The Sheriff's Sweetheart (5 page)

 

The ladies walked back across the street to the Walkers' house in back of the doctor's office, Houston trotting smartly alongside them.

“So, what did you think?” Prissy asked, after glancing backward to make sure he wasn't watching them.

“Oh, I don't know, I suppose he's all right,” Sarah said airily, then laughed to show she was only teasing. “Yes,
Sam Bishop is very good-looking, and very nice, and I can see why you're so taken with him, Prissy.”

Prissy waited for more, and finally said, “But what? I can hear a ‘but' in your voice, Sarah.”

By now they were at Sarah's doorstep. From the front, where Dr. Nolan Walker's office was located, came an ear-piercing wail.

“Oh, dear, Nolan must be examining the Harding boy again,” Sarah said. “He's always sticking things in his ears or up his nose. I'm glad he's not my child…”

“But I sense you have reservations about Sam,” Prissy persisted, not about to be distracted.

Sarah paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I don't know if I would call them reservations, Prissy dear, so much as I would ask you to be cautious, take your time.”

“Cautious? Sarah, he's the
sheriff.
”

“Yes, and two days ago you didn't know he existed, did you? I agree, he seems very charming. But go slowly, Prissy. There's no rush.
Pray
about it. Just because he wears a tin badge doesn't mean he's the man God has for you.”

Prissy felt unexpected frustration at Sarah's words. Sure, she trusted God as her Savior, Prissy thought, but how was she to know His will? When she folded her hands and asked God to send her a good man, she couldn't hear an answer.

“Sarah, we can't all be like you, cautious and careful, taking months to decide what all of us in the Spinsters' Club knew right away, that Nolan Walker was perfect for you. I suppose it's understandable that you were wary, since your former fiancé turned out to be a murdering outlaw—”

Sarah's face lost color and her eyes filled with pain. Prissy knew she'd let her tongue go too far.

“I'm sorry, Sarah,” she said, stretching a trembling hand to reach Sarah's shoulder. “That was inexcusable. I know you loved Jesse Holt once, before he changed so completely. Please, forgive me.”

Sarah's gaze was steady and strong. “I have already. And I suppose you're right. I
was
very wary after I thought Jesse was dead in the war and that Yankee doctor showed up as my Spinsters' Club match. But I'm glad I didn't rush into courting with him. I'm glad that I got to know him first, and prayed about it, that we were both Christians when we married—what do you know of Sam Bishop's faith, by the way?”

“Nothing,” Prissy admitted. “As you pointed out, we only met yesterday. But he's coming to church tomorrow—he must be a Christian.”

Sarah said nothing, just raised an eyebrow, and finally Prissy sighed. “I know, I know, that doesn't prove anything. I suppose that's something I will have to discover, as we get to know each other. There's plenty of time for that.”

Sarah regarded her steadily. “Yes, there is. I hope you will keep that in mind. Prissy, please don't be offended, but sometimes it seems that you're in love with love itself, rather than with discovering the right man to spend your life with.”

“'In love with love?'” Prissy echoed. “I'm hardly picking out my trousseau yet,” she said stiffly. “We have yet to go on so much as an outing together. It's quite possible that Sam Bishop is not for me, but for someone else!”

“There, now
I
have offended
you,
” Sarah said, her face full of regret. “It was the last thing I wanted you to do,
Prissy. I only want you to be careful with your heart until you're sure, that's all.”

“I will,” Prissy promised, knowing Sarah was right. She extended a hand and placed it on Sarah's wrist. “I want you to be honest with me, Sarah—always. Now I'd better be going and make sure Papa's sitting down for dinner. Sometimes he says he's not hungry and just skips it, then he's famished by suppertime.”

She was very lucky to have a friend like Sarah Walker, Prissy mused as she walked to her house, using the boardwalks that ran past the stores rather than trusting her shoes to the dusty streets. She just wished she were as good a Christian as Sarah was. Sarah seemed to find great comfort in her prayers, and to be certain about the answers she sought with them, whereas Prissy's sometimes seemed to go no farther than the ceiling.

Envying Sarah's faith was better than envying her friend's success in marriage, Prissy supposed. But it was only natural to be a little wistful when three of the Spinsters had now found mates—Milly with Nick, Sarah with Nolan, and now Emily Thompson was to marry Ed Markison in a few weeks—while the contents of Prissy's hope chest remained unused. Perhaps she'd unconsciously assumed
she'd
be the first to wed. As the only child of a rich father, she'd usually gotten whatever she wanted it, as soon as she wanted it, whether it was a pony or a new hair ribbon.

Envy was the same as coveting, wasn't it? So she'd broken one of the Commandments, Prissy thought with a guilty sigh. She'd have to be sure to say her prayers tonight, and ask for forgiveness for that.
Help me to take Sarah's advice, Lord, and not be in love with love. Give
me wisdom about Sam Bishop. Help me to see if he is for me—or if You have someone else in mind for both of us.

She wanted to be in the center of the Lord's will, but couldn't help but wish the outcome would be the former.

“A
h, Prissy, there you are,” her father boomed as she made her way up the Gilmore House steps. “I was afraid I was going to have to leave a message with Flora.”

“What do you mean, Papa? I was just coming home to have dinner with you.” And then she saw the lady standing behind her father, a lady who looked to be about his age, in a stylish dress of lavender silk with black piping, smiling at her. “Oh! I didn't know you had company.”

“I didn't know she was coming, either, until she appeared on our doorstep,” her father said, his voice more jovial than she'd heard it in months. “Prissy, meet Mariah Fairchild. I grew up with her back in Victoria. We were in the same grade together at school—I used to dip her braids in the inkwell.” He chuckled in remembrance. “That was long before I met your dear mama, of course. Her husband Hap was in our class, too.”

“I'm so sorry to hear of your mother's passing,” Mariah Fairchild said, coming forward. She was a statuesque woman with a wealth of silver hair done up on top of her head. “I saw her portrait in the parlor, dear child, and I see you are very like her—especially about the eyes. It's
so nice to meet you, Priscilla. And what a sweet little dog,” she added, glancing at Houston, who wagged his tail obligingly at her.

“You too, Mrs. Fairchild,” Prissy said, wondering for whom the lady wore half-mourning.

“Yes,” the lady went on. “I lost my Hap a year ago, and when I heard recently about your father's loss this winter, I just had to come pay a condolence call.”

“Oh. Do you…live very far from here?” Prissy asked, hoping Mariah Fairchild would furnish her with a clue as to why she was here.

“I live in Austin, dear, but I…I'm thinking of relocating, now that Hap has passed on. There are too many memories in that old house I rattle around in,” she said with a gusty sigh.

“I…I see,” Prissy said politely.

“Your father and Hap kept up a correspondence, you know,” Mariah Fairchild went on.

No, I didn't,
Prissy wanted to say. As far as she could remember, her father had never mentioned Hap Fairchild—or his wife.

“And your father was always singing the praises of Simpson Creek. Why, we were so proud to hear that he was elected mayor, Hap and I.” Mariah Fairchild sighed again and delicately wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with a lacy handkerchief. The scent of rosewater wafted toward Prissy. “I just had to come and see for myself if it was as good as he said it was, if this might be the town I would like to live in for the rest of my life.” She smiled tearfully up at Prissy's father.

Prissy bristled. Papa had lost his wife only six months ago, and already this widow was swooping down on him, hoping for a new husband who was probably wealthier than
her last one! She took a deep breath, trying hard to keep her voice civil as she said, “Oh, but if you're used to a big city like Austin, I'm sure Simpson Creek will seem very dull to you,” she said. “If you blink while you're riding through, you'd miss the town entirely. There's no opera hall, and no library—”

“Prissy!” her father protested, “you're making our fair town sound like a backwater—”

“Oh, but I don't need those things,” Mariah Fairchild assured her, with a glance at Prissy's father. “I'm content to lead a very quiet existence.”

“Oh, it's quiet, all right,” Prissy agreed. “So quiet you can hear a hummingbird's heartbeat.”

Mariah Fairchild gave a trill of laughter. “It sounds perfect! Well, Prissy—may I call you Prissy?—your father was just about to walk me back to my hotel, and we were going to get a bite of dinner and talk about old times. Why don't you join us, dear?”

The woman was friendly, but Prissy had to smother the urge to respond like a sulky child. She knew rudeness would distress her father, and she had no real proof that this woman was doing anything more than what she said—paying a condolence call and merely considering moving here. What could be more logical than consulting an old friend who happened to be the town mayor?

“No, thank you, Mrs. Fairchild,” she said with all the politeness she could muster. “Perhaps another time. I'm sure you and Papa have a lot of catching up to do.”

Flora wasn't going to be pleased about this, either, Prissy thought, watching her father gallantly offer Mariah Fairchild his arm as they descended the steps. She had probably had dinner all ready to serve promptly at noon,
when Prissy's father always wanted it, but now he was going to sashay down to the hotel and take his dinner there with this strange female. Prissy decided she would have to be extra appreciative of whatever Flora had prepared in order to make up for her father's thoughtlessness.

But she found Flora surprisingly philosophical about the situation.

“Ah, well,
chica,
it's not such a big thing. Your father is an important man—this is not the first time he has had to leave right before a meal. I can always give Antonio an extra share. That
hombre
is always hungry, you know.”

“It's hardly part of the mayor's official duties to advise a lonely widow where to live in Simpson Creek,” Prissy grumbled. “Did you see the way she looked at him?”

Flora raised a black eyebrow. “No, but I saw how
he
looked, Señorita Prissy,” she said, her face stern. “Your papa is a lonely man. He misses your mother, no? He misses having a lady around to smile at, to make conversation with.”

“Flora, he has
us
to make conversation with,” Prissy protested.

“It's not the same,” Flora said. “You are his daughter, and I am his employee, and a married woman.”

“But it was only this winter Mama died!”

“Miss Prissy, he does your mother no dishonor by having dinner with an old friend,” Flora said. “You must not be so possessive of your old papa. One day soon you will marry and move out, and then he will be even more lonely.”

Sam Bishop flew into Prissy's mind before she could stop herself, but it would not do to think of Sam Bishop every time marriage was mentioned. What if he was
not
the man God had intended for her?

 

Sam thought Prissy, standing outside the church talking to a bevy of other ladies, was just about the prettiest sight he'd ever seen. She wore a pink dress—of silk, unless he missed his guess—with short puffed sleeves trimmed in white lace. There was matching braid around the bodice, and a pink ribbon belt with matching tassels that emphasized her slender waist, while the back was gathered into a small bustle. High button shoes of white kid adorned her feet. She wore a straw bonnet with a pink ribbon band that enchantingly framed her heart-shaped face. Her strawberry-blond curls streamed down her back.

There were a dozen or so ladies on the lawn, clad in pretty calico, gingham or muslin. Prissy outshone them all, in his opinion.

“Oh, Sam, there you are!” she said, turning to face him, her face brightening and her blue eyes shining.

“Good morning, Miss Priscilla,” he said, tipping his hat.

“Ladies, I'd like to present our new sheriff to those of you who haven't made his acquaintance.”

He guessed they were all members of the Spinsters' Club—or, in Sarah Walker's case, past members. He could practically feel them sizing him up.

“Prissy, have you told Sheriff Bishop about our Spinst—that is, our Society events?” one of the young ladies asked, fluttering her lashes at Sam.

The ladies of the Spinsters' Club were an interesting assortment—some short, some tall, some pretty, all friendly. It was on the tip of his tongue to mention that he'd seen their advertisement in that Houston newspaper, and that that was why he'd come to Simpson Creek, but
just in time he remembered that he had supposedly come for the sheriff's job.

“No, I…um…haven't had a chance,” Prissy murmured, suddenly seeming flustered by the other woman's behavior. “Goodness, Polly, he only came to town two days ago.”

Polly chuckled. “I'm sure you haven't, bless your heart.” She turned back to Sam. “Well, we are the Society for the Promotion of Marriage. You must come to our events. If you're a bachelor, that is. You
are
a bachelor, aren't you, Sheriff?” Polly asked, peering around him as if he had a wife hiding behind him.

“Yes, I am,” he said, amused by the confusion on Prissy's face. Was it confusion—or jealousy?

“Well, good. We'll be happy to have you attend. We'd want our new sheriff to feel welcome, wouldn't we, ladies?”

“Reverend Chadwick,” Prissy suddenly said as the white-haired gentleman appeared. “I'd like to introduce you to the new sheriff. Reverend, this is Samuel Bishop.” Prissy seemed relieved to leave the topic of the Society, Sam noticed. Perhaps Polly's flirting simply embarrassed her. Or was it more than that?

“We met last evening. I'm afraid our new sheriff came upon me trying to sweet-talk my roses into blooming despite the heat. Again, welcome to Simpson Creek, Sheriff Bishop,” said the old gentleman, whose gnarled hand gripped his with surprising strength. His gaze was direct, and Sam had the impression he saw deeply inside a person. Did he guess that Sam was not all he seemed?

“Thank you, sir. Please, call me Sam.”

“I'll do that. I hope we'll get to talk more later, Sam, but now we'd better start the service. Sarah, are you ready?”

“Sarah plays the piano for the singing,” Prissy explained.
The other ladies filed inside, but Prissy put a hand on his wrist. “I thought you weren't coming, that perhaps you had to capture some desperate outlaw,” Prissy said, gazing up at him.

He shook his head. “No desperate outlaws passed through Simpson Creek this Sunday morning,” he said, smiling down at her and placing her hand on his arm. “I was delayed by arranging something, which I'll tell you about later.” He winked and enjoyed the blush that rose to her cheeks. The first piano notes of a hymn wafted out of the open door of the church.

They climbed the steps and entered, walking down the middle aisle to the front pew, with Prissy nodding at others who gazed at both of them with interest—and in the case of some of the ladies, with barely hidden envy. His amusement was almost enough to distract him from the fact that he was in a church for the first time in a very, very long time. If only his sisters, Etta, Lidy and Livy, could see him now!

He was amused to spot Delbert Perry, his face scrubbed, his threadbare clothing spotless, his hair slicked down, sitting midway toward the front. Delbert beamed at him as he passed.

So the town drunk was indeed trying to mend his ways. Perhaps there
was
something to church attendance, after all.

Sam also saw Nick Brookfield, the former sheriff, sitting a couple of rows back with some weathered-looking fellows who were probably his cowhands.

They reached the front pew, where Priscilla's father stood, holding a hymnbook with a lady Sam didn't recognize. Her father shot her a look of gentle disapproval because the congregation was already halfway through
“Onward Christian Soldiers,” but then he turned back and resumed singing.

Prissy took a hymnbook from the rack in front of her, turning to the hymn being sung. Her soprano was clear and sweet in his ears. Sam knew very few hymns, so he just enjoyed listening to her voice and hoped that she would not read anything into his silence.

Reverend Chadwick, who'd been sitting to the left of the pulpit, rose and gestured for everyone to be seated.

“Good Sunday morning, ladies and gentlemen. Isn't it a pretty day?”

There were murmurs of agreement. “We are here to worship, but today we also have a special cause for thankfulness. As many of you may have heard, Simpson Creek has a new sheriff, Mr. Sam Bishop.”

Sam was caught off guard.
He
was a cause for thankfulness? If that didn't beat all. After looking up at the preacher, he glanced around and saw everyone nodding and smiling at him.

Reverend Chadwick beckoned. “Sam, come on up front. You, too, Mayor. Sam, it's customary in Simpson Creek to swear you into your new office in front of the whole town, since you're promising to serve and protect them.” He held a thick, black-leather-bound Bible in his hand.

Sam got to his feet and followed the mayor to the front. He hadn't thought about the fact that he hadn't been sworn in at the time he'd put on the badge. Now it was about to happen in front of everyone, in a house of worship. He did his best to keep his face expressionless and solemn, but he as took his place by the pulpit with Prissy's father, he was all too aware that he had come to town and taken this job under false pretences. He had lied about his reason for coming to town as well as his previous experience. The
only time he'd spent in a sheriff's office had been inside a cell, for petty crimes like disorderly conduct. And he'd turned away a man who probably did have experience.

He saw Prissy smiling proudly at him from the front pew. The very sight of her looking at him with such trust caused him to offer the first real prayer he'd offered up in many years.

Lord, please don't strike me dead for lying. It would upset Miss Prissy. I'm sorry, God, and I'll try to make up for it.

Mayor Gilmore stood facing him, with the preacher holding the Bible between them. “Place your right hand on the Good Book and hold up your left hand,” he said, and waited until Sam did so. “Samuel Bishop, do you solemnly swear to serve and protect the town of Simpson Creek, to uphold the statutes of this town and the laws of Texas, as well as the Constitution of the United States of America?”

Sam nodded, relieved that no bolt of lightning had struck him—at least not yet. “I do.”

A smile appeared on the jowly features of the mayor. “Then it is my distinct pleasure to announce that Samuel Bishop is officially our new sheriff. I'm sure the Reverend wouldn't find it out of place to give him a round of applause, folks.”