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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.

“Yes, I’m expecting the man today, Mayor,” he heard the sheriff say to the older man.

Just then the dog erupted into a volley of barks from his saddle perch.

Sam tried to hush the beast, but it was already too late.

“Oh, what a darling dog!” the girl cried, and rushed forward. “What’s his name?”

“I…I don’t know, ma’am,” he murmured idiotically, but he couldn’t have made a more intelligent reply to save his life, for he was transfixed by the face looking up at him, framed by the bonnet. She had eyes the exact same sky-blue hue as the bonnet, sweeping, gold-flecked lashes, a sweetly curved mouth, all in a heart-shaped face.

She blinked in confusion and a faint color swept into her cheeks. “You don’t know? Whyever not? Ooh, how sweet!” she cried, when the dog raised his paw and wagged his tail at her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw the lawman’s face harden and his gaze narrow. He knew the man had caught sight of his lacerated cheek.

Wonderful. He was already under suspicion.

He touched the brim of his hat respectfully. “Well, not exactly, ma’am. He just adopted me, a ways down the road. I reckoned I might find him a home here,” he said, aiming a brilliant smile at the girl. He saw her spot the healing cut on his cheek but he could still salvage the situation with the dog’s distracting help. “My name’s Sam Bishop.”

“I’m Prissy—um, Priscilla Gilmore,” the girl said, blushing a little more as she corrected herself.

Thunderation. He’d thought the good Lord had given up on him a long time ago, but surely this was a sign. He’d blundered right into the very lady he’d been looking for—and she was a far cry from grandmotherly. But did she have to be accompanied by a lawman who was already looking narrow-eyed at him?

“Miss Gilmore, I’m right pleased to meet you,” he said.

“This is my father,” she went on, nodding at the old man, “Mayor James Gilmore.”

“Sir,” he said, fingering the brim of his hat once more. Miss Priscilla was the daughter of the mayor? This just kept getting better and better.

“And Nicholas Brookfield, the acting sheriff.”

“Sheriff Brookfield,” Sam said, nodding at the man who was staring at him with that cold gaze that must come to lawmen as soon as they pinned on those tin stars. But what had she meant, “acting sheriff”?

“May I hold him?” Miss Priscilla inquired, reaching up for the dog, who wagged his tail again and positively wriggled with eagerness. Sam thanked his lucky stars he’d had enough sense to let that dog tag along with him. He handed down the dog into the girl’s gloved hands and managed to conceal the grimace the movement caused.

“What’s your business here, Mr. Bishop?” the sheriff inquired, surprising Sam with an English accent rather than the Texas twang he’d had been expecting.

But he was spared the necessity of a reply as the dog jumped up in Miss Priscilla’s arms to lick her face enthusiastically.

“He likes me!” Priscilla said, and giggled—a sound that Sam Bishop felt down to his very toes.

“He surely does,” Sam said with a smile, though he knew Brookfield was waiting for an answer. “I—”

“Say, you wouldn’t be the man Nick was expecting, would you? The applicant for the sheriff’s job we advertised for?” asked Priscilla’s father.

“No, his name was something else,” Brookfield said, his gaze no less distrustful than before.

Sam had to think fast. He’d have to have a reason for staying in town while he became acquainted with the enchanting creature who was now holding the dog, especially with the acting sheriff looking at him as if he suspected Sam were here to rob the bank.

“I may not be the man you’re expecting,” Sam said quickly. “But I did come about the job. I’d be proud to be Simpson Creek’s sheriff.”



Prissy watched, stroking the affectionate little dog, as shifting emotions played over Nick Brookfield’s face—suspicion, skepticism and finally hope.

“Why don’t you give him a chance, Nick?” she said, with the familiarity born of knowing Milly Brookfield’s husband since the day he, too, had come to town a stranger. It was only fair that he give this stranger a chance, just as he had been given one.

“I’m voting with my daughter. After all, you did say the other fellow was several days overdue,” her father put in. “Maybe he’s changed his mind about the job.”

Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s possible. I certainly thought Purvis would be here by now. Have you had any experience as a sheriff, Mr. Bishop?” he said, shifting his cool blue gaze back to the man on the horse.

Prissy wished Nick wouldn’t sound so obviously suspicious. Why, Sam Bishop was apt to take offence and ride off before anyone had the chance to get to know him—and she did want to get to know this handsome stranger.

She tried to catch Nick’s eye—it would have been too obvious if she’d reached around her father to nudge Nick into civility.

“Please, call me Sam,” Bishop insisted, reaching out a friendly hand to Nick who, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward and shook it. “And yes, I’ve had some experience—before the war, I served as a deputy to the sheriff back in Tennessee where I grew up. Lately I was a deputy sheriff in Metairie, just outside of New Orleans.”

“And during the war?”

Prissy saw a shadow flash over Sam Bishop’s eyes. The war didn’t provide too many happy memories for any of those who had served in it.

“I was a blockade runner—I received the cotton that was brought down to Matamoros, just over the border, and took it out in my boat into the Gulf to a larger ship that transported it to England.”

“What made you want to leave Louisiana?” Nick asked.

Bishop shrugged. “Tired of Spanish moss and alligators, I reckon. I wanted to see the wide-open spaces of Texas. And then I heard your town needed a sheriff. Mind if I ask what happened to the old one?”

“Sheriff Poteet died in the influenza epidemic we had here this past winter, Mr. Bishop,” Prissy said. She felt a strange little tingle when he focused those dark eyes on her.

“Is that right?” he murmured. “I’m real sorry to hear that. It must have been a terrible time.”

Prissy nodded, remembering when she and her friend Sarah had nursed Mr. and Mrs. Poteet. The sheriff had perished from the illness, and they’d nearly lost Sarah, too, for she’d caught the infection. Only Dr. Walker’s medical skill and Heaven’s intervention had saved her.

“Nick, it seems Mr. Bishop’s arrival is a godsend,” her father said. “I know you need to get back to your ranch, spring being such a busy time and all.”

“That’s a fact,” Nick admitted. “The hands are doing what they can, but what with all the chores, and the baby coming quite soon, I know Milly would feel better if I were at home…”

Yet he didn’t look happy to be handing over the job, Prissy noticed. She knew him well enough to know it wasn’t because Nick Brookfield had relished his role as sheriff. He could have had it permanently with the town’s blessing. No, it wasn’t that. Prissy sensed he still had some reservations about Bishop.

“I think we should give him the position,” her father said. “Subject to council approval, of course, and a probationary period of a month, as we agreed upon when we met to discuss Poteet’s replacement. The salary’s seventy-five dollars a month, Mr. Bishop. I hope that’s satisfactory—we’re only a small town, you understand. But it includes your quarters, your meals at the hotel, and stabling and feed for your horse.”

Sam nodded. “Sounds just fine, Mr. Mayor.”

“Then the job’s yours. Why don’t you show him the jail and his quarters, Nick, then show him around town?”

“Thank you,” Sam said, shaking Priscilla’s father’s hand. “I’ll do my best to show I’m the right man for the job.”

Nick unpinned the badge and handed it to Sam, his face inscrutable. Prissy watched as Sam pinned it on.

“I suppose I’d better give you your dog back, then,” Prissy said, extending the wiggling mongrel. “Welcome to Simpson Creek, Sheriff Bishop. I’m sure we’ll see you around town.”

“You can count on that, Miss Gilmore,” he said. “and why don’t you keep the dog? I was just holding onto the little fellow until I could find him a good home, and it seems like I’ve done that.” His gaze made her feel like warm butter left out in the Texas sun at noon.

“Are you sure?” At his quick nod, she turned to her father. “Oh, Papa, may I?” she said. “It would be so nice to have a dog, now—” She stopped, not wanting to say, Now that Mama is gone. She’d never been able to have a dog before because they made her mother sneeze. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to take back all the times she’d complained to her mother about not being able to have one.

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.

“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?”

“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.




Chapter Five


“Ah, 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.”

Sam smiled as the congregation stood. They clapped their hands, and the knot of guilt in his stomach began to ease. He couldn’t believe it. They were glad he was here. They were willing to take him at his word that he would wear that five-pointed tin star with honor. He suddenly felt humble, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“You can take your seats, gentlemen,” the preacher said. “I know you’ll all want to greet Sam after the service, but let’s sing our next hymn before I start into my sermon.”

Sarah began playing another tune as Sam left the pulpit and found his way back to Prissy. He hardly heard the Reverend’s sermon. Instead, he thought about the trust that Prissy and all the people of Simpson Creek had just placed in him. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to live up to their expectations.

Beside him now, Prissy plied an ivory-handled fan with a delicate flower design as she concentrated on the sermon. Clearly coming to church was very important to her. Was he doing her a disservice by pretending to be a…what? God-fearing man? A believer?

Was he pretending?

Sam did notice, however, Prissy darting a look at her father—who seemed to be giving some sidelong glances of his own at the lady beside him. When Prissy returned her gaze to the pulpit after one of these glances, he caught an anxious look on her features. He wondered who this lady was that was causing Prissy concern.

The temperature in the little chapel climbed. Ladies wielded their fans faster and faster. Here and there gents pulled out handkerchiefs and mopped their foreheads. At last Reverend Chadwick stopped preaching, the congregation rose for a final hymn, and the service was over.

Before they even left the pew, the mayor stopped him. “I didn’t want to interrupt the service when you came in, but I want to introduce you to an old friend from my childhood, Mrs. Hap Fairchild. She and her husband and I were friends back in school. He’s passed on now, but Mariah—that is, Mrs. Fairchild—is thinking about settling down here.”

Ah, Sam thought, understanding immediately why Prissy looked so unhappy. Her father was a lonely widower, and Prissy didn’t cotton to the idea of him putting another woman in her mother’s place. Yet the woman’s smile was genuine and warm, and there was no denying her effect on James Gilmore.

“Mrs. Fairchild,” Sam said politely, taking the gloved hand she extended. “I’ve only been in Simpson Creek since Friday, but it already feels like home to me. I hope you’ll be very happy here.”

“I’m sure I will. It’s nice to meet you, Sheriff Bishop. I’m sure the town’s in good hands with you as sheriff and James as mayor.”

He didn’t miss the way Prissy’s lips tightened, and was sorry that she felt threatened.

“I hope you’ll be back,” Reverend Chadwick said, as they came to the entrance. The preacher was shaking hands with each person as they left.

“Yessir, I’ll be back,” Sam said, warmed by the man’s friendliness. He suspected he would be back—even if Prissy was the real reason he came. Before he could say any more, another man extended his hand.

“Sheriff Bishop, I’m Dr. Walker—Nolan Walker, that is.” His accent was distinctly Yankee—from Maine, Sam thought. “You met my wife, Sarah, yesterday.”

There seemed to be an interminable number of people who wanted to introduce themselves to Sam and shake his hand, from the homes and businesses around town as well as from outlying ranches. He was overwhelmed with names, friendliness and open interest.

So this is what it’s like to belong somewhere…

When they were alone again, Prissy turned to him with avid curiosity. “Will you tell me what it is you were arranging before church?”

“I’ve arranged with the hotel to pack us a picnic basket—but of course, I realize it’s short notice, and you might have made other plans,” he added. “If that’s the case, perhaps I’ll just give it to one of the other ladies.” He glanced at the knot of Spinsters’ Club females he’d met before church, who were gathered under the shade of a cottonwood, discussing the two of them, if their sidelong glances were anything to go by. “I wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

She smiled at him, please by his gesture. “I have to ask my father, of course.”

“Oh, but I already have,” he told her. “Yesterday, as a matter of fact, after you visited me with Sarah. He seemed quite open to the idea. So now the only question remains, where are we to enjoy this picnic?”

Prissy was so astonished she could barely respond. “Sam Bishop, you are full of surprises.”

He grinned, hoping against hope that the only surprises she would ever get from him would be pleasant ones.




Chapter Six


Prissy felt the warmth of joy bubbling up within her, warmer than the summer sun above her. He’d secured her father’s permission to court her the very day after he’d asked her? And he’d gone to the trouble of planning an outing already? But wait—wasn’t this all happening a bit too fast?

“Prissy, are you all right?”

“Yes! I was just thinking we could have our picnic over yonder, in the meadow,” she said, pointing to the grassy, tree-lined field on the other side of the creek that had given the town its name.

He studied it. “Looks like a fine place for a picnic,” he said.

“But that’s where everyone goes to picnic—families…with little children running around…” She hesitated. “It’s not exactly the most private location. There’s always the possibility that we’ll be talked about.”

“And you know somewhere less crowded?”

“No! No, I mean…I…uh…” Suddenly Prissy was afraid she’d sounded too bold. She didn’t want Sam Bishop to think she was not a lady. But she didn’t want the entire town observing their picnic, either. “I just meant somewhere where we could talk in peace, and not have to worry about a ball landing in the middle of the fried chicken all of a sudden—or whatever’s in that picnic basket.”

Sam chuckled. “No, we don’t want that,” he agreed. “Where did you have in mind?”

His smile was so warm she felt it like a physical touch. It was almost unnerving. “There’s a place…” she began. “Oh, but we couldn’t walk there, it’s too far. Maybe we’d better go there another time.”

“It just so happens I’ve checked with the Calhoun boy at the livery, and he’s got a horse and shay we could borrow for the afternoon. He could hitch it up while we’re picking up the basket at the hotel.”

“My, you’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? All right, then, there’s this huge old live oak, just a little ways out of town. They say it’s over a hundred years old.”

“And there wouldn’t be families and little boys throwing balls into the fried chicken there?”

“No. Chances are we’d have the place to ourselves today.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said.

Prissy felt her heart accelerate. She gazed up into those intense brown eyes and felt a niggle of doubt about the propriety of going off alone with this handsome man she’d so recently met. “But perhaps you shouldn’t go so far from town, since you’re the sheriff?” she said, twisting a fold of her pink skirt in her hand.

“I don’t think there’ll be a wave of lawlessness striking Simpson Creek on a Sunday afternoon,” he said lightly but without ridicule. “Would you feel more at ease, though, if we asked Sarah and her husband to come along?”

“Sam, you wouldn’t mind?” she said, relief washing over her.

“Of course not. They’re talking to Nick Brookfield by his wagon. Let’s go ask. I thought you might feel that way, so I told the cook to pack enough for four.”

Impulsively, she seized his hand and squeezed it. “You are the most thoughtful man!” she exclaimed, and was rewarded with a lopsided grin—as well as some interesting looks from the ladies of the Society.

Sarah and Nolan were perfectly agreeable to falling in with their plan, but just as they started down the street toward the livery stable with them, a cowhand on a lathered horse galloped into the churchyard from beyond the creek and slid to a stop by Nick’s wagon.

“Miz Milly says ya gotta hurry on home, boss! She commenced t’ havin’ pains ’bout the time you left, but she didn’t wanna tell you. Figured you’d be back in plenty a’ time. Now they comin’ faster. She thinks the time’s about here. She says you better come, too, Doc Walker, Miz Sarah! You take the horse, Mist’ Nick—I’ll drive the wagon.”

Sarah turned back to Prissy. “I’m afraid we’ll have to make it some other time,” she said as Nick took off toward the ranch. “My sister needs me.”

“Of course,” Prissy said. “How exciting, Sarah—you’ll soon be an aunt!”

After the excited Walkers and the wagon full of cowhands had departed along with the Walkers in the doctor’s buggy, Sam turned to Prissy. “Perhaps you’d rather have our picnic over in the meadow after all?” he suggested.

She turned and gazed across the creek. Just as she had said, families were spreading out tablecloths on the grass, and children who’d been confined to the pews in their stiff Sunday clothes were already wading in the creek, splashing and shrieking. She shook her head.




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