The Sheriff's Sweetheart
“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.
“Was that a yes, Miss Prissy?”
She nodded again, flushing pink. Her blush was so charming, Sam nearly leaned over and kissed her, but he knew better than to do such a thing. Even if she did not object to his boldness, her father might very well be watching through a window.
He allowed his grin to widen. “That’s settled, then. Give me a couple of days to get settled into this sheriffing job, and then it will be my great pleasure.”
“Sam, I hope you don’t think I’m being very forward. But it’ll be Sunday day after tomorrow…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked at him expectantly.
He went blank, wondering what she was hinting at. For years, Sunday mornings had been a time when he lay in some dingy hotel or boardinghouse room and groaned at the church bells that woke him up early to a headache.
“Would you—I mean, if you wouldn’t mind, and if there are no desperate criminals in the jail at the time for you to guard—will you sit with Papa and me when you come to church?” she asked him, glancing up at him from under those thick lashes.
His heart sank. She assumed he was a churchgoing man, that he’d attend Sunday services as a matter of course. And suddenly he realized that in this little town, almost everyone did attend church as a matter of course, and if they didn’t, it was noted. Mayor Gilmore probably wouldn’t allow a man around his daughter who wasn’t a churchgoing man, and he wouldn’t keep the goodwill of the town for very long if he didn’t go to church, either.
He’d just have to fake his way through it—for Prissy.
“Of course I will, Miss Prissy,” he said with great heartiness, as if he’d always intended to. “What time do services begin?” There were worse things, he was sure, than spending an hour or so in a pew beside a beautiful girl dressed in her Sunday best. Though it was hard to imagine her any prettier than she was right at this instant.
“Ten o’clock,” she said, looking very pleased.
“Until Sunday, then, Miss Prissy,” he said. Houston ran up to them, as if knowing Sam was departing, and yipped. Prissy picked him up, and Sam reached out a hand and ruffled the fur on the little dog’s head.
“You be good for Miss Prissy, boy,” he admonished the dog. “No more chasing the cat.”
“Sam,” she said, looking suddenly worried, “will you miss him very much? Perhaps I should give him back to you, for company.”
He was touched that she’d make such an unselfish offer, for he could tell she already loved the little beast. “No, I’ve got Delbert Perry to keep me company, at least tonight. I’m sure the dog’s better off with you. Besides, it gives me another excuse to come calling, doesn’t it?”
Prissy smiled at him. “It does, at that. Good night, Sam.”
As he left the grounds of Gilmore House, Sam could hardly believe how much he’d accomplished in a single day. New town, new job, new girl.
Yes, he could get used to Simpson Creek.
Chapter Four
“Thanks again,” Sam said as he walked Nick Brookfield to the door of the jail.
“You’re welcome. Flora’s quite a cook, isn’t she?” the Englishman said.
Sam grinned. “That she is.”
Nick started to go out the door, then turned. “If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask. Dr. Walker’s been a deputy—” he pointed at the doctor’s office and home across the street “—and I come into town frequently. And you’ll have to come out to the ranch for Sunday dinner after the baby comes.”
Sam saw a softening in Brookfield’s eyes as he spoke of his wife and coming child, and for a moment he envied the man his settled existence.
“—I know Milly’d love to have you,” Brookfield was saying. “Ordinarily, I’d say you’d meet her in church on Sunday, but she’s not finding that wagon ride into town very comfortable right now, so she’s sticking close to home.”
Again, that assumption that he’d be warming a pew in a couple of mornings. “I’d like to come out, when she feels up to company.”
The two men shook hands. Sam watched him stride out into the street, no doubt heading for the livery and his horse.
Brookfield had thawed quite a bit from his initial distrust, but there was still something in the cool blue eyes that warned Sam he’d be an implacable enemy if Sam played fast and loose with the mayor’s daughter.
Don’t worry, he thought as he rounded the corner and went down the side street that led to the livery. I’m going to treat Prissy like a queen. She was exactly what he’d hoped for—a beautiful girl who for some reason he could not fathom did not already have men from six counties lined up to court her. Were the men in this part of Texas blind? Once he convinced her to marry him, they could live happily ever after. He’d make sure she was never sorry he’d won her heart. It seemed he was not going to have to live a hardscrabble life as a dirt-poor farmer after all, and he couldn’t find it in himself to feel guilty—only grateful.
He went back inside and locked the door, though he didn’t think there was much chance of anyone trying to break Delbert Perry out during the night. The town drunk was now sleeping peacefully, the dishes and silverware from a supper brought from the hotel laid neatly on a tray on the floor. Brookfield had reported he was much closer to sober than he had been and would no doubt be fit to be set free in the morning, with an order to do some good deed like sweeping the saloon floors for a month in penance for his drunken spree.
Sam walked down the short hallway that led to his quarters and started putting away his things, stowing the clothes from his saddlebags in an old brassbound trunk that sat at the foot of his bed. It didn’t take long, because he’d always believed in traveling light. Then he eyed the small bed, with its bare mattress of blue ticking, and the pillow and neatly folded sheets and blanket atop it. He was tired and ready to sleep, but he’d have to make the bed first.
As he bent over the mattress, something shifted in his pocket—the heavy gold ruby ring he’d taken from Kendall Raney’s safe back in Houston. He couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he didn’t just put it at the bottom of the old trunk—no one was going to be searching through his possessions. Simpson Creek was the kind of small town where no one thought to lock their doors, and it wasn’t as if Kendall Raney would ever trace him to this place. Maybe, if things worked out with Prissy Gilmore, he could make up some fanciful story of a rich uncle back East or the like, and have the ruby reset into a pendant for her. But for now he was going to hide it away.
Taking his boot knife, he cut a small slit in the underside of the mattress, then pushed the ring into the cotton stuffing. It’d be safe enough there.
A slight twinge pricked his conscience as he realized he’d just been planning to lie to Prissy, a woman who’d just invited him to church.
Perhaps he wasn’t so guilt-free after all.
“You’re up and about early,” Sarah Walker commented as she opened the door for Prissy the next morning. “And who’s this?” she said, spotting the little dog attached to Prissy by a braided leather leash.
“This is Houston,” Prissy said, smiling as he yipped and wriggled on the Walkers’ porch, clearly thrilled by the opportunity to meet yet another human. “I got him yesterday, and look, Antonio’s already fashioned a collar and leash for him out of old bridle leather. Can he come in? I’ll keep him on the leash so he won’t get into anything he shouldn’t.”
“Of course. How are you, Houston?” Sarah said, laughing as the dog sat down and offered his paw. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Oh, Sarah, I have so much to tell you!” Prissy exclaimed. “If you’re not too busy baking, that is,” she added, seeing that her friend wore an apron and had a dot of flour on one cheek. Tendrils of golden hair had escaped from her braid to curl around her forehead. “Mmm, it smells wonderful in here,” she said, sniffing the air. “Molasses raisin cookies, unless I miss my guess?”
Sarah smiled back and gestured for Prissy to have a seat at her kitchen table. “Yes, and of course I’m not too busy to listen to your news. Might it have to do with the new sheriff of Simpson Creek?”
Prissy felt color flooding her cheeks. “Horsefeathers. I might have known I wouldn’t get to be the one to tell you about him.”
“George Detwiler told his mother about the incident in the saloon yesterday, and his mother told me when I went in the mercantile this morning. And Mr. Wallace was there, and he told me how he just happened to be peeking out of the post office window and saw y’all meet, and saw him give you the dog,” Sarah explained with a grin.
“That’s Simpson Creek for you,” Prissy muttered. “No secrets here.”
Sarah rolled her eyes in rueful agreement. “Why did he give you his dog?”
Prissy nodded. “Well, the dog apparently latched onto him in Houston—hence his name—and stayed with him all the way to Simpson Creek, but Sam says he was only keeping him till he could find him a good home, so when we met, he offered him to me.”
“Sam? You’re already on a first-name basis?” Sarah teased.
Prissy blushed again. “Well—only since I walked him to the gate last evening,” she confessed. “I’m sure in public and in front of my father it must be ‘Sheriff Bishop’ for a while…” Prissy felt a little proprietary thrill as she said his name. “Sarah, he came to dinner last night! I was so surprised when Papa agreed he could come! Papa said he wanted to look him over, and he tried to act all stern and gruff, but I think he found him as charming as I did.”
“Is that a fact?” Sarah said with a wry twist of her lips. Then she bent over and peered into the oven. “I think these are done,” she said, snatching a potholder and pulling out a sheet of perfectly browned cookies. The savory aroma filled the small kitchen, making Prissy’s mouth water. “Let’s eat a few while they’re still hot—that’s when they’re the best, don’t you think?” She scooped a half dozen of them onto a small plate and laid it on the table between them.
Prissy broke off a piece of cookie, popped it into her mouth, then fanned herself. “Too hot! That’s what I get for being impatient,” she muttered, as Sarah rose and poured her a glass of cold lemonade from the pitcher on the windowsill.
“You still haven’t told me what this paragon of charm looks like,” she prodded.
“Oh! Well, let me remedy that,” Prissy said. “We were just leaving the jail after paying Nick a visit, Papa and I, and he came riding up, and Papa figured out he was the man who’d come to apply for the sheriff’s job. Just wait till you see him—dark hair, and he has the most speaking brown eyes! And he’s tall, taller even than your Nolan—I should say six feet or so. And lean…”
“I can tell you’re smitten already.”
Prissy was thoughtful. “I’m trying not to make the same mistake I have in the past, Sarah—of throwing my heart in first and not thinking it through. And I know I should be merely delighted at Sam Bishop’s arrival on behalf of the Spinsters’ Club ladies, who will adore him…but I have to be honest, Sarah. I think he could be the one—the one for me.”
Prissy’s thoughtfulness sobered her friend. “I’m glad to hear you’re thinking this through, Prissy,” Sarah said. “I feel I must still point out you were this excited over Major McConley, too, though not so considering about it as you are now.”
“Major McConley? Pooh, he can’t hold a candle to Samuel Bishop,” Prissy scoffed.
She frowned, remembering how she had thought she had found the man of her dreams in the dashing Major McConley of the Fourth Cavalry, whose regiment was stationed at Fort Mason. She’d held an engagement party for Sarah in the ballroom at Gilmore House and had as sumed she could easily capture the Major’s interest, but it had be come painfully clear that the Major doled out flirtatious smiles to all the young ladies and made sure he danced with each one without appearing to favor any. Though she was his partner at dinner, it seemed he was being no more than courteous to her as his hostess, and by the end of the evening, he had made no effort to urge her out onto the veranda for a private tête-à-tête. She had been so sure the dress of hussar-blue silk that completely matched her eyes would dazzle him! And the rest of his regiment, perhaps aware that she had eyes only for him, had made no effort to single her out, either. That night had been a serious blow to her confidence, leading her to decide she wasn’t as irresistible as she had grown up believing.
“I’m thankful he didn’t respond to my flirting now. Why, if I’d married Major McConley and gone off to that lonely fort in the middle of nowhere…”
“This Mr. Bishop has already given you a gift,” Sarah observed, as Houston leaped into Prissy’s lap and made a lunge at the cookie that Prissy was bringing to her mouth.
Prissy restrained him. “No, no, bad boy! Down you go, until you learn your manners.” She set the dog back on the floor. “Sit!”
Houston looked so immediately contrite that both girls laughed. Prissy broke off a small piece of cookie and gave it to him. “I hope you won’t think I’m being foolish and impulsive, Sarah,” Prissy continued, “but he’s asked me if he can call on me again.”
“And of course you agreed.”
“I-I did,” she admitted. “Oh, Sarah, he’s quite handsome. I can’t wait for you to meet him, to hear what you think,” Prissy said.
“No time like the present,” Sarah said. “As a matter of fact, I was baking these cookies to take over to the jail to welcome him to Simpson Creek. Just let me put another batch in the oven and as soon as they’re ready, we’ll have enough. Since you’re here, you can introduce us, since I can guess you’re just dying to have an excuse to see him again.”
Prissy allowed herself a happy sigh. “Am I as transparent as that?”
“Transparent as glass—at least to me.”
“You the acting sheriff? I’m Bob Purvis, here to apply for the job—I believe you’re expecting me?” the man said as he entered in response to Sam’s called-out invitation.
Sam, who’d been leaning back in his chair enjoying his second cup of coffee, set it down with a thump and stood up.
“Sam Bishop,” he said, offering his hand. “And I’m afraid you’re too late. They were expecting you, all right, but when you didn’t show up, they hired me.”
Purvis’s shoulders sagged. “Too bad. Can’t say I’m surprised, though. My horse went lame just outside a’ San Antone and I had to hole up for a few days and rest him. Of all the rotten luck.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, meaning it. He felt a twinge of guilt at taking a job he hadn’t even come here for, now that the man who’d really wanted it had appeared. But he had to have a way to support himself or Prissy’s father would never let him approach his daughter. “Better luck next time,” he said as the man reversed his steps and opened the door, just in time to hold it open for Prissy and another young lady.
The man touched the brim of his hat respectfully, and Prissy gave him a curious glance.
“Miss Prissy, the very one I was hoping to see,” Sam said, relieved that Purvis had come before, not after, Prissy’s arrival. “And there’s my old trail buddy, Houston,” he said, greeting the dog. “I see you’ve fancied him up some,” he said, indicating the new leash the dog sported. “And who’s this you’ve brought with you? And what’s that delicious smell?”
“Mrs. Nolan Walker, may I present Simpson Creek’s new sheriff, Mr. Sam Bishop? Mr. Bishop, this is Sarah Walker, the doctor’s wife, my best friend and Simpson Creek’s best baker. She wanted to welcome you to the community.”
Sam executed a gallant bow. “Mrs. Walker, I’m honored to meet Miss Prissy’s best friend—and of course I’m always happy to meet someone who can bake anything as delicious-smelling as what you have there,” he said, nodding toward the napkin covered dish.
Sarah grinned and presented the dish to him. “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Sheriff Bishop.”
The three of them spent a very pleasurable half hour chatting until Sarah at last announced she had to leave to fix dinner for her physician husband. “I hope you’ll come and have a meal with us sometime, Sam,” Sarah told him.
“I’d like that very much. It’s nice meeting you, Mrs. Walker. I look forward to meeting your husband. Miss Prissy, I’ll see you at church in the morning,” Sam said. He took her hands in his for a moment.
He wished he could look forward to going to church for his own sake, instead of just an opportunity to be with Prissy. He wished he hadn’t lost his faith in the process of struggling to keep food on the table for his sisters, when the church near his home had done nothing to help but try to split up his family.
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?”