of the trial.”

“Oh, but that won't be necessary,” Prissy said. “Papa wouldn't hear of him staying at the hotel. We'll put him up at Gilmore House.” She'd met Edwin Everson, the circuit judge, once before, and remembered him as a dry, austere man.

The news of the judge's arrival seemed to relieve some of the heaviness which had weighed down Sam's smile. Prissy was glad, though she knew proving Tolliver's guilt would be no easy task. The prosecuting attorney would have to prove his case without a shadow of a doubt.

“Any lawyer show up for Tolliver yet?” Jewett asked. “Th' law says even a man like Tolliver's entitled to legal representation.”

Sam shook his head. “Not yet, but the Alliance might send someone now that the judge is coming.”

“Probably some no-account carpetbagger that Raney b—uh, scoundrel—” Jewett corrected himself hastily, with a glance at Prissy “—will haul out of a Houston swamp, the ink still wet on his forged lawyer papers.”