Everyone except Milly ran to the back door and saw the ranch hands running from the bunkhouse toward the barn.
“What is it, Bobby?” Sarah called to the youngest of them, who was the last one out of the bunkhouse.
He stopped. “Dunno, Miz Sarah, we were just fixin’ t’go back out to the creek pasture t’ mend fences when we heard the shots!”
Prissy ran after him to the barn. Sam and Nick were each saddling their horses with haste. The ranch hands began to do likewise.
Prissy dashed to the stall where Sam was cinching up Jackson’s girth. “What is it? Who’s shooting out there?” she cried.
His face was grim. “We don’t know, but we’re going to go find out. Nick says it’s coming from the direction of the Waters ranch house.”
“Listen up, men!” Nick shouted from the next stall. “Elijah, Isaiah, Caleb, saddle up and follow us as soon as you can. Micah, Josh, Bobby, you stay here and guard the house—”
“Go in the house, Prissy, and stay there,” Sam ordered. “Please,” he added more gently, when she stayed rooted where she was. “The cowboys staying here will keep you safe. Now go!”
She wanted to ask him not to go, to be one of the ones who remained to guard the house, but she knew that a sheriff couldn’t choose to avoid danger. She was overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him, to beg him to be careful, to throw her arms around him and keep him rooted to the spot.
But of course she couldn’t do any of those things.
So Prissy took one last look at him before trudging back out into the sunlight. Her heart pounded, her eyes stung with unshed tears. She felt helpless and terrified, and all the more so when she saw a black plume of smoke rising from the direction of Waters’s ranch house.
But she and the other ladies weren’t helpless, she reminded herself as she ran the rest of the way to the kitchen door. At least they could pray.
And they did so, flinching as they heard several more reports echo from the direction of the Waters ranch, then a terrifying silence.
More than an hour later, they heard a horse and wagon approaching the house. Prissy ran to the back door. “One of your men is driving, Milly,” she reported.
“But what about the rest of the men?” Milly asked from the parlor.
“I’m not sure,” Prissy answered, her heart in her throat. “Let’s find out.”
Sarah stayed in the house with the baby while all the other women ran outside, joining the cowhands who’d remained behind to guard them as the wagon drew up in the yard.
“What happened, Isaiah? Where’s Nick and the rest?” Milly demanded.
Prissy’s eyes were drawn to a blanket-covered form in the wagon bed and she began to shake.
“That’s not—that’s not—”
The cowhand mercifully addressed Prissy first. “It’s that Waters fella, that easterner. This is his wagon we found there.”
The Spinsters gasped. Isaiah turned back to Milly. “The rest of the men went after the men that killed ’im, Miz Milly,” he said, nodding towards the body. “We got there just as they was ridin’ off. Soon’s they caught sight a’ us, they scattered in all different d’rections, so I don’ know if they gonna be able to ketch any of ’em. But they’re sure ‘nough gonna try.”
“Could you see who attacked the ranch?” Prissy asked, able to breathe again now that she knew it wasn’t Sam lying in the wagon. “Was it Pennington’s men?”
Isaiah said, “We couldn’t tell. They all had on masks. And that Waters ranch house, Miz Milly, it’s burnin’ to the ground.”
Prissy sighed, certain Pennington was behind this. No one else had a reason to harm Waters. The easterner had come to Texas with such big plans and high hopes—now he had lost his life and his efforts had come to nothing. She only hoped he hadn’t suffered.
“Mr. Sam, he says for you ladies to wait till Dr. Walker comes for Miz Sarah, then Caleb and I are t’ ride along with y’all back to Gilmore House. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back.”
Prissy hadn’t even thought about the journey home, with Pennington’s murderous henchmen on the loose. She wanted to stay right where she was until she saw Sam return, safe and sound. It was all she could do not to drop to her knees. Lord, please protect him while he’s off in pursuit of these evil men.
A volley of barks from Houston announced Sam’s arrival just as Prissy lit the lamp in the hallway. She dashed past Flora to the door.
“Oh, Sam, I’m so glad you’re finally here!” Only Flora’s presence stopped her from launching herself into his arms. “Come in, come in.” Even in the gathering dusk, she could see his clothes were stained and dusty, and his face was etched with weariness. Beyond him in front of the steps Jackson stood, head down, where Sam had dropped his reins.
“No, thanks, I’m all dirty,” he said, “and Señora Flora wouldn’t appreciate it if I tracked dirt into the house.” He attempted a wink in the housekeeper’s direction, but he was clearly exhausted, a dark expression on his face. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Yes, I’m okay,” she assured him, though she was practically shaking again, reliving the terror she’d experienced when she thought it had been Sam in that wagon.
Dr. Walker had examined the body while the ladies were inside preparing to leave. Though he had assured them Waters had died quickly, there was something in his troubled gaze that told Prissy he was only trying to comfort them.
“Sam, is that you?” her father said, coming into the hall from his study. “Prissy told me what happened. A terrible business, terrible. Were you able to catch up with any of the murdering scoundrels?”
Sam’s gaze fell and his shoulders slumped. Prissy’s heart twisted with compassion for him.
“No, sir. They had too much of a lead. Nick and I followed one that ran north, then west. We thought he might turn southwest and circle back to La Alianza, but we lost his trail. We stopped there anyway and demanded to look around, but no man or horse looked like he’d just come in from a hard ride.”
Her father whistled. “You’ve covered a lot of ground today. Did you tell Pennington you suspect his men did the killing?”
Sam shook his head. “He wasn’t there. But I spoke to Francis Byrd. Of course he pretended complete ignorance of the raid and acted shocked that we would blame Alliance men. We’d have a hard time proving it, seeing as they were masked, but I made the accusation anyway.”
“Was Waters alone out there? I thought he’d hired men to help with the rebuilding of the ranch house,” her father said.
Sam narrowed his eyes. “He’d had trouble with them not showing up. We found him lying among the piles of lumber and stone he’d bought, but I don’t think he could do that sort of work, not by himself.”
“Did they rob him?”
Sam shrugged. “There wasn’t any money in his pockets, but I don’t know if he was carrying any.”
He blinked suddenly, as if he’d thought of something, but before Prissy could ask him about it, her father spoke again. “Maybe that’ll be the end of it, now that they know we’re onto them.” But he said it without any real conviction in his voice.
Sam didn’t look convinced, either. “I’ll stop by the hotel now, see if I can find any next of kin’s address among Waters’s effects, so I can notify them of his passing.”
His eyes looked like two burned holes in a blanket, Prissy thought. “That can wait until tomorrow, Sam. Come in and have something to eat. I’m sure you haven’t had a bite since noontime, and the hotel restaurant’s closed down now.”
He tried to smile and failed. “Thanks, but I need to take Jackson back to the livery and rub him down, see him fed. Then I’m turning in myself. I’ll see you at church tomorrow, Prissy. Good night, Mayor.”
“You will wait at least until I make a sandwich for you, Señor Sheriff,” Flora commanded. “I will wrap it up and you can take it with you.” She bustled off to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
“You’
re a good man, Sam Bishop,” her father said, coming forward and extending his hand to Sam. “I’m proud to know you. Go and get some rest. I have full confidence in you, confidence you’ll bring Waters’s murderers to justice and find a way to get Pennington and his kind run out of San Saba County.”
Prissy’s heart felt full to bursting as she watched her father’s words sink into Sam. How humble he was, in spite of her father’s praise. She beamed at her father.
“Thank you, Mayor Gilmore. I’ll do my best to be worthy of your confidence in me,” he said hoarsely. “Good night, sir. Good night, Prissy.”
It was all she could do not to follow him, fling her arms around him and tell him that yes, she would indeed marry him. Happily.
The mayor’s undeserved praise and Prissy’s radiant smile seared through Sam’s soul like flaming swords as he trudged down the darkened street, leading his horse. He wasn’t worthy of Prissy’s father’s high regard or his confidence, and if he knew that Sam had come to Simpson Creek with a stolen piece of jewelry, in search of an easier life—and a beautiful wife—he’d slam the door in his face.
So he thought all Sam needed was a good night’s sleep, and then he’d awaken refreshed, knowing how to discover the identity of the murderers and the way to rid the town of the Alliance?
He uttered a bark of ironic laughter that startled a sleepy bird roosting in the rafters above the livery doorway. He doubted the workmen would be able to shed any light on the attack, so he didn’t have a clue how to prove an Alliance man had killed Waters any more than he had a plan to defeat the triumvirate bent on taking over San Saba County. Maybe he’d know how to proceed if he’d ever been a sheriff or even a deputy, but he was nothing more than a liar and a thief himself.
Any day now, Kendall Raney could arrive at La Alianza, and then it was only a matter of time before he and Sheriff Sam Bishop would meet. And if Raney recognized the hapless gambler in the present sheriff, Sam Bishop would be exposed as a fraud.
What on earth had he gotten himself into? How on earth was he to avenge the murder of William Waters?
He could run, he knew. He could leave his tired horse here and take one of the livery’s other mounts, ride out of town in the dead of night and start over elsewhere. He’d always hankered to see the Rocky Mountains, or even California. He’d heard San Francisco possessed marvelous gambling halls.
But that was the easy way out, and it no longer seemed desirable since it meant giving up his chance with Prissy and causing her sorrow and pain.
Maybe he should leave, though. Maybe a woman like Prissy would be better off without a liar pursuing her. Prissy deserved a man of integrity, a man of his word, a man whose life wasn’t built on lies. He’d cause her just as much sorrow and pain if he stayed as he would if he left.
He didn’t have any answers. All he knew was that he was in deep—and there was no good way out.
Chapter Fourteen
Sam’s first priority the next morning was tracking down the men who’d been hired to help Waters rebuild his house at the ranch. Following a hunch, he found them sitting down in the shade of a cottonwood below the lumber mill by the creek, sharing a bottle.
No, they didn’t know anything about the attack, though they were sure sorry to hear about it, if only because it meant now they couldn’t count on earning the wages the fool tenderfoot had promised them. One of them said he’d received a message purportedly written by Waters telling them they didn’t have to work the rest of the week.
Sam found no reason to think they were complicit in the murder.
He asked George Detwiler to keep his ears open if any Alliance men grew boastful under the influence of his whiskey. If only he had a man who could infiltrate the Alliance ranks, but who? He didn’t want to risk anyone else’s life. And he didn’t dare pretend he’d decided to ally himself with the Alliance—if Raney ever did come to the area, that would be too close for comfort.
An uneasy quiet descended on Simpson Creek during the week that followed. Sam saw half a dozen more wagons driven by longtime residents, piled high with household goods, leaving town—and an increasing number of strangers riding into town, some with families and goods of their own in heavily laden wagons. Some of them, he discovered, were moving onto the very ranches just vacated by Simpson Creek settlers, but when he asked Mr. Avery, the bank president, about it, he admitted the ranches had been bought up by the Alliance. And Pennington was pressuring him to let him buy the Waters place, now that its heir had met with an “unfortunate accident.” But Avery had insisted he had not received instructions from the man’s heirs in New York as yet, so there could be no sale.
“He smiled at me like I’d said they could buy it tomorrow,” Avery reported. “Thinks it’s as good as theirs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already sent a telegram to those New York folks, offerin’ them a ‘bargain,’ but of course the telegraph operator can’t ethically divulge the contents of any messages he sends.”
“A bargain like he offered Waters?” Sam had asked.
Avery’s mouth had twisted. “I can’t give details, either, of course, but I can tell you that no one who’s left got anything remotely resembling a bargain. I think they got motivated to sell by something else entirely, if you catch my meaning.”
Nick Brookfield told him that he’d turned Pennington and Byrd away on Monday when they’d come calling to offer to buy the Brookfield ranch, “now that the Waters ranch would soon belong to the Alliance.” His men reported potshots taken at them while they were out in the fields so that they’d had to resort to standing watch from the small fortification they’d built atop the hill next to their ranch.
“It’s like last summer all over again,” Nick said, having told Sam about last year’s raids by the Comanches and the harassment by a group called the Circle who had tried to run off the ranch’s cowhands simply because of the color of their skin.
Sam took a morning and rode west to Colorado Bend. He wanted to assess the sheriff there, a man named Hantz, since Pennington had already boasted of the “cordial relationship” they had with him. Hantz merely shrugged his shoulders at Sam’s concern and said he couldn’t find anything illegal about a group of fellows buying land from individuals, and even when Sam had confided his suspicion that the triumvirate was behind the murder of a legal heir to a property, he seemed unmoved.
“Coulda been done by anyone,” he said with a shrug. “You said yourself you didn’t have no proof a’ who it was. Don’t look like you have no case against the Ranchers’ Alliance, Bishop,” he added with faintly veiled derision.
When he rode east to San Saba, however, it was a different story. Sheriff Wade Teague seemed as troubled as Sam was about the encroachment of the three-man partnership, but had no idea what action to take.
“I heard that last partner’s comin’ up from Houston. You don’t want to ruffle this Kendall Raney’s feathers, from what I hear tell. Real ruthless character, he is. You watch your back, Bishop. Don’t rile him less’n you have no choice.”
You don’t know the half of it, Sam thought.
“Time was, we could sic the Texas Rangers on a bunch like that,” the San Saba lawman went on. “But it don’t look like they’ll be reorganized any time soon. Them Texas State police—” he spat to show what he thought of that organization “—didn’t do nothin’ Throckmorton didn’t want ’em to do, and they ain’t apt t’be any different with Pease now he’s governor. Shoot, I dunno if you could even count on the Army unless those fellows came in with their hired guns at their back and tried to take your job and the mayor’s.”
So he was alone.
On Sunday, Reverend Chadwick preached on the topic of fear, as if he could sense what was on Sam’s mind and the minds of so many other Simpson Creek residents.
“The words of Romans 8:31 ring true for us now just as they did when the Apostle Paul wrote them—‘If God be for us, who can be against us?’” The pastor’s voice quavered with age but nevertheless rang with a
uthority and assurance.
But Sam wondered if he had the right to think of himself as part of “us.” Though he’d always made sure he and his sisters attended Sunday services back in Tennessee when they were growing up because it was the proper thing to do, he’d never quite felt that they had God on their side. He’d taken His name in vain when the hand of cards he’d been dealt had gone against him, had cheated when he could get by with it.
And he’d stolen that ring.
By thunder, he was going to have to find a way to do some good with that ring, to get it off his hands—and off his soul. Then he wouldn’t imagine he felt it burning a hole through his shoulder at night when he lay on his mattress trying to sleep. Maybe then he’d feel worthy to become part of the “us” of the Simpson Creek Church.
Beside him, Prissy sat listening attentively, unaware of the turmoil of his thoughts.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together today to bless the union of Emily Thompson and Edward Markison,” Reverend Chadwick intoned the following Saturday afternoon.
Prissy glanced at Sam, sitting on the pew beside her, sitting ramrod-straight in his freshly brushed black frock coat. He’d promised to put the town’s problems aside while attending the wedding and the festivities afterward, but clearly he was having trouble doing it despite his best intentions.
He’s so dedicated. Simpson Creek is fortunate to have him.
As if sensing her thoughts, he smiled down at her and took her hand for a brief moment, squeezing it gently. Although they had still not spoken of his preliminary proposal, something had shifted between them after the incident at the ranch—after she’d thought she’d lost him.
“Emily looks so happy, doesn’t she?” she whispered, returning his smile.
“So does Ed,” he whispered back, nodding toward the groom, who stood facing his bride at the altar, grinning from ear to ear. “He told me she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.” He held her gaze for a moment longer, studying her face.
The Sheriff's Sweetheart Page 14
