Prissy felt her face flush with color as he stared at her. She suddenly found herself imagining walking down the aisle toward Sam.
In the row ahead of them, Sarah Walker, who was sitting with her husband, Milly and Nick turned around, and winked, as if she knew exactly what was happening. Prissy smiled at her, then cast a hasty glance on her other side, where her father was sitting. He was staring toward the bridal pair, completely focused on them, unaware of his daughter’s blushing at the possibility of marrying the handsome man next to her.
Beyond her father sat Mariah Fairchild, resplendent in another dress of the dove-gray she looked so dignified in. The widow seemed forever at Prissy’s father’s side these days. He was going to marry her, Prissy knew that now. He hadn’t said as much, and Prissy would never dare to ask him, but she now saw it was inevitable. It was just as well—her father deserved happiness, even if it was with the widow.
“‘Charity suffereth long, and is kind, charity envieth not’—now, we know Paul meant love when he wrote about charity, didn’t he?” Reverend Chadwick was saying.
Prissy winced inwardly. It served her right that she should begin listening again in time to feel convicted by the Scriptures. She hadn’t been kind in her thoughts just now. Her father wasn’t the only one who deserved happiness—Mariah Fairchild did, too. It was time she started being a bit more charitable, more welcoming.
She felt Sam would approve. And she realized she quite enjoyed his approval.
After the service, the bride, groom and guests feasted on food contributed by the Spinsters’ Club and the magnificent four-tiered wedding cake Sarah had baked. The bouquet was tossed and caught by Polly Shackleford, who giggled about the suggestion that one of the bachelors coming to Prissy’s barbecue next Saturday might turn out to be her match.
“Pooh, anyone with eyes in their head can see that you’ll be the next one married, no matter who caught the bouquet,” Sarah whispered, while Polly paraded around the social hall with her prize.
Prissy laughed. “Time will tell,” she said.
“Tell what?” asked Sam, who had just rejoined them.
“Who will ask me to dance first,” she told him, fluttering her lashes at him. “Listen, the fiddler’s tuning up outside.”
“You don’t have to wait for time to tell you, sweetheart, I’ll be the one to ask you first,” he said, sweeping her along with the guests thronging for the door. “And I hope you’ll save most of your dances for me,” he whispered in her ear.
The worst of the heat had faded with the sun’s setting. Prissy and Sam and the rest of the wedding guests spilled out of the church social hall and onto the lawn, where lanterns had been strung and lit, and a temporary platform for the fiddler erected. The bride and groom were already dancing, soon joined by Emily’s parents and the best man and his wife, who had come for the wedding from Buffalo Bayou, where Ed Markison was from.
Later, when they were breathless and thirsty from dancing, Prissy sat on one of the benches around the dance area while Sam went to fetch them some punch.
“Sure miss some of the old faces that used to come in from the ranches to attend doin’s like a wedding these days,” Mrs. Detwiler, sitting nearby, was saying to Prissy’s father, the widow and old Zeke Carter, who usually sat outside the mercantile whittling. “You didn’t get to meet them, Mrs. Fairchild, but there are so many longtime settlers who’ve just packed up and moved away. Don’t know what things are coming to in Simpson Creek.”
“It’s worse than that,” the old man said. “Some folks are actually joinin’ that Alliance, can you believe it? I heard tell Clyde Knight’s joinin’ so’s he kin keep his ranch, he says. Huh! I gave him a piece a’ my mind, let me tell you.”
Prissy sighed. Even at a wedding, the threat of the Alliance and the changes it was bringing to Simpson Creek was a topic that couldn’t be forgotten.
“And I’ve seen them strangers on the street with that emblem on their shirts,” Zeke went on. “I passed right by ’em without so much as a nod. The very idea! Sheriff, you got to do something!” he said, as Sam returned with two cups of punch.
“Pardon me, sir?” Sam listened politely, head bent, as the old man told him what they had been talking about. How patient Sam was being with the old man, she thought.
“It’s a wedding, Zeke. Let the sheriff have a little time away from the troubles,” Mrs. Detwiler said, with an apologetic look at Prissy.
But the graybeard was not to be deterred. “And what about that murdered easterner, Sheriff Bishop?” he demanded. “He wasn’t exactly one a’ us, but it ain’t right that a man inherits a piece a’land and he ends up dyin’ afore he ever gits t’live on it.”
“I’m doing everything I can to discover the identity of the murderers,” Sam began.
“Pshaw, you know sure as God made lil’ apples them Ranchers’ Alliance fellas did it,” Zeke retorted. “If you was to go arrest a couple of ’em and string ’em up, I reckon that would put them scoundrels on notice.”
“Zeke, Sheriff Bishop can hardly arrest men at random and hang them just to teach the Alliance or anyone else a lesson,” her father put in hastily. “Simpson Creek has always been run by laws and principles of justice. And maybe we ought to save this discussion for a more suitable time,” he said heavily, with a meaningful glance at the ladies present.
The old man snorted. “I ain’t forgot you’re up for election soon, James Gilmore.”
It was a retort Prissy was all too used to hearing aimed at her father.
“Feel free to run against me, Zeke,” her father said, unperturbed. “Ah, the fiddler’s striking up a waltz. Mariah, would you do me the honor?”
Sam turned to Prissy, about to speak, but he paused at the sound of hoofbeats approaching.
A moment later she saw them—Ranchers’ Alliance men approaching on horseback, with Tolliver riding in the center of the pack.
Tolliver raised a hand and they all reined in their horses. “Well, lookee what we got here, fellas,” he said. “An’ here we was sayin’ the saloon didn’t have no pretty girls t’dance with. That was ’cause they were all down here dancin’. And here they got fancy food an’ even fiddlin’. We’re lucky we found the party afore it was over. Reckon we’ll join y’all,” he said, dismounting from his horse. All around him, his cronies were doing the same, eyeing the Spinsters and the punchbowl.
Sam felt Prissy bristle beside him and saw Reverend Chadwick leave the folks he was sitting with and begin to make his way toward the interlopers.
“Stay here, Prissy,” Sam murmured. He then moved to intercept the elderly preacher. “Let me handle this, Reverend.”
Striding rapidly over to where the saddle tramps were tying up their horses, he called out, “Sorry, fellows, but this is a private party, a wedding. You’ll have to ride on.”
Tolliver faced him, hands on his hips. “Ride on? But we want t’ dance with th’ bride, offer her our very best wishes, drink a toast. Ain’t that right, boys?”
The others chorused their agreement.
“Not this time. Ride on,” Sam repeated, pushing his frock coat back to display the gun belt he wore, glad he’d listened to Nick’s advice to wear it everywhere he went, even at social events. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nick and Dr. Walker and other men of the town move, some of them behind him, others forming a solid barrier between the Ranchers’ Alliance men and the ladies.
“Now that ain’t very hospitable of ya,” Tolliver complained. “We was just tryin’ t’be neighborly, t’be a part of the town. I have a notion I’d like t’dance with your sweetheart,” he said, throwing a leering look toward Prissy.
Sam ignored the personal gibe. “I said ride on, Tolliver.”
“Or what?” jeered Tolliver, the others echoing him with catcalls.
Sam hated the fact that this happy event was about to be marred by an ugly scene, at best. He wished he could to turn around and indicate to Prissy that he wanted her to herd the women into t
he safety of the church social hall. But he dared not shift his eyes away the cold-eyed saddle tramp.
“Or spend a night in my jail again, Tolliver. Your boss won’t like that.”
“Shoot, I don’t reckon he wants me to take any more guff from no law dog like you,” Tolliver sneered, stale fumes of whiskey drifting toward Sam. “We’re fixin’ t’ run this town, an’ it’s time you learned what that means. Fellas, make sure this fight’s just between th’ sheriff and me, would ya?”
As one, the rest of the Alliance men drew their guns and aimed them at the men who’d come to back Sam up. Then he clenched his fists and began circling Sam.
Sam watched Tolliver’s eyes, waiting for the sign that presaged his lunge.
“I’m gonna mess up that purty face a’ yours, Sheriff,” Tolliver taunted. “I don’t reckon you kin fight worth beans.”
All at once Reverend Chadwick threw himself between them. “Please reconsider, son,” he entreated. “You don’t want to spoil a happy event. Come back tomorrow morning, come to church. We’ll welcome you with open arms, I promise.”
“Get outta my way, preacher!” snarled Tolliver, shoving the preacher so roughly that he fell backward, cartwheeling his arms in a vain attempt to regain his balance before he landed heavily on the ground.
Somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed. Sam darted a glance over his shoulder to see that Nolan was tending the fallen preacher, then launched himself with a roar of rage at the sneering Tolliver.
The man was waiting for him. Tolliver threw a fist that took Sam on the chin and rocked him back for a costly moment, then punched him in the abdomen, sending nausea—and fury—surging through Sam. A red mist drenched his brain, a hatred of these vermin who’d had the gall to intrude on a happy, innocent event and soil it with their presence.
He threw himself at Tolliver, landing a staggering right hook that snapped the other man’s head back. They went down on the lawn with a crash, arms flailing, legs thrashing.
Tolliver gained the uppermost position on top of him as the heavier man, but Sam was wiry-lean and had the strength to throw him off. Tolliver rolled and crouched, spitting, then threw himself at Sam again, grabbing at Sam’s pistol. Sam knew he must not let Tolliver gain control of his firearm or all could be lost. It gave him a desperate energy that propelled him on top of Tolliver, and he rained blow after blow down on the struggling man, bloodying his nose, splitting his lip, punching his abdomen and knocking the wind out of his assailant.
He leaped off of Tolliver, his chest heaving. “Give up, Tolliver,” he ordered. “The rest of you men take off, and he’s the only one who’ll be behind bars.”
But Tolliver still had plenty of fight left in him, and wasn’t ready to admit defeat in front of his cronies. He used the second Sam had taken to address them to whip a Bowie knife out of his boot.
Sam yanked his gun out of his holster and shot the knife from Tolliver’s grasp. Tolliver clutched his bloody hand, howling in pain. Half a dozen guns were cocked behind Sam as Nick, Nolan and the rest drew on the saddle tramps to cover Sam.
“Come along, Tolliver, the doctor can treat you in jail—” Sam began.
And then he saw something, lying in the grass where they had been struggling only a moment ago. It gleamed dully in the light from the lanterns—a pocket watch. Keeping the pistol trained on Tolliver, who stood hunched over, his bloody hand clutched against his belly, Sam picked it up.
“Where’d you get this?” he demanded of Tolliver.
Tolliver said nothing.
Sam turned it over and saw the engraving—W.W.III.
He walked over to Tolliver and grabbed his arm, forcing him to stand upright.
“Leroy Tolliver, I’m arresting you for the murder of William Waters III.”
Chapter Fifteen
“I found that watch,” Tolliver whined. “You cain’t prove I killed that tenderfoot, just ’cause I have his watch.” Prissy could tell by the sound of his voice that he was lying.
“Yeah, you don’t have no proof,” insisted another of the Alliance men. “You can’t hang a man for findin’ a watch and pickin’ it up.”
Sam ignored them for a moment, his eyes searching until he found Reverend Chadwick, who had been helped to his feet. “Reverend, you all right?” Sam called.
The old man nodded. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”
He turned back to Tolliver and his cronies. “He’ll have a fair trial. Any of you other Alliance men want to share a cell with Tolliver? We could let the judge decide which one to hang.”
The others eyed each other uneasily, then stalked off toward their horses.
Sam turned Tolliver roughly around, and using a length of rope someone had brought from their wagon, tied the man’s wrists behind him.
No one suggested resuming the celebration—the festive mood had been ruined. Now all the townspeople clumped together, including the new bride, who huddled tearfully against her groom. Prissy was still astonished by the fact that Sam had been able to shoot that knife right out of Tolliver’s hand. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
“I’ll come with you to the jail and treat his injuries,” Nolan Walker said to Sam. “Sarah, you go on home. I’ll be along when I can.”
“You fellows tell Pennington an’ Byrd what happened!” Tolliver called after the men who were already mounted and heading for the road. Then he wrenched around to glare at Sam, though one of his eyes was rapidly swelling shut. “I reckon this’ll bring Raney up from Houston, right enough. You done poked a hornet’s nest, Sheriff. This town won’t survive to hang me.”
Sam ignored his bravado. “That’s enough out of you,” he said calmly.
Prissy was overwhelmed with pride over Sam’s bravery, even though she knew it would mean she wouldn’t get to see him for quite a while. Now that he’d have a murderer in his jail, worse yet a murderer with powerful allies, he couldn’t just leave it unguarded.
Luis Menendez materialized out of the crowd. “Reckon you need a deputy now, Sheriff,” he said.
“I reckon he’s right, Sam,” her father agreed. “At least for the time being. Deputize him. And I’m calling a town council meeting. We’ll have to set up a rotation of guard duty, so there’s always two men guarding the jail till the circuit judge can arrive to convene a trial. Mr. Jewett,” he said, addressing the telegraph operator, “I’d appreciate it if you’d notify the circuit judge. We’re going to need him and a prosecuting attorney soon as he can get here.”
She watched as Sam began to lead his prisoner away while the townspeople thanked him over and over.
“Much obliged, Sheriff!” Ed Markison called after him, his arm still protectively draped around his bride. “Reckon you saved us from much worse.”
“You must be very proud of your beau,” Mariah Fairchild said, smiling at Prissy. “Such a courageous, handsome man. And he loves you—I can tell.”
Prissy felt herself thawing toward the woman who had a hand over her father’s arm. “Yes, I am. Very proud. And I love him, too,” she said, shifting her gaze toward her father, to see what he would say.
James Gilmore cleared his throat, his eyes glistening as he looked back at her. “I couldn’t approve more, Prissy. Come on, let’s walk Mrs. Fairchild back to the hotel, and then we’ll go on home.”
“But we—the Spinsters’ Club—were going to clean up the social hall—”
“Time enough for that after church tomorrow,” he insisted.
Houston’s shrill barking woke her in the early dawn. He jumped from his cozy place at her feet and threw himself against her bedroom door. Someone was pounding at the front door below.
Struggling to orient herself, she threw on her wrapper and padded barefoot into the hallway. Her father was just emerging from his bedroom and pulling on his dressing gown, his thin hair askew, his face wrinkled from sleep.
Antonio was already at the door.
“You got t’ wake the mayor!” someone at the front door shou
ted to Antonio. “The church is on fire!”
Prissy gasped. With the front door open, she could smell it now—smoke.
“Organize a bucket brigade with water from the creek!” her father shouted down the stairs.
“Already done!” the voice called back up the stairs. “But it had a good start afore th’ smell woke the reverend and the sheriff.”
“Antonio, bring every bucket you can find from the stable,” her father called over his shoulder, already heading back to his room to dress. “Prissy, bring some old bedsheets to tear into bandages in case anyone gets burned.”
They dressed as fast as they could. Prissy secured Houston in the kitchen, and then they joined the throng running toward the church in the pale light of dawn, their ears filled with the roar of the blaze and the shouts of the townspeople, their eyes on the ominous black cloud that stained the purity of the morning sky.
Prissy’s heart sank as she neared the end of the street. It was true—Simpson Creek’s only church was engulfed in flame. As they drew to a horrified stop in front of it, a shower of sparks flew upward and the roof caved in. The bell in the steeple fell into the midst of the inferno with one last, desperate clang.
Her eyes sought and found Sam, already at the head of the bucket brigade, throwing water onto the conflagration. She wanted to tell him it was useless, to step back and just watch the building die lest flying sparks singe him and the others, but she knew that in the tinder-dry conditions of a Texas August, nearby buildings such as the parsonage and the undertaker’s were still in danger.
Luis Menendez stood at the door of the jail, a rifle held at the ready in case someone tried to take advantage of the emergency to break Tolliver out. She saw Reverend Chadwick, too, standing next to Mrs. Detwiler, unashamed tears streaking down his pale cheeks.
“Prissy, there you are,” Sarah said. “Good, you brought bandage material. Take this bucket of water and dipper and see if any of the men need a drink. They’re working so hard they won’t even notice being thirsty. And send anyone who’s burned to me.”
The Sheriff's Sweetheart Page 15
