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The drunken man faced away from Sam. Sam pushed one batwing door open and went in quietly, taking care not to step on noisy glass. His pulse throbbed in his throat. Who’d have thought he’d have to face a man with a gun in his first afternoon in this little one-horse town?
“Delbert Perry, it’s the sheriff,” he said, cocking his pistol. “Turn around slowly with your hands in the air, now, and you won’t get hurt.”
Perry turned, letting go of his bottle. It shattered on the floor with a splash of liquor and broken glass. The remaining whiskey gurgled out even as he raised both hands, including the one with the pistol, just as Sam had ordered.
He squinted at Sam through bleary, red-rimmed eyes. “Sheriff? You ain’t Nick Brookfield. He’s the sheriff. I don’t know you.” But he kept his hands raised nonetheless.
Sam kept his voice friendly. “But you see I’m wearing the badge, Delbert, don’t you?” he said, nodding toward the tin star pinned on his vest. “We haven’t had a chance to meet yet. I’m Sam Bishop, the new sheriff.”
“N-new sheriff? B-bishop?” the man muttered, his words slurred and thick.
Behind Perry, Sam saw Nick inching forward from the back room, his pistol held ready.
“That’s right. Now lay the gun down on that table by you.” Nick was right; this man wasn’t going to be difficult to take into custody.
Just then, Nick slipped on some spilled whiskey. He skated forward on the floor, glass crunching as he cart-wheeled both arms, trying to regain his balance.
Perry whirled. “What in tarnation?” he screeched, and leveled his pistol straight at Brookfield’s chest.
Sam fired before he even had time to think about it, neatly shooting the pistol from the drunkard’s hands. Perry’s bullet went wild, embedding itself in the wall beyond.
The man yelled, dropping his pistol and clutching his hand. Staring at Brookfield, who had now regained his balance, he cried in horror, “There’s the real sheriff! Nick, did I shoot ya? Why’d ya have to creep up on me from behind like that? Are ya all right, partner?”
“I’m fine, Delbert,” Nick assured him, though his face hadn’t entirely regained its color yet. “Now turn around and raise your hands in the air, and tell Sheriff Bishop you’re sorry for raising such a ruckus on his first day here.”
Sam stared as Perry, meek as a lamb now, did exactly as Nick told him. “S-sorry, S-Sheriff. Reckon I j-jes’ had too much t’ drink.”
Another man, wearing an apron and clutching a dingy dishcloth, crawled out from behind the bar. “Thanks,” he said to both of them. “Nice t’meet you, Sheriff Bishop. Welcome.” Then he stared glumly at the damage around him. “Guess I’m gonna have to cut him off after two drinks—not two bottles—from now on.”
“Meet George Detwiler, proprietor of this fine establishment,” Nick said, walking up behind Perry and pulling his wrists into the come-along he took out of his back pocket. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that, Bishop?”
“I used to shoot squirrels out of the trees growing up in Tennessee.” Brookfield didn’t need to know it was sometimes all he and his sisters had to eat.
“I’m much obliged. That could have ended much worse. Perry’s fingertips are merely grazed. I’ll take him by Doctor Walker’s and have him bandaged up before taking him on to jail.”
“No, he’s my responsibility,” Sam said. He may not have come here for the job, but he’d taken it on, and now he had to live up to the oath he’d sworn only hours ago.
“There’s no need. I’m sure you’d probably like to tidy up a bit before you present yourself at the mayor’s house. Go on back to your quarters, and I’ll watch over Perry till you’re finished with supper.”
“But you must want to get back to the ranch and your wife,” Sam protested, feeling guilty because he longed to take Nick up on his offer. “Go on home. It’s my job now.” He glanced at the drunken man, who stood with his hands shackled, gentle as a newborn colt and about as unsteady.
Nick Brookfield only smiled. “You just saved my life, Bishop. Believe me, my Milly won’t mind if I show up a few hours later because I’m doing you a favor. Besides, I want to have a talk with Perry about the Lord.”
Sam blinked, sure he’d misunderstood the Englishman. “You want to talk to him about God?”
“Indeed I do. We’ve had those talks before, haven’t we, Delbert?”
Perry nodded and grinned as if he and the Englishman were the best of friends. “’Bout how th’ good Lord loves me and has a better way for me to live, right, Sheriff Brookfield? Well, come on then, I’m ready.”
Sam felt his jaw drop. Brookfield wanted to spend more time with this drunken fool and talk religion with him?
He shrugged. Far be it from him to tell Brookfield he was wasting his time trying to cure a drinking man of drink, by talking about God.
As far as Bishop was concerned, the Lord didn’t have much to do with anything. Never did, never would. But he just thanked Brookfield and went on his way.
Chapter Three
Houston dozed in Prissy’s room in a wide, flat basket lined with an old towel that Antonio had found for Prissy in the barn. To look at the sleeping dog now, it was hard to believe how fast he had scampered after Flora’s orange tiger cat, which he’d encountered sunning herself by the stable door. The cat had sprung up, hissing, arching her back and puffing herself up to look twice as large as she was, but the little dog had refused to be intimidated and charged the cat, barking shrilly. The cat fled, and a merry chase ensued until the frantic feline finally took refuge up the massive live oak tree that shaded the front yard.
Flora had been miffed, and made it clear that until the canine learned better manners, he was not welcome in her kitchen, nor was Prissy needed to assist in the preparation of the supper, muchas gracias, which would now involve much more work, thanks to Prissy’s short-notice invitation. Prissy knew she’d have to find a way to soothe Flora’s ruffled feathers later.
If it hadn’t been for Houston, the hours until she would see Simpson Creek’s new sheriff again would have crawled by. But after the little dog explored each room and Prissy set up his bed and his food and water dishes, she had only an hour to get ready.
Prissy pulled dress after dress out of her wardrobe and held each one up to herself in the full-length cheval glass, then laid each one down on her bed with a sigh. Which one would Sam Bishop admire her most in, the blue-figured broché with puffed sleeves, the crepe lisse dress of the same green as spring leaves, or the pink silk with the white eyelet-lace trim?
Thank goodness Papa hadn’t wanted her to continue wearing mourning for her mother. That black, and even the gray of half-mourning—such drab colors! Prissy still grieved for her mother, of course, but Papa said seeing his only daughter swathed in black only made him sadder. A month after his wife’s passing he’d asked her to start wearing her pretty dresses again.
In the end, she chose the blue dress. She had just finished pinning up her hair in a becoming fashion that left tendrils loose around her forehead when Prissy heard Flora opening the front door in the hallway below. Houston erupted out of his basket in a flurry of barking.
Oh, heavens, she hadn’t even heard Bishop knock. She had intended to be downstairs setting the table so she could be the one to open the door to Bishop herself. Now she would have to be content to make a grand entrance coming down the marble stairway, which was visible from the doorway.
Houston scampered out of the room, heedless of his mistress’s attempt to grab him. Seconds later she heard the dog capering and yipping in the hall below, and Bishop’s deep, murmuring voice.
Her heart started to pound. Would Sam Bishop find her beautiful? Would his eyes light up as they had in front of the jail when he had first looked at her?
Prissy took one last look at her mirror and pinched her cheeks to bring the color into them. Perhaps a grand entrance would even be better, she decided, otherwise it would look as if she had been waiting at the window for the first glimpse of him coming in through the elaborate wrought-iron gates to the grounds.
Which she hadn’t been. Had she?
Her father was already shaking Bishop’s hand and welcoming him to the house when she set foot on the first step.
“Good evening, Mr. Bishop,” she said, trying to descend with regal grace. “I hope you brought your appetite, because Flora’s cooked something really special.” In truth, since Flora had banished her from her kitchen, Prissy had no idea what was on the menu, but her nose had caught savory, spicy scents wafting from the kitchen. Whatever it was, it would be delicious.
Bishop scooped up the little dog and ruffled his fur. “Why, good evening to you, too, Miss Priscilla,” he said. His lips curved into a smile of warm appreciation. “And yes, I have worked up quite an appetite, because I made my first arrest as Simpson Creek’s new sheriff just minutes ago. I hope you weren’t too disturbed by the gunfire from over at the saloon?”
Her father cleared his throat. “I heard it—unfortunately it’s an all-too common occurrence. I assume no one was hurt?”
Bishop shook his head. “Delbert Perry’s spending the night in the jail, Mayor Gilmore. Mr. Brookfield was kind enough to watch him so I could come to take supper with you.”
Prissy clasped her hand to her neck in alarm. “Thank God you weren’t hurt!”
“You’re so kind to be concerned, Miss Prissy, but I assure you I was never in any danger. Mr. Brookfield and I disarmed him without too much trouble,” he said, his eyes meeting hers, causing her pulse to race and a flush to heat her cheeks. What was going on here?
“Delbert Perry’s a harmless ne’er-do-well, except when he’s been drinking and takes his pistol to the saloon. I’ll expect you to come up with a plan to combat that, Mr. Bishop,” Mayor Gilmore said in a no-nonsense voice.
“I’ll make that a priority, sir,” Bishop assured him in a tone that matched her father’s gravity.
Flora bustled into the hallway, an immaculate lace-trimmed apron tied around her waist. “Supper is served, señores, señorita,” she said, gesturing toward the dining room.
As they settled themselves in their chairs, Prissy found herself studying Sam Bishop. He spoke to her father with real authority—he seemed like such an honorable man. She’d have to invite him to the church. He’d make a fine addition to their community.
When Flora set down the meal, Houston sat up by Prissy’s place at the table, waving his paws in the air and staring at her with liquid appeal in his dark shoe-button eyes.
“Prissy, I won’t have a dog begging at the table,” her father said sternly. “Make him go lie down.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I allowed him to develop bad habits on the trail,” Bishop said, coming to her rescue. “It was just him and me, and I’d toss him tidbits as I ate. He knew he could get more if he sat up like that, the rascal.” He raised an arm and pointed to a spot on the floor away from the table. “Houston, go lie down.” His voice was firm, and to Prissy’s surprise, the dog immediately did as he was bid without a backward glance.
Her father resumed the tale he’d been telling. “So as I was saying, Nick Brookfield, Dr. Walker and the rest of the posse went after Holt and the Gray Boys Gang and brought back Miss Sarah safe and sound. That ended the rustling sprees in these parts,” her father said.
“Sounds like I have tall boots to fill, sir,” Sam Bishop said, laying down his fork on the empty plate that now held only the remains of Flora’s chicken mole. “But I’ll do my very best.”
“I have every confidence you will,” her father said, “if today is anything to go by.”
I know you will, Prissy thought, sitting across from him at the long dining table, continuing to study Bishop while he spoke to her father. She wondered about his past, his childhood, where he’d grown up. And then she again wondered why she was wondering.
Her father put down his glass and rubbed his chin, a sure sign he was about to mention something that troubled him. “One recent development that’s troubled me about this town has been the arrival of some undesirable types. You’ll need to be aware of them.”
“Go on.”
“There’ve been a couple of gentlemen in these parts recently—real dandy types, fancy clothing, jeweled stickpins, brocaded waistcoats. They’ve brought with them a passel of drifters, hired guns. You know the type.”
Sam nodded.
“The two fancy gents have bought a big ranch northeast of here, toward San Saba. From what I’ve heard, they’re turning it into quite an impressive estate. Nothing wrong with that, but the rumor is, they’re using these saddle tramps to pressure folks to sell their property to them, folks that’ve been hard-pressed to hold on to their properties what with the higher taxes the Federals have put on our backs—older folks, women who’ve been widowed by the war and so forth.”
Sam’s eyes were thoughtful. “I see.”
“I want you to keep an eye on ’em—they call themselves the Ranchers’ Alliance,” her father said. “I won’t have our townspeople being pushed out or harassed. If they’re doing anything illegal, I want to know.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll look into it first thing.”
Apparently satisfied by the answer, her father turned in his chair and said to Flora, who hovered at the doorway, “I believe we’ll have our dessert now.”
Bishop took advantage of her father’s momentary inattention to favor Prissy with a smile across the table, a smile which sent heat flooding up her neck and into her cheeks. He grinned as he noticed her blushing, but he managed to wipe his amusement from his face as her father swung around in his seat again.
“What’s wrong, Prissy?” her father asked, eyeing her.
“Oh, nothing,” she said, feeling her face grow hot again. “I-I think Flora put a little more chili powder than usual in the frijoles, that’s all. It made me a little warm…” She avoided Bishop’s knowing eyes. What was wrong with her that a handsome man’s smile could make her blush so?
Her father stared at her for a moment, then to her relief turned back to Bishop. “Our Flora makes the best pecan pie in San Saba County.”
“Mmm, pecan pie’s my favorite,” Bishop murmured appreciatively. “Though it’s hard to believe anything could be better than the main dish.”
“Yes, we’re very fortunate to have her to cook for us,” Gilmore said. “Though Prissy’s become quite the accomplished cook, too.”
“With Sarah’s help,” Sarah admitted modestly as Flora bustled in with the pie, already sliced and laid on dessert plates, and began setting it at their places. “Sarah Matthews, that is—I mean Walker. She married Dr. Walker recently.”
“I see. And what’s your culinary specialty, Miss Prissy?” Bishop asked in his lazy drawl.
“Fried chicken,” she said. “And biscuits.” Thank goodness she didn’t have to admit to Bishop just how hard it had been to learn the art of making light, fluffy biscuits. Her first attempts had been leaden disasters.
“Well, fried chicken and biscuits is just about the finest meal on this earth,” Bishop declared.
“Then perhaps we could invite you back some time when I’m cooking it,” she said, and quickly added, “I’m sure there are many people we’d like to introduce you to. A dinner party of sorts.”
Bishop’s smile broadened. “I’d like that, Miss Prissy,” he said.
He made short work of his pie.
“Would you like to sit a spell out on the veranda with Prissy and me?” her father asked, when there was nothing but crumbs on his plate. “There’s a nice breeze this evening.”
“There’s nothing I’d like better, sir, but I left Nick Brookfield guarding my prisoner, and I know he’d like to get home to his wife. I’d better return to the jail. I thank you both for your hospitality.”
“Duty calls, eh?” her father said, clearly approving of his answer. “Well, welcome to Simpson Creek, Sheriff Bishop. I hope you’ll like it here and put down roots. Prissy, take that dog out, would you? He probably needs to go out,” her father said.
As if he knew he was being referred to, Houston scampered up from where he’d been lying. Tail wagging, eyes shining, he came to Prissy’s side.
“And don’t linger too long, Prissy. I’m sure Flora could use some help with the dishes,” he said with a meaningful look. “Good evening, Sheriff.”
“Good evening, Mayor Gilmore.”
Sam felt Prissy’s father’s gaze on them as they left the dining room and walked down the hall to the front door with Houston trotting alongside them. He opened the massive carved pecan-wood door and they stepped out into the soft, balmy twilight of the June night.
“I’m sorry,” Prissy murmured, as they descended the limestone steps that led down to the lawn. “I’m afraid Papa’s a little overprotective of me, especially since Mama died. He doesn’t mean to sound so disapproving.”
“Don’t worry,” he assured her, “I’m sure if I was the father of a daughter, I’d be overprotective too when a stranger was around—”
“But you’re not a stranger,” she protested.
“I’m barely more than a stranger,” he said. He’d been just as fierce a guardian when young men had shown up to court his sisters, and had scared off a few shiftless ne’er-do-wells. But now his sisters were all well and safely married and each had two or three children, the last he’d heard. “We only met this afternoon, you know.”
Her laugh was immediate and musical. “But that makes you an old friend, by Simpson Creek standards. We don’t stand on ceremony here, Sam.”
Was she always so open and unguarded, or only with him? There was an innocent artlessness about her that suggested no one had ever taken advantage of those qualities.
“That’s good to know, because I wanted to ask you something,” he said.
“Oh? And what’s that?” She looked up at him with open curiosity as they strolled slowly toward the gate.
He’d been watching the little dog as he explored the lawn and dashed barking after a catbird that took hasty refuge in the boughs of the big live oak, but now he turned back to Prissy and smiled down at her.
“I know I really should ask your papa first,” he began, smiling down at her with the smile that had melted the heart of many saloon girls, “and I will ask him, but I wanted to make sure it was agreeable with you first before I did.”
“Go on,” she said.
“I’d like to call on you again—if that’s all right with you, that is. That’s what I wanted to ask you, before I asked permission of your father. It doesn’t do me much good to ask him if that isn’t something you’d care for, now, is it?”
Her considering look wasn’t quite the reaction he’d been expecting. Where had she suddenly found this womanly dignity? After a moment, she nodded.
