Prissy heard the door creak open behind them and was relieved—until Houston growled.
“Ah, can it be the fair Miss Gilmore? What a happy chance I find you here.”
Prissy could barely smother a groan and smooth her features before she turned around to face William Waters—or “William Waters the Third,” as he pretentiously referred to himself, as if he were one in a line of kings. He’d been a guest at supper last night. He’d stayed an interminable time, rambling on and on in an obvious attempt to impress them with his fancy house back East and his plans to make his late uncle’s ranch the showplace of San Saba county. He’d pretended to admire her dog, until Houston’s bared teeth made it clear the feeling wasn’t mutual, then flirted clumsily with Prissy, oblivious to her father’s glares, until she’d finally excused herself with a headache.
“Oh! Mr. Waters, good morning.” A lady was always polite.
He made a great show of consulting his ornate gold pocket watch. “Why, it’s a minute after noon, Miss Gilmore,” he said. “If I may be so bold as to correct such a beauteous young lady—”
“Good afternoon, then. Heavens, I’m late for dinner. You obviously have a letter to mail,” she said, nodding toward the envelope he held, “so I won’t hold you up.”
She turned back to Caroline just in time to see a smile quirking her lips upward. She was glad Caroline could smile at something, even if it was “William Waters the Third.”
“Nonsense, I can mail this any time,” he assured her. “You must allow me to escort you, Miss Gilmore. I had thought of another question for your father in any case.” With an air of gallantry, he placed her hand over his arm.
“But—” For heaven’s sake, how was she to escape this man? She threw a desperate look over her shoulder at Caroline, but the postmaster’s daughter only flashed a sympathetic smile.
Waters led her out the door, still smiling down at her like a fond suitor.
And he would have walked straight into Sam Bishop, if the sheriff hadn’t agilely stepped aside.
What was the annoying tenderfoot doing escorting Prissy anywhere? Clearly Sam should not have been so quick to point the man in the mayor’s direction. Houston, walking at Prissy’s side, looked none too happy, but wagged his tail when he saw Sam.
“Excuse me—” Waters began, then his eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, Sheriff Bishop! Good morning to you!” The man fairly beamed, obviously proud at being seen with the most beautiful girl in Simpson Creek on his arm.
He didn’t have a clue about the anger that surged within Sam at the sight of them.
“Mr. Waters. Miss Prissy.” He touched his hat brim respectfully at Prissy and saw the discomfort in those blue eyes. Not unease at being seen with a rival beau, but a plea for rescue. His jealousy subsided.
“I was just escorting Miss Gilmore back to her home,” Waters announced importantly, and began to pull Prissy around Sam on the boardwalk. The little dog growled as Waters came near Sam.
Sam moved into Waters’s path. “Actually, I’ll be happy to take over that duty, as the mayor and I are dining together—town business to conduct, you understand.” He kept his tone polite but firm, and stared down Waters until the man looked away.
“Actually, I needed to speak to him, too—”
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to make time for you, sir. Later.” He looked at Prissy, and was pleased to see the relief flooding her face as she let go of Waters’s arm and took his. He was happy to be her rescuer.
“But—”
“Good day, Mr. Waters,” she called over her shoulder as they set off down the boardwalk in the direction of Gilmore House, the dog trotting happily with them, his tail carried jauntily aloft.
“Oh, Sam, thank heaven you appeared just now!” she exclaimed when they were out of earshot. “I couldn’t seem to get away from that tiresome man! He found me in the post office and just took over!”
He grinned down at her. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I cut in, so to speak.”
“Mind?” Her laughter was music to his ears. “You were an answer to a prayer, Sam! Mr. Waters came to the house to speak to Papa last night, stayed until politeness dictated we invite him for supper, then stayed forever! Houston almost bit him once,” she said, then smothered a giggle.
“They say dogs are good judges of character,” Sam said. “Good boy.”
The dog looked up, panting happily, and gave a yip as if he understood perfectly.
“I was afraid he was going to offer to take you to dinner at the hotel, since I would be busy with your father,” Sam confessed with a laugh. “I’d have had to come up with another reason for you to be there, too, if he had.”
“I want you to know, Sam, I gave him no reason to behave so familiarly with me,” Prissy said, shuddering.
He patted her hand on his arm with his free hand. “I’m glad to hear that, sweetheart.” The endearment came out naturally, as if he’d been calling her that for a long time. She blinked, then blushed. His sweet Texas rose—what a lucky chance that had brought him to this town! “I actually do need to speak to your father, Prissy,” he said.
“Consider yourself officially invited to eat with us, then.”
He nodded. “And I have the pleasure of informing you we’ve been invited for supper by Mrs. Detwiler.” He told her about having to capture the goat who’d eaten the old lady’s roses.
“Oh, dear,” murmured Prissy, amused. “Mrs. Menendez is lucky Mrs. Detwiler’s mellowed so much. She used to guard those roses with a shotgun. But why has she invited us—together, I mean?”
Sam smiled. “Apparently she thinks we make quite a handsome couple.”
To his great delight, Prissy blushed again. He was beginning to think he could spend his whole life making Priscilla Gilmore blush.
Prissy watched her father’s brow furrow with concern when Sam told him about meeting Garth Pennington and the sullen mutterings of Tolliver about the Ranchers’ Alliance.
“I’ve heard of several families leaving the area,” her father said, “and I’ve met Pennington. Invited himself into one of our council meetings, just before you came, Sam. Full of hot air and importance he was, rattling on about his partnership with two powerful men of influence from Houston—”
A cloud passed over Sam’s face and was gone so swiftly Prissy couldn’t even be sure she had seen it. Was he remembering something unpleasant that had happened to him in Houston? Did it have anything to do with the cut that was still visible on his cheek, and the way he winced when he moved sometimes?
“—men who were going to ‘transform San Saba county, maybe even all of Texas before they were through,’ he claimed. He even tried to get himself a seat on council representing the ranchers of the area, but we soon disabused him of that notion,” her father added with a snort. “Of all the sand! Comin’ into this town and flashing money around, and thinking that gives you the right to speak for anyone. You keep me informed if you hear anything else, Bishop.”
“I will, sir,” Sam said, then took a sip of his tea. “And what shall I do with the money Pennington gave me for his man’s fine?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold half eagle.
Prissy’s father eyed it as if it might turn into a snake. “Any monies the sheriff collects for fines and whatnot, we put into a fund for widows and orphans at the bank. Prissy can take it over there for you this afternoon, if you like.”
Sam handed her the gold coin.
“Papa, we’ve been invited to Mrs. Detwiler’s for supper, Sam and I. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all, not at all. You young people have a good time. Perhaps I’ll invite Mar—that is, Mrs. Fairchild, to come have supper with me instead.”
Prissy kept her expression smooth. It wouldn’t be fair to begrudge her father some company if she wasn’t going to be there. “Th-that’s a fine idea, Papa,” she said, and was rewarded with a warm look of approval by Sam.
“Well, I’d better be about my duti
es,” Sam said, rising. “You never know when another marauding goat might get loose. Miss Prissy, if you’re going to the bank now, I’ll walk you on my way to the livery. Think I’ll take Jackson out for a little gallop, and see what I can see of this ranch of Pennington’s.”
Prissy rose, too. “Yes, I want to be sure to be gone when Mr. Waters comes to talk to you, Papa,” she said. “I ran into him at the post office, and he said he had more questions for you. There, you have been warned,” she said.
Her father groaned. “What a tiresome man he is. Don’t they teach those Yankees any manners or sense? Dr. Walker isn’t like that,” he said, referring to Sarah’s husband, who was from Maine.
Houston, who’d been content to lie at Prissy’s feet during the meal, emerged from under the table and wagged his tail hopefully.
“Yes, you may come too, Houston.”
Once they left the house, Prissy gave vent to the curiosity that had been plaguing her.
“Sam, what happened to you before you came to Simpson Creek? In Houston, I mean. You wince occasionally…and who gave you that cut?” she asked, indicating with a nod the now barely visible laceration.
She could only see his profile, but it was enough. The muscles in his jaw went rigid, and a vein jumped in his temple. He was silent for the time it took them to walk from the steps across the grounds, and Prissy was wondering whether she ought to apologize for the question, but then he finally turned to her again.
“Let’s just say I ran into a man just like this Pennington fellow of the Ranchers’ Alliance, Prissy—only worse. Power can make some men real ugly to deal with.”
Prissy stared at him, but something about his shuttered gaze discouraged her from asking more questions.
She couldn’t stop wondering, however, what Sam had been involved in to meet up with the person who had dealt him these injuries.
Chapter Ten
“Why, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Daugherty,” Prissy said as she entered the bank, carrying her dog, and spotted the old couple waiting in front of the teller’s counter. “I don’t often see you in town except on Sundays.”
The old rancher and his wife turned around to greet her. “Why hello, Miss Prissy,” Mr. Daugherty said. “Yes, and I’m afraid this’ll be the last time we see you. We’re sellin’ out and leavin’. We’ve jes’ come t’ pull our savin’s out.”
Prissy couldn’t believe her ears. “Leaving? But why? You are one of the founding families of Simpson Creek, aren’t you?”
Mrs. Daugherty tried to smile, but all she managed was a nervous twitch of her lips. “That’s right. Mr. Daugherty an’ I came here in a covered wagon back in fifty-one.” She glanced over Prissy’s shoulder, her eyes uneasy.
Following the woman’s gaze, Prissy turned.
Two fellows slouched in chairs against the front wall of the bank. She didn’t recognize them, but when they noticed her looking, leering grins spread over their unshaven faces. One of them laid a finger on the brim of his hat, but it was a mockery of a courteous gesture.
Houston shifted in her arms and bared his teeth.
“Vicious little critter,” one of them murmured, and the other guffawed.
Mr. Daugherty’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing, just shifted his weight. “We’ve been offered a good price for the ranch, Miss Prissy, so we decided to take it.”
“By why—” Prissy began, then decided her question would sound too nosy. She wondered if the presence of the rough-looking men lounging in the chairs had something to do with their decision. “But where will you go?” she asked instead.
Mr. Daugherty shrugged. “Maybe south, ’round San Antone. Alma’s people live down there.” He put his arm around his wife protectively.
“You be sure and tell yer papa we said good-bye,” Mrs. Daugherty added. “He’s a good man. We’re gonna miss folks like him.”
“And we’ll miss you, too.”
The teller finished counting out Mr. Daugherty’s money and handed it to him. The old couple turned and left. And the cowboys rose and followed them out.
Chilled despite the overwarm day, Prissy watched them go.
“What can I do for you, Miss Gilmore?” Ed Markison, the teller, asked.
“I…I came to deposit this in the Widows and Orphans fund,” she said, absently handing him the half-eagle coin. “What’s going on, Mr. Markison? Who were those men?”
He shot a glance at the door as if to be sure they’d really gone. “Pennington’s men,” he whispered. “He’s one a’ them fancy rich fellers who came up from Houston.”
“Why are you whispering?” she asked, since they were the only two people in the bank office.
He jerked his head toward the bank president’s office door. “’Cause he and another a’ them fellers is in talkin’ t’ Mr. Avery. Miss Prissy, the Daughertys ain’t the only ones whose ranches’ve been bought up by them Alliance folks. Th’ widow Harrison was in here too, earlier this mornin’, and she told me the Jacobsons are sellin’ out t’ them men as well.”
Pennington and the Ranchers’ Alliance—the very same people her father and Sam had been talking about over dinner.
“You be careful when you’re out an’ about, Miss Prissy,” Ed Markison said. “I’ve told Emily th’ same thing, told her to wait till I can go with her if she goes anywhere beyond the mercantile…” His voice trailed off as Mr. Avery came out and seized a pile of papers from a desk behind his teller.
“Will you be at th’ weddin’, Miss Prissy?” Markison asked in an overloud voice, as if apprehensive his boss could have heard them whispering.
“I sure will, Mr. Markison,” Prissy said, watching the bank president rush back inside the office without even appearing to notice her before he closed the door again. “Your Emily’s going to be the most beautiful bride.” She spoke automatically, her mind racing at what Markison had told her. Sam and Papa would be interested to hear it.
Markison wrote out a deposit slip and she placed it in her pocket, wondering if the cowboys would follow the Daughertys back to their ranch to make sure they left. She sighed and hoped this Pennington fellow really had given them a fair price for their land. Mrs. Pennington had appeared so frightened that they might have thought it safer to cut their losses and leave even if the money was less than it should have been.
She opened the door and walked back out onto the dusty boardwalk, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun. Her mind had barely registered the creak of leather and the snort of a horse behind her when a voice drawled, “Well, hey, Miss Prissy, we was wonderin’, are you really…uh, prissy?” She whirled to see the cowboys sitting on horses behind her. Immediately each took a position flanking her, riding so close she could have extended an arm and touched a stirrup on either side. She felt a frisson of fear mixed with irritation.
Houston bristled, and would have snapped at one of the cowboy’s booted feet if Prissy hadn’t tightened her hold on the dog. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, and kept moving.
“‘Excuse me, sir,’” the one on her right echoed in a high falsetto to the one on her left. “Jace, I reckon she is prissy, all right. Prissy an’ proper.”
Houston growled and barked at each of them in turn, and Prissy had to struggle to hold on to the little dog in her arms.
“Mind yerself, Joe, she’s liable to sic that killer dawg on you,” the other cowboy said, then both guffawed. “It’ll prob’ly rip yer throat out.”
The street was deserted. She had only to cross the street diagonally to reach the safety of the post office, she told herself. Neither of the horses appeared anything but placid, and each cowboy rode with negligent ease, one hand on the reins, the other on his upper leg. Yet there was something so intimidating about being so closely surrounded by the tall beasts ridden by men who only had to knee their mounts closer to stop her in her tracks—or reach out and grab her.
If only she’d carried a parasol against the sun as Mama had always taught her to do to protect her ladylike complexi
on. Then she’d at least have some sort of a weapon. She could take its metal-tipped end and jab one of her tormentors’ legs. But it was hard to manage a parasol when she had to pick Houston up to enter a business, so she had only worn a bonnet.
If she kept her eyes straight ahead of her, the bonnet’s sides kept her from seeing the men, only the horses they rode. Houston continued to bristle and growl alternately at each cowboy.
And then she spotted the pile of horse droppings directly in her path. They were steering her straight toward it. If she kept moving forward, she would have no choice but to walk through it, and with Houston struggling to be free of her grasp, she would have trouble even picking up her skirts.
Tightening her grasp on the dog with one hand, she slowed just enough that she was even with one of the horses’ hips, then reached out and smacked it with the flat of her hand, yelling, “Hyaaa!”
It worked. The startled horse lunged forward into a crow-hopping buck, allowing her to sprint behind it on unsullied ground and reach the sanctuary of the post office while the other cowboy was still reacting to what she had done. Once inside, Prissy slammed the door behind her. The men’s hoots of laughter came through the open windows on each side of the building.
As soon as she freed Houston, the dog threw himself against the door, barking and bristling with fury.
“Miss Prissy! What’s wrong? You’re as white as a full moon in December!” Mr. Wallace asked as he dashed from behind the counter to reach her side.
Beyond the door, she could hear the sound of thudding hoofs galloping down the road.
“Those men—they…they were…”
The postmaster left her side and dashed to the door, peered out for a moment, then returned inside and fetched Prissy a chair.
“Nothin’ left of ’em but a cloud of dust, but I reckon I know who you mean. I’ve seen those fellers in town lately, hootin’ and hollerin’, bullyraggin’ people who were mindin’ their own business. Ranchers’ Alliance men, I heard they were, though I don’t know any Simpson Creek ranchers who’d join that thing—not voluntarily, anyway,” he added, glaring in the direction they had gone.
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