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The Sheriff's Sweetheart
Laurie Kingery
He needs to turn his life around…And Simpson Creek, Texas, is the perfect place to do it. On the run from his dangerous past, Sam Bishop is happy to find a town seeking "marriage-minded bachelors." A wealthy wife is just what he needs to make his gambling problems disappear. But when Prissy Gilmore catches Sam's eye, she proves to be much more than a rich match. Sam wants to deserve her, wants to become sheriff and protect her hometown–wants to be the man she believes him to be. Yet the true test is waiting, when his past returns to challenge his future.
“I have a confession to make,” Sam said. “About me.”
“Are you…are you an outlaw? A wanted man?” Prissy held herself very still, as if she were afraid of the answer.
“No,” he said.
“Are you…are you married?” Her voice was a shaky whisper. “Did you leave a wife behind somewhere?”
He couldn’t stop the hoot of laughter that burst out of him and seemed to bounce off the twisted tree limbs hanging above them. “No, Prissy! No, I’m not married, or promised or anything like that.”
“Then what could it be?” she asked, her blue eyes puzzled in the sun-dappled shade. “If you’re not in trouble with the law, or married…”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you play a guessing game,” he said, contrite over the worry that furrowed the lovely brow framed by her strawberry-blond curls. “Here’s my confession—I didn’t come to Simpson Creek for the sheriff job.”
“Y-you didn’t? Then why—”
“I came to meet you.”
LAURIE KINGERY
makes her home in central Ohio, where she is a “Texan-in-exile.” Formerly writing as Laurie Grant for the Harlequin Historical line and other publishers, she is the author of eighteen previous books and the 1994 winner of a Readers’ Choice Award in the Short Historical category. She has also been nominated for Best First Medieval and Career Achievement in Western Historical Romance by RT Book Reviews. When not writing her historicals, she loves to travel, read, participate on Facebook and Shoutlife and write her blog on www.lauriekingery.com.
The Sheriff’s Sweetheart
Laurie Kingery
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Choose you this day whom ye will serve…but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.
—Joshua 24:15
To A.C.F.W., the American Christian Fiction Writers, an amazing organization that inspires and informs me, and as always, to Tom
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Prologue
Houston, Texas, June 1866
“Hold him a moment, gentlemen,” the silky voice purred, like a sleepy lion preparing to toy with some hapless creature his cubs had brought down.
Sagging between two burly men who each held an arm to keep him upright, Sam Bishop opened his eyes just enough to see Kendall Raney clenching his fist and drawing it back. The flickering lamplight winked from the pigeon’s egg-size ruby on the man’s ring finger. Sam closed his eyes, reluctant to watch the pain coming at him. Pinwheels of fiery light exploded in his head, and everything went black.
He awoke moments later when they dropped him unceremoniously on the filthy floor of another room. His arms were tied behind him, his legs bound together. He gave no sign he was once again aware, hoping the dust wouldn’t make him sneeze. Unconscious men probably didn’t sneeze, and the pain an innocent sneeze would send shooting from the ribs they had broken might make him groan aloud.
“You want us to finish him, Mr. Raney, and leave him in some alley?”
He heard an anxious whine and the scuffling of small paws on metal. Added to that was an acrid smell that suggested the beast hadn’t been let outside lately. He opened one eye just a crack. His back was to the cage, so he couldn’t see the dog; all he could see was Raney’s booted feet and beyond him a square, squat safe on the floor against the wall.
“Wait till it’s dark,” Raney said. “Then we’ll take him out to the bayou. I’ve seen half a dozen bull alligators out there sunning themselves on the banks. I imagine they’d relish a taste of this fellow.”
The other two chuckled but their laughter was tinged with uneasiness. “Sounds like you’ve used those gators to solve your problems afore, boss,” one of them said.
“Only when someone is foolish enough to accuse me of cheating,” Raney answered in his silky voice.
Again, too-hearty chuckles. “Hope they don’t mind if he’s already dead by then,” the other said. “He ain’t hardly breathin’. I think I broke his skull when I hit him.”
“I don’t think they’ll mind. Meat is meat, after all.”
“You oughta take off that ring, boss. Looks like yer hand’s swellin’. You might not be able t’git it off later.”
“I believe you’re right. Why don’t you step outside a moment, fellows? Then we’ll stroll down to Miss Betty’s place for supper. It’s on me, as payment for your services.”
“Why, thanks, Mr. Raney,” one of them said. “You want us to walk yer dog for ya?”
“No, we’re going to take that cur along when we go to the bayou. He’s nothing but a nuisance. He’s too small for fighting and he chewed up my best gloves, blast his hide. The gators can have him along with that senseless fool on the floor.”
So Raney planned to feed him and the dog to the alligators? Now freeing himself meant even more than avoiding another beating.
Sam heard the sound of the door closing behind the other men and Raney’s booted feet crossing to the window. There was a swish of fabric as he wrenched the curtains shut. Of course—he wouldn’t take a chance that one of his henchmen would peek in and be able to read the numbers he turned on the safe’s dial. Raney’s crouched form hid the safe’s dial from Sam, too, but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t a safe or a lock that could keep Sam Bishop out.
He heard clinking as Raney laid the money he’d “won” from Sam inside the safe, then the footsteps retreated and the door slammed.
Sam waited a full minute until the footsteps faded down the boardwalk, then cautiously opened his eyes and rolled onto his other side. In the corner sat a metal cage, and in it crouched a small black, brown and white canine—some sort of terrier mixed with who-knew-what. The dog cringed as Sam looked at him.
“Don’t worry, fella, I’m not going to hurt you or leave you for gator food,” he assured the dog, who cocked his head at the hoarse whisper. “When I leave here, you’ll be free, too.”
Once he broke free of the ropes and rubbed the circulation back into his wrists, he gazed at the safe. The dog watched him now, a down-on-his-luck cardsharp who’d been fool enough to stop in at The Painted Lady and think that he could beat the house with his skill at cards. And more foolish still to think he’d survive calling the proprietor a cheat when he’d detected the man’s surreptitious palming of a card.
While Sam worked the lock, one ear pressed up against the metal to listen for the tumblers falling, he pondered his situation. It was time for a change of scenery. Houston’s supply of gullible card players was played out, which was why he’d taken the chance of coming to this infamous waterfront establishment to begin with. He’d been a riverboat gambler before the war, and he could go back to that, but the large number of Federal troops and carpetbaggers coming south via the riverboats had made his southern drawl a professional liability.
And, if he was honest with himself, it was a lonely existence, always coming back to an empty rented room with a saggy, lumpy mattress. Maybe it was getting to be time to think about settling down. Maybe.
The last tumbler clicked and the door swung open. There it was, his pitiful pile of coins, Raney’s enormous ruby ring—and more money than he had ever seen in his life, all neatly sorted into stacks of gold coins.
Staring at the money, he whistled. There had to be hundreds of dollars sitting there, right in front of him.
Take it. Why shouldn’t you? You could be set up for life. Raney deserved to lose it.
But it wasn’t Sam’s money, and who knew if Raney had come by it honestly? It was tainted. Besides, such a sum would only weigh him down. He didn’t know where he was heading, but he needed to get out of town fast.
But he was going to take that ring, he decided, gingerly touching his bruised, lacerated cheek. Never again would Raney wear it and inflict even more injury on someone he was punching. He stuffed it in a pocket, thinking perhaps he would sell it if he needed money down the line.
“C’mon, dog,” he said, opening the cage door and walking out into the dusk. The dog scampered after him.
“Okay, boy, you’re free,” he told the dog. “Make the most of it. If you’re smart, you won’t come back here.”
But the dog wouldn’t leave his side. Sam chuckled at the mutt’s determination. Ah, well, perhaps he could find the dog a better home on the way to some improved way of life he could find for himself.
Chapter One
Sam put two counties between him and Houston before he remembered the newspaper he’d taken from the barrelhead next to the snoring liveryman and stuffed into one saddlebag. The dog now rode in the other, perched with his front paws hanging out and his ears cocked at a jaunty angle.
“Let me know if you hear anyone coming up behind us, boy,” he told the dog, reaching for the paper. He gritted his teeth when his broken ribs stabbed him, reminding him of what Raney’s henchmen had done.
The dog yipped in assent. Sam had gotten used to talking to his fellow traveler as they rode along, though he hadn’t bothered to name him. The dog didn’t seem to mind, answering him with a short bark or a wagged tail whenever he spoke.
The Houston Telegraph crackled as he opened it. It was a week old, but that didn’t matter. Leaving Houston, Sam had headed north with no particular destination in mind, but now he needed to make a plan. Drifting like a tumble-weed had gotten him nowhere previously—he hoped the newspaper would give him an idea about where to go.
When he reached the back page, his gaze fell on an advertisement set apart by a fanciful scrollwork border.
Are you a marriage-minded bachelor of good moral character? Do you long to meet the right lady to wed?
Come to Simpson Creek in San Saba County, Texas, and meet the ladies of the society for the promotion of marriage.
If interested, please contact Miss Priscilla Gilmore, Post office box 17, Simpson Creek, Texas
Sam found himself grinning as he studied the ad. So the ladies of Simpson Creek were looking for husbands? He knew that a lot of single ladies had found the selection of men mighty slim pickings after the war. Simpson Creek’s supply of eligible bachelors must have been harder hit than most.
If he remembered right, San Saba County lay northwest of his present location, plenty far away in case Raney came looking for him. He wouldn’t write to the post office address, though. He wasn’t about to hole up in some town, send an inquiry, and wait for an answer. He was still too close to Houston, where Raney was no doubt spoiling for revenge after finding his ring and his victims gone. It might be amusing to just take a ride up to San Saba County and see what the fair ladies of Simpson Creek had to offer a footloose bachelor.
He didn’t want to become a dirt-poor rancher on some hardscrabble piece of land, though. It wasn’t wrong, was it, to look forward to a little comfort after the rough, austere life he’d lived? And if it wasn’t asking too much, he’d like her to be pretty, someone his eyes could take pleasure in looking at. But above all, she had to be honest, and she had to be a lady. As much as he appreciated down-to-earth working women like the saloon girls, he was tired of seeing his own jaded, experienced cynicism reflected in their eyes.
He wasn’t partial. He admired a saucy redhead as much as a sunny blond beauty or a sloe-eyed brunette. He wasn’t a bad-looking fellow himself, he knew—or at least he wasn’t when he didn’t have a cut on one cheek and bruises on his forehead, he thought ruefully. Women had complimented him on his bold dark eyes and thick black hair—though at the moment, Sam thought, he could use a shave and a long soak in a copper hip bath. Ah, well, there’d be plenty of time between here and San Saba to visit a barber and make himself as presentable as possible. He’d have to decide what to say about his visible injuries. He didn’t want to look like a habitual brawler.
Sam arrived in the little town of Simpson Creek with the dog riding perched between the saddlehorn and his legs. He hadn’t found anyone in any of the towns he passed who seemed interested in taking the beast off his hands, and by now he’d grown surprisingly fond of the little dog’s company. And perhaps the dog’s appeal would be just the entrée he needed with the young lady of his choice.
A trim little town, he thought, riding in from the south and pausing to look it over. It had everything a small town needed—a saloon at one end, a church at the other, and in between, a hotel, a post office, a mercantile, a bank, a jail and a barbershop-bathhouse. He’d availed himself of a bath and a shave in the last town and had changed into his black frock coat, trousers and a fresh white shirt. The bruises had faded into faint greenish blotches and the cut was healing—he hoped his neat appearance would help to mitigate the impression he’d been in a fight.
On his right sat a very imposing mansion of brick, surrounded by a tall black wrought-iron fence with an ornate front gate. He whistled under his breath. That must be the home of the richest man in town. Maybe he was the president of the bank. He’d have to make sure to become friends with that gentleman.
“I wonder how we’re going to find our Miss Priscilla, dog?” he mused aloud, surveying the town from beneath the broad, wide brim of his black hat. He tried picturing “Miss Priscilla Gilmore,” and couldn’t decide if she was one of the available spinsters herself or some grandmotherly matchmaking type.
Should he try the post office? After all, the advertisement had listed a post office box address—surely the postmaster would be able to direct him to Miss Gilmore.
The post office, by unfortunate coincidence, sat right beyond the jail. Sam had always kept clear of local lawmen, finding they usually sized him up on sight as the gambler he was. But this time it couldn’t be helped.
Just act as if you have a right to be here, he told himself. You’re just here to meet a lady. Nothing wrong with that.
As he approached the jail, three people emerged from it—a well-dressed old man leaning on a silver-headed cane, a man about Sam’s age who must be the sheriff, for his vest bore a silver star, and a young lady. Her face was hidden by the side of her fetching sky-blue bonnet, but strawberry-blond curls peeped from beneath it.
