The Sheriff's Sweetheart (12 page)

“Among other things,” Pennington said. “But he mainly wants to set up a gambling palace in Simpson Creek, such as the ones he runs in Houston. Profitable places.”

Profitable for the house, Sam knew. Not for the gambler. “We already have a saloon, if anyone wants to play poker or monte,” Sam said dismissively. “Simpson Creek isn't a rowdy town. He ought to try his luck in San Francisco or New Orleans.”

“Oh, but he sees the possibilities, Sheriff. If Simpson Creek's saloon owner doesn't want to sell, he can always erect his gambling palace elsewhere in the town. Gamblers would flock to such a place, the only one of its kind in the hill country. You might find yourself sheriff of a booming city, Bishop.”

“We'll see about that,” Sam said as he headed through the gate, ignoring the fear that had taken hold in his stomach.

S
am unlocked the sheriff's office, taking down the “Sheriff Is Out” sign, eager to do some quiet work at his desk after his return from La Alianza. He'd stopped at Gilmore House to tell the mayor about his visit, and Prissy's father had decided to call a council meeting to discuss the matter.

Sam wanted to get his thoughts and recommendations down on paper while his impressions were still fresh. He planned to urge the council to call a town meeting to warn against the Ranchers' Alliance, to urge the townspeople to neither sell their property to them nor join. He wondered if they could pass an ordinance against new saloons or gambling halls. Was such a thing legal, and would it be enough to discourage the scheming Raney? He outlined his thoughts on a sheet of paper, point by point.

The idea of encountering his tormentor again had rankled his nerves at first, but during the ride back to town, Sam's resolve had stiffened. Even in the unlikely event Raney recognized him, he had no power over the sheriff of Simpson Creek. If he harmed a lawman, it would bring the
federals down on him and his cabal. He wouldn't want that, for they'd poke their noses into the land-buying scheme.

And he couldn't prove Sam had taken the ring. He might not have even realized that Sam was the one who had taken it, for Sam had left the safe locked up again, and he might not have missed the ring right away. Sam only hoped some unlucky employee of Raney's gambling emporium hadn't taken the blame for the theft instead.

He'd known the so-called Ranchers' Alliance was a bad thing, but now that he knew Raney was part of it, it was even worse. He had to defeat Raney and his coconspirators, not only to achieve his own revenge, but for the sake of the town and San Saba County.

And for the sake of the life he was trying to build here. With Prissy.

Sam began writing with such force that the lead broke in the pencil he'd so painstakingly sharpened to a point. Thunderation. Now he'd have to whittle it down again.

He'd just pulled his knife out of his pocket when the door was wrenched open. William Waters III burst in, slamming the door behind him.

“Sheriff, it's about time you put in an appearance!” he cried. “I've been looking for you all morning.”

Sam had heard the term “purple with rage” before, and he judged the easterner's complexion was only a couple of shades away from that. His eyes bulged as if someone had a chokehold around his neck. He was practically hopping from foot to foot in his fury.

“The very least you could do if you're out is to have a deputy here to take your place,” Waters went on. “But no doubt you were lollygagging at the mayor's mansion, mooning over his daughter.”

Sam smothered his irritation at the accusation. So the
little banty rooster was jealous, was he? It wouldn't do him any good. He'd never have had a chance with a woman like Prissy Gilmore, even if Sam and she had never met. Sam said in a mild tone, “Happens I was out investigating a citizen's complaint, Mr. Waters.” The man didn't need to know the citizen was Prissy. “Sorry I wasn't here. What can I do for you, now that I am?”

“You can order those Ranchers' Alliance fellows not to push me around, that's what!”

Sam straightened. “Simmer down, take a seat, and tell me what you're talking about,” he said, pointing to the chair on the other side of the scarred old desk. “What did they do to you?”

Waters sat down with a huff of breath. “I hadn't been here twenty-four hours before that Pennington fellow paid me a call at my hotel room offering to buy my ranch. Said he'd do me the favor of taking it off of my hands, if you can believe the effrontery!”

“You told him you didn't want to sell, didn't you?” Sam wasn't sure the man wouldn't be wiser to sell to someone, as ill-suited as he was to be a rancher in this rough country, but Waters's land abutted the Brookfields' and Sam certainly didn't want Nick and his wife to have the Ranchers' Alliance as a neighbor.

“He offered me a pittance compared to what it's worth, and I said no and thought no more of it,” Waters said. “Then he sent some of his men out yesterday—dangerous-looking fellows, ‘hired guns,' I believe you'd call them. They repeated the offer to buy me out, though for less money than the day before, with their hands on their pistol butts the whole time. Today all the men I'd hired to do the work have either disappeared or are dead drunk in the saloon—and when I went to claim the lumber I'd ordered
at the mill, the mill owner told me the order had been cancelled—but not by
me,
you may be sure I told him!”

“Sounds like someone's trying to discourage you from settling down out there,” Sam murmured. “Mr. Waters, I'll be attending a council meeting called to discuss this very subject tonight, and—”

“Fine, I'll be there. At Gilmore House?”

“Hold your horses a second,” Sam advised. “I wasn't asking you to attend. I can bring your report to the council, along with those of others who've been pressured to sell their land. Then we'll be calling a meeting of concerned citizens, and you're welcome to attend that—”

“And in the meantime, I'm to cool my heels?” Waters yelped, jumping to his feet and pounding on Sam's desk. “Allow these ruffians to threaten me?” He was fairly jumping up and down in his agitation.

Sam stood, extending his hand palm down. “Now, I didn't say that. I was just out to Pennington's ranch this morning, and I was about to say I would pay another call there and officially order them to leave you in peace because you don't want to sell.”

Waters stared at him, his beady eyes narrowed into mere slits. “How do I know I can trust you?” he demanded. “How do I know you're not in league with them to defraud me of my land?”

Sam took a deep breath, knowing he towered over Waters. As sheriff, he'd taken an oath to defend obnoxious people like William Waters just as much as kind, pleasant folks like Mrs. Detwiler. “You don't,” he said shortly, “except that I'm wearing this—” He jabbed his thumb into the five-pointed star he wore on his shirt. “And out here, if a man says he's going to do something, we trust he will. As an easterner, you might not have been aware of that.”

Waters took a step back. “I…I apologize, Sheriff,” he said. “I suppose I spoke too hastily. I-I'd be grateful if you'd speak to Mr. Pennington.”

“I'll do that. Now, in the meantime, who did you hire to bring the lumber out to your property? I'll mosey down to the saloon and have a word with them about starting the work they promised.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Waters said, all the fight gone out of him.

Sam took down the names, realizing they were going to need more than a council meeting to rein in the Alliance.

 

Prissy smiled in triumph as she took two apple pies out of the oven and saw that both were evenly browned.

“Ah,
señorita,
” Flora said, coming back into the kitchen. “They smell so good!”

“Even Sarah wouldn't be ashamed to claim these as her own,” Prissy said, pride at her accomplishment welling up in her. She had definitely come a long way in her cooking ability.

At Prissy's feet, Houston gave a yip, his liquid eyes pleading for a sample. But she'd already given him scraps of dough left over from the piecrust she'd rolled out. “Sorry, boy, no more for you. I'm leaving one here for Papa, Flora and Antonio.” She would cover the other with a napkin and take it down to the jail as a treat for Sam.

She smiled at the thought of the handsome sheriff, though she surely had been confused by his “preliminary proposal.” Last night she had served as secretary at the council meeting and taken down the minutes, so she had gotten to watch Sam from under lowered lashes as he and the others discussed strategies to deal with the actions of
the Ranchers' Alliance. She had felt a rush of pride as it became clear that the other men respected his opinion. Only once had he stolen a glance at her and smiled, all while the others at the meeting were listening to something Dr. Walker was saying. She'd looked down, feeling the heat spread up her neck and face clear to the roots of her hair.

Her father had appeared troubled at Sam's mention of the harassment William Waters had experienced. As soon as Sam finished up by saying he was going to speak to Pennington about it, her father turned to Prissy.

“Don't you and the Spinsters have an outing planned for next week out that way? To visit Miss Milly and the new baby out at the Brookfields' ranch?”

“Yes, Papa. But I'm sure we'll be fine,” Prissy had said, afraid her father meant to forbid the outing. “They have no reason to bother a wagonful of ladies.”

“Still, I don't like it,” her father said, steepling his fingers. “Perhaps—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Gilmore, but I'd be happy to escort the ladies to and from the Brookfield ranch,” Sam said.

Her father had looked at Sam, grateful. “Very well, then. Thanks, Sam. I surely would feel better about that.”

So Sam would be escorting the wagon that carried the Spinsters out to the Brookfield Ranch. Sam had seen the need for their protection, and he would be riding with them to protect them. How impressed the ladies would be! Her heart nearly burst with pride. Of course, she hadn't accepted Sam's offer. She'd had so many questions she hadn't known where to start.

But she could be proud of him anyway, couldn't she?

At the end of the meeting, the council decided to call a town meeting after church, since most of the ranchers
would already be in town for the church service. It would be quite interesting to see how that meeting went. She was looking forward to seeing what Sam had to say about it all.

Actually, to be honest, she was just looking forward to seeing Sam, regardless of what he had to say about it.

Perhaps she didn't have so many questions about him that needed answering after all.

She had just donned her bonnet, attached Houston's leash to his collar and scooped up the napkin-covered pie when a knock sounded at the front door. Houston charged toward the sound, nearly yanking Prissy off her feet. Prissy lost hold of the leash, and it was all she could do to keep her balance and hold on to the pie so it wouldn't fall facedown on the floor.

Oh, bother—her fingers had gone right through the crust, marring its perfection. Who could it be at the door? She didn't want to be delayed taking the pie to Sam—she needed to see him, to make sure that he…that he… Well, she wasn't sure, but she just knew she needed to see him.

Mariah Fairchild stood at the door, holding a parasol of lavender silk that exactly matched her dress. “Why, good morning, Priscilla dear! Is your papa home? I wonder if he's forgotten about the walk we were going to take this morning? Mmm, whatever you're carrying smells delicious!”

Prissy reminded herself it wasn't Mrs. Fairchild's fault that the dog had nearly made her drop the pie. Still, her very presence was a reminder that the friendship between her papa and the widow was progressing.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fairchild. I…I believe Papa's in his study.”
Papa has a right to happiness,
she reminded
herself sternly, and added, “There's another pie cooling in the kitchen. You're more than welcome to sample it.”

“How sweet of you, dear. Now, don't let me keep you—”

But Prissy had already grabbed Houston's leash and was sailing out the door, satisfied she'd done her duty of being courteous to the widow. She had not passed the gate when she heard the sound of carriage wheels slowing in the street.

Houston was lunging in that direction, barking.

She stopped and turned, for her bonnet impeded her sideward vision. The driver of the carriage wore livery; he tipped his hat to her even as a gentleman alighted from the victoria and did likewise.

“Miss Gilmore, I believe?” The unknown gentleman possessed pale amber eyes that seemed to pierce right through her, and not in a pleasant way.

“Yes,” she began uncertainly, controlling Houston with difficulty. “Quiet! No, I'm sorry, sir, I meant the dog. Y-you have the advantage of me…”

“Garth Pennington, ma'am. I'm sorry to interrupt you—you're obviously on the way to somewhere, but I'm happy to have found you before you left.”

“Why? What can I do for you?” she asked bluntly, recognizing his name as that of one of the leaders of the Alliance whom Sam had visited yesterday.

Antonio had emerged from the barn and came to Prissy's side. Grateful for his presence, she handed him the pie, which left her hands free to pick up her agitated pet.

“My, what a fierce little protector you have there,” Pennington said with a chuckle, but Prissy was not amused. Pennington apparently saw that, for he sobered. “Miss Gilmore, my intent is not to delay you on your errand, but
to apologize for the distress my men reportedly caused you a couple of days ago.” He reached into the coach and brought forth a lush bouquet of blood-red roses, which he held out to her. “I pray you will accept these as a token of my humble and abject regret that you were subjected to such treatment—no doubt in an excess of high spirits on their part rather than any real malice, I assure you, Miss Gilmore.”

Prissy stiffened. There was something too glib in the way the words of apology slid off the man's lips for her to believe any real regret on his part.

“That's not necessary, Mr. Pennington, but I thank you.” She made no move to accept the flowers.

“The men involved have been disciplined, Miss Pennington. You need not fear a repeat of such behavior.” Bending forward with a flourish, he added, “Please accept these lovely roses from the hothouse of La Alianza. They cannot be as lovely as you, if I may say so, but—”

“Leave the lady alone.”

Prissy had been so absorbed in what Pennington had been saying and in fending off the roses he offered that she hadn't heard Sam approaching on his black gelding. Neither had Pennington, for he startled at the voice and straightened abruptly from his bow, gaping at Sam.