Her father hesitated, glanced at Bishop, then said, “Only if he doesn’t chase Flora’s cat—Flora’s our housekeeper and cook, Mr. Bishop. And his care—including any—” he cleared his throat “—accidents he might have, is entirely your responsibility, not hers. Understood, daughter?”
She nodded and ruffled the dog’s ears, then turned back to Sam. “If I’m to keep him, he’ll need a proper name. What town did you find him in, Mr. Bishop?”
“Sam,” he insisted. “And I found him in Houston.”
She blinked. Houston was considerably farther than “a few miles back down the road,” as he had said. But surely it would be quibbling to point that out.
“Houston it is, then.” She leaned over and spoke into the dog’s ear. “Do you like your new name, Houston?”
The dog yipped and licked her face. Everyone—including Sam Bishop—laughed.
Prissy, flushed with pleasure, decided to try her luck still further. “Papa, perhaps we should invite Mr. Bishop to supper. Surely on his first night in Simpson Creek he shouldn’t have to dine by himself at the hotel.”
“That’s very nice of you, Miss Gilmore, but I couldn’t impose,” Sam Bishop said quickly, darting an apologetic look at her father. “I’m sure the hotel’s food will suit me fine.”
Prissy realized she shouldn’t have put her father on the spot as she had, but surprisingly, he came to her aid. “Nonsense. It’s no imposition, Bishop,” he said. “Flora usually cooks enough food for an army, as I know to my cost,” he said, patting his paunch ruefully. “We seldom have company anymore, so this would be a nice opportunity to get to know you better. Come at six, and you can see how your little dog is settling in. It’s the big house diagonally across from the hotel.”
He took off his hat and bowed. “Mayor Gilmore, I’d be honored. Miss Gilmore, until later.”
She inclined her head with what she hoped was regal dignity, trying to hide the unladylike excitement surging through her veins like Fourth of July fireworks over this new prospect for the ladies of Simpson Creek.
“Oh, Papa, you’re the best father anyone could ever want!” she cried, after they walked out of earshot toward Gilmore House. “Thank you for letting me keep the dog, and for seconding my invitation as you did. I know I should have asked you privately first.”
Her father patted her shoulder. “You don’t demand much, daughter, and maybe the dog will be good company for us.” But her father’s worn, jowly face suddenly turned stern. “But as for Bishop, I’m letting him come to our table so I can look him over, Priscilla. We don’t know him all that well, so don’t you go flirting with him any more till I get a chance to see what he’s made of. I won’t have any man thinking you’re forward.”
“Papa! I was not flirting! I was merely welcoming him…” The denial that had sprung easily to her lips died away, and obedience took its place. “But don’t worry. I won’t do anything to make you worry. Sam—Mr. Bishop, that is—he was just so friendly, and so handsome.”
Her father harrumphed. “Don’t assume anything about a man you just met.” He laughed as the dog yipped again, and his face softened. “See, your dog agrees with me.”
Prissy smiled at her father, but she had a strange feeling that Sam Bishop was exactly what Simpson Creek—and she herself—needed.
“Papa, didn’t you fall in love with Mama at first sight?” Prissy asked softly.
He sighed. “Aren’t you an imp, to remind me of my own actions! Your mother should have never told you that. But remember, she was a preacher’s daughter…”
Chapter Two
So Prissy lived in the very mansion he’d admired on his arrival. Thunderation, but fortune was smiling down on him now!
He straightened after he tied his mount’s reins to the hitching post outside the jail, and found Brookfield studying him again. The Englishman’s gaze was penetrating—too penetrating. It was as if he could see straight through Sam and into his not-so-admirable past.
“You watch yourself with Miss Prissy—Miss Priscilla, that is,” he told Sam, and those eyes were as chill as the winds of a Texas blue norther. “Don’t even think of trifling with her, or make no mistake, you’ll wish you’d never ridden into Simpson Creek.”
“You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Brookfield,” Sam said, deliberately using “mister” instead of “sheriff” to subtly remind the other man he was no longer acting sheriff. “I find Miss Gilmore charming—who wouldn’t? She seems to like me, too. But just what is it you don’t like about me?” he said. It was best to get it out in the open, so he could counter it.
“I don’t dislike you, Bishop, but I don’t think you’re being entirely honest about why you’ve come.”
Uh-oh. He’d have to tread carefully here. “I came because of the advertisement,” he said. That much was true, at least. He had come because of an advertisement—Priscilla’s ad for the Society for the Promotion of Marriage.
“Where’d you see it?”
Sam said a quick prayer to the deity he hadn’t paid much attention to in a long while. “In a Houston newspaper,” he said, hoping vagueness would suffice.
Brookfield gave him a look he couldn’t read. “Bring your saddlebags and come inside. I’ll show you the jail and your quarters behind it. Then we’ll take your horse down to the livery and we’ll take a little walk around town so I can introduce you to folks.”
The jail looked much as he’d expected; two cells and a desk, with a rack next to the door holding a pair of rifles and a couple of pistols, boxes of bullets beneath. A short hallway between the two cells led to a door that opened into his private quarters—as he’d expected, nothing palatial, just a room with a bed and another room with a table and two chairs and a cabinet, but no stove. Apparently even his morning coffee would have to be obtained at the hotel. He dropped his gear on the table.
Seventy-five dollars a month. He’d made that much and more in one night of card playing. Well, at least here he wouldn’t be dealing with sore losers like Raney. And he’d have the chance to woo the lovely Prissy…
“So how does an Englishman come to be living in a small Texas town?” he asked as they walked back outside, down a side street to the livery, leading Sam’s black gelding.
Brookfield gave him another of his inscrutable looks. “It’s a long story,” he said.
It seemed he was going to leave it at that, which made Sam curious. Did the Englishman have a past he wasn’t proud of, too? Interesting. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry,” he said.
Brookfield gave him a sidelong glance. “It’s I who should apologize,” he said in his formal way. “I didn’t intend to sound churlish.”
Sam wasn’t sure what “churlish” meant but he was relieved Brookfield seemed to be thawing a little.
“It’s no secret, I suppose,” Brookfield said. “I came to Texas to take a post at the embassy office in the capital, took a side trip to Simpson Creek, and met my wife, Milly. Now I’m a rancher instead of an embassy attaché. Life takes interesting turns, does it not?”
“That’s a fact,” Sam agreed. He wondered more about what Bishop had not said than what he had. Why would an Englishman take a side trip to a little backwater town like Simpson Creek? But Sam knew better than to probe further. He’d already irked the Englishman—perhaps it was best to douse his curiosity. After all, the code of the West dictated a man’s past was his private business, if he wanted it to be.
“Here’s the livery,” Brookfield announced as they came to a large barn and corral, in which several horses stood, tails swishing. “Run by the Calhoun brothers, now that their father’s died in the epidemic. Hello, Calvin,” he said when a tow-headed youth came forward out of the shadows of the barn. “Meet Sam Bishop, the new sheriff. Calvin will take good care of your horse.”
“I sure will. Pleased t’meet ya,” the boy said, and took the gelding’s reins, leading him into the box stall nearest the door.
Before Sam could reply, shots rang out. He and Nick spun around to see a man sprinting toward them.
“Sheriff! Thank God I’ve found you! Ol’ Delbert’s liquored up again, an’ shootin’ out th’ mirror and th’ lights!” he shouted as he neared them.
Brookfield didn’t take time to explain he was no longer the sheriff. “Is everyone all right?”
“Yup, George took cover behind the bar an’ everyone else went out th’ back door. Delbert ain’t mad at anyone, he’s just had too much rotgut is all,” the man said, and surprised Sam by grinning. “Reckon you kin talk some sense inta him like always.”
“Right. Come on, Bishop, it’s time to make your first arrest. Delbert Perry isn’t very dangerous,” Brookfield told Sam as they ran toward the saloon, “once we take his pistol away, of course. He just needs some time to sleep it off.”
There went his dinner with the lovely Prissy and her father, Sam thought, because once he had the man in custody, he’d have to remain at the jail. Perhaps Nick could make his excuses for him. He hoped Prissy wouldn’t be too offended. It was not exactly the best way to start his campaign to woo her.
They stopped in front of the hotel that sat diagonally across the street from the saloon. “I’ll go in from the back and cover you,” Nick said, motioning in that direction. “Just be firm with him. He usually surrenders as soon as he sees the badge,” he said, pointing to the tin star Sam now wore.
Sam wasn’t so sure. He’d seen dozens of intoxicated men in saloons who were dangerously unpredictable, especially if they were armed as well as drunk. He wasn’t about to sacrifice his life to keep such a man alive. If this Delbert fellow acted the least bit like he was going to shoot, Sam intended to drop him with the pistol he now held, a Colt he had purchased in the first town he arrived in after Dallas when he’d fled Houston.
They crossed the street cautiously at an oblique angle, heading for the near corner of the building. There they separated, Nick creeping around to the back to the exit, Sam hugging the front of the establishment, crouching low so his head didn’t show in the dusty, fly-specked glass windows. When he reached the batwing doors, he straightened and peered over the nearer of the two.
Within the dim, smoky interior of the saloon he spotted a wild-haired man staggering unsteadily around, clutching a half-empty bottle with one hand, a pistol with the other. Silver shards of what had been a full-length mirror littered the mahogany bar. Delbert Perry’s boots crunched the broken glass from the ruined chandeliers and a half-dozen bottles and glasses. The burnt smell of spent gunpowder filled Sam’s nostrils and stung his eyes.
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.