The Sheriff's Sweetheart

by Laurie Kingery

  By the time the sun had fully risen, the church and social hall were nothing but a smoking, blackened ruin. A total loss. No one would ever worship again in the building that the first settlers had erected when they founded the community in the decade before. The townspeople stood in disbelieving clumps in the churchyard, some hollow-eyed, some weeping.

  Sam, his shirt sweat-drenched and gray with soot, found her in the throng. He reached out a hand and she went into his embrace, sobbing against his shoulder.

  “It’ll be all right, sweetheart,” he said, his hand smoothing her hair.

  He couldn’t understand, she thought. He hadn’t lived here all his life, hadn’t grown up worshipping in that church. He probably hadn’t imagined her walking down that aisle to meet him at the altar, as she had just hours ago at Ed and Emily’s wedding.

  Or maybe he had, she thought as he gazed at her with such concern it nearly made her heart break.

  Sam turned to Reverend Chadwick. “Could there have been a candle left burning in the social hall?”

  The old pastor’s eyes were red-rimmed. He shook his head. “I made sure they were all out before I went to the parsonage, just as I always do every time there’s an event at church. Everything was in order.”

  Sam cast an eye at the sky, which was clear and cloudfree. “There wasn’t a storm, so lightning couldn’t have caused this.”

  “Wasn’t no lightning. Those Alliance fellers did this, for revenge,” Zeke Carter muttered, voicing the suspicion that had been in everyone’s mind.

  “Did you see them? Did anyone see them?”

  No one had, though Reverend Chadwick had thought he might have heard horses galloping off.

  Sam heaved a sigh. “It probably was Tolliver’s men, but proving it is another thing.”

  Reverend Chadwick cleared his throat. “In the meantime, we must get ready for our worship service today.”

  Prissy gaped at him, along with everyone else, thinking perhaps the tragic event had addled his mind. Their church was a smoking ruin.

  “We have much to be thankful for,” Reverend Chadwick said. “No one was hurt, neither fighting the fire or last night, and the outcome could well have been much different. And don’t you see, if we don’t have our worship service, and we sit around today mourning over the loss of a mere building, these men win in a way. We cannot allow that to happen. We must find a place to worship together.”

  Everyone was silent, digesting his words.

  Prissy’s father rubbed his chin. “I suppose everyone could come to the ballroom at Gilmore House,” he began.

  “Why don’t we just assemble in the meadow across the creek?” Reverend Chadwick suggested. “That will do in good weather, and we can use the ballroom when it rains. An open-air worship, in the midst of God’s creation. What could be better?”

  There was a murmur of assent, even approval.

  “Very well then. Let’s all go home and clean up, change into our Sunday best, and assemble back in the meadow, say, in an hour.”

  “Go on over to the worship service. Luis and I’ll watch him,” Nick Brookfield said, laying his hat on Sam’s desk.

  “Yeah, go on over and pray with them pious people,” Tolliver jeered from inside his cell. “You kin both go,” he said to Nick. “Me ’n’ the greaser’ll pass the time a’ day together till Pennington comes fer me.”

  “Silence, malvado!” snapped Luis, who sat in the jail office’s only other chair, facing the prisoner, a rifle across his knees.

  Sam and Nick both ignored Tolliver. “I’m the sheriff. I should stay,” Sam said. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Nonsense,” Nick said in his clipped British accent, but his blue eyes were warm. “You’ll be right across the creek in the meadow,” he said, pointing out the cell window. “We could shout for you, if need be—and it’s only for an hour. Then you’ll return here and we’ll meet with the town council. Go ahead. I’ll bet Prissy’s waiting for you. They’re already singing the first hymn.”

  Was Nick too polite to say Sam needed to attend church more than he did? Still, he supposed he should go. As sheriff, perhaps his presence would be encouraging to them. “All right,” Sam said at last. “Much obliged.”

  He could hear them singing as he stepped out the door.

  “Lord of all to Thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.”

  He could see them now, too, as he stepped onto the wooden bridge, facing the creek where the choirmaster led them in their piano-less singing. He could see Prissy in the midst of them, singing along with the rest. They looked happy. They sang of being grateful, of praising—after their church building had been burned to ashes by hateful men.

  And then he realized his presence wouldn’t be their encouragement. They didn’t need the support represented by a man with a tin star on his vest. They already had a relationship with the source of all encouragement.

  He felt suddenly humbled. He was the one who needed encouraging, not only because they knew he was a lawman facing a challenging time, but because of what they didn’t know—that he was unqualified for the job, that he was nothing but a scapegrace gambler and a thief.

  It was all he could do not to break into a run the last few yards so as to be with them that much faster. It seemed he was finding his way back to God, something he didn’t quite believe would ever happen.

  “We’re glad you could join us, Sheriff,” Reverend Chadwick said, beckoning him with a smile. “Come here, we’d like to pray for you.”

  Sam knelt in the sun-warmed grass. Chadwick hadn’t asked him to kneel, but as undeserving as he was, it seemed like the right thing to do. Then the preacher laid his hand on Sam’s head and prayed for the Lord to protect and guide him as he dealt with the accused murderer in his jail and the powerful band of men bent on taking over their town. Prissy stood by him on one side and the mayor on the other, and folks had come forward to lay their hands on his back and shoulders, murmuring their own prayers for him.

  He was so unworthy. He kept his eyes shut tight, afraid the tears would escape down his cheeks and he would have to confess everything.

  I’m sorry for the man I’ve been, Lord. Please change me and make me clean, so they don’t find out what I really am. I don’t want to be that man anymore. Please show me what to do. He felt Prissy’s hand in his, and he squeezed it. From here on in, Prissy, with God’s help, I’ll be a new man. I’ll be a man deserving of your love.

  Everyone sat in the grass on blankets and sheets, some with traces of soot still streaking their faces, as Reverend Chadwick gave his sermon about laying up treasures in Heaven rather than on earth.

  “Our church wasn’t fancy, and the new one we build on this site isn’t likely to be, either, for we’ve always believed worship doesn’t rely on how many stained-glass windows we have or gold offering plates,” he said. “The church building we had is gone, but the church is not, for we, the townspeople of Simpson Creek, are the church, and we’re still right here.”

  When the service was over, people milled about, exchanging opinions about how the new church should look and wondering how soon it could be built. Many wanted to speak with Sam, but he needed a moment with Prissy.

  “I’m not sure when I’ll see you, Prissy,” Sam said. “We’re having the town council meeting now, and after that, I have a prisoner to guard. But I do need to speak to you—soon.”

  She just nodded as if she’d already assumed as much. “I understand,” she said. “And yes, I need to speak to you, too. We have much to discuss. The Spinsters are meeting now to decide if the barbecue should still take place next Saturday, otherwise I’d steal you away for just a minute.”

  “What do you think the group will decide?” he asked. It would be too bad to call off the party they’d been looking forward to so enthusiastically, especially since he’d decided after recent events that it would be the perfect occasion to officially propose to her. He’d already taken Mrs. Patterson at the mercantile into his confidence, and h
ad purchased a sapphire ring from her. He couldn’t wait any longer to declare his love for her. But he needed to come clean with Prissy and tell her everything, and hope that she would still have him.

  “I’ll suggest we go ahead,” she said, “but change it a bit—use it to raise money for the new church. Papa and I will still provide the barbecue, of course, but we ladies will all make pies and cakes, and auction them off to the highest bidder. And I’ll see if Mrs. Detwiler will auction off one of her quilts—did you know she was an accomplished quilter?”

  He shook his head, charmed by the undefeated enthusiasm of this girl he loved.

  “You know, Papa could just pay for the new church materials, and he has already pledged a substantial contribution, including a new stained glass window in memory of Mama. But Reverend Chadwick says that it’s important for the town to feel that the church belongs to all of them—do you see what I mean? It won’t mean as much if Papa just hands over the money. Does that make sense?”

  Sam nodded. Dread filled him as he looked at the wonderful woman in front of him and imagined telling her about his past, and his lies.

  It was almost more than he could bear.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Much to Sam’s surprise, neither Pennington nor Byrd came to protest Tolliver’s being accused of murder. As far as anyone knew, they remained holed up at La Alianza.

  “Looks like they abandoned you, hombre,” Luis taunted Tolliver, after a second day passed without a word from either man, or even a visit from one of his cronies. “They won’t even come to see you hang.”

  “They’ll come, and it won’t be t’see me swing, neither,” Tolliver snarled back. “They’re jes’ waitin’ fer the right time, greaser.”

  That’s what Sam thought, too. He maintained constant vigilance with the rotating two-man guard shifts that had been set up on Sunday. He insisted on being one of the men of each two-man shift, and Luis Menendez, who’d proved himself utterly reliable and dedicated, served as the other at least half of every day or night. Brookfield and Walker also took stints, as did other men of the town.

  Every time a new man came on guard duty, one of the men whose time was up fetched food from the hotel, so there would never be a moment without two fully armed men on guard. Even at night they took turns, one man sitting up guarding the sleeping prisoner while Sam or the other man caught a few winks. Sam never slept soundly when it came his turn, fearing the attack would begin while he slumbered.

  The circuit judge had sent word he and the prosecutor couldn’t be there until next week because they were in the middle of a trial in Harkeyville. That meant an even longer time to guard Tolliver than Sam had anticipated, a longer time for everyone’s nerves to be stretched thin.

  Prissy had come down to the jail on Monday to bring him fried chicken and biscuits she’d made herself, and they had sat in front of the jail while they ate, away from Tolliver’s leering gaze. He’d drunk in the sight of her in her pretty gingham dress, listening as she recited all the details of the upcoming party. It wasn’t that he longed to know that Milly was bringing fried chicken and Faith Bennett shoo-fly pie, but he loved the sound of her voice.

  Just as he’d begun to wonder if it was the right time to talk to her, two Alliance men rode by and gave them a long look. Fearing it presaged an attack, Sam hustled her across the street to have Dr. Walker see her home. Letting her see his regret, he’d asked her not to come again for the time being, fearing the Alliance men would make some move specifically because she was there and his attention was divided. He figured he couldn’t be too careful about her safety, even if it meant seeing her hardly at all.

  The next day, via Antonio, she sent him a small, brown-wrapped bundle. He unwrapped it to find an oval-framed daguerreotype of her. In an accompanying note, she confessed it belonged to her father, but he’d agreed to loan it to Sam until they could see each other again. He placed it in his desk where only he could look at it, so Tolliver couldn’t feast his eyes on it, too. Sam believed Prissy loved him, too. Would it be enough to get them through everything he had to tell her?

  She started writing him a daily note, which she sent to the jail with Antonio or her father. Redolent of the lilac scent she usually wore, the notes were light and newsy, telling him what amusing thing Houston had done, or how she had changed the menu for the barbecue yet again. Then she told him, simply and honestly, how proud she was of the dedicated way he did his job. And she’d copy some verse from the Bible to encourage him, and asked him to read a chapter a day from the book of John, saying she was doing that, too, and that it was nice to think of both of them reading the same thing.

  He read her notes over and over again and he started writing her back from his desk, telling her how he missed her, how much he longed for the trial to be over and the Alliance banished from Simpson Creek forever so they could once again go on carefree picnics under the Wedding Tree. He imagined her smiling as she read those words.

  “Bet he’s writin’ that purty yaller-haired girl agin, th’ one I saw him with at the weddin’ we busted up, ain’t he, greaser?” Tolliver gibed from behind his bars. “I heard tell it was the mayor’s daughter. Ain’t you the smart one, Bishop, sparkin’ a rich girl? Soon as you marry her, you kin stop bein’ a law dog chasin’ desperadoes like me and become a man of leisure, cain’t ya?”

  “Shut up or I’ll tie your noose so you slowly strangle to death on the gallows,” Luis threatened. Sam held up a hand to quiet his deputy. Tolliver thrived on baiting them, but Sam thought it was better to pretend not to hear the snake hissing behind the bars.

  Simpson Creek was a law-abiding town, but inevitably, there were still times when Sam had to see to other problems not related to the Alliance. Two days before the barbecue, Nolan took over guard duty while Sam walked down Travis Street to the boardinghouse to resolve a dispute between a boarder and the proprietress. After he’d enforced the latter’s right to make the rules in her own establishment, he walked back to Main Street just in time to see Pennington driving past in his carriage, with another man sitting beside him—a man Sam recognized the instant he met his hooded, intense gaze.

  Kendall Raney.

  At the sight of his nemesis, Sam felt a chill of icy sweat trickle down his spine. It was all he could do to stand still on the boardwalk and force himself not to pull his hat down a bit in an attempt to escape notice.

  He knew any such effort was in vain, for Pennington had spotted him and ordered the driver to halt.

  “Why, Sheriff Bishop, we meet again,” Pennington crowed. “And what a fortunate encounter, for I have the pleasure of presenting our third partner, Mr. Kendall Raney.”

  Sam straightened, his throat gone dry as a mud puddle in August. His heart thudded dully in a chest suddenly too small for it. He cleared his throat to make sure his response came out level and not croaking.

  “Mr. Raney. Welcome to Simpson Creek.”

  Did Raney look at everyone that way, the way a snake stared at a mouse that it had cornered, or was he recognizing the bruised, bloodied, half-unconscious gambler in the lawman who stood before him? Sam’s ribs ached as if in remembrance of this man hitting him until a couple of them cracked. His face stung as if Raney had just laid his cheek open with that ring.

  “Sheriff Bishop,” said Raney, looking him up and down. “Thank you. Happy to be here.”

  Sam wanted to say he needed to get back to the jail but he dared not be the one to cut the encounter short. It would cause Raney to think about him too much.

  Pennington was also watching him. Sam wanted to taunt the man with the fact that he had Tolliver in a cell, accused of murder, that he knew that his men had burned the church down, that he would find a way to prove it and make them pay. But that would extend this encounter, and in any case, Pennington would probably claim he’d fired Tolliver prior to Waters’s murder.

  So Sam forced himself to relax, to appear politely interested in Raney’s arrival.

  “Are you here for a v
isit, or are you relocating?” he asked, his tone casual. “Mr. Pennington tells me you hail from Houston.”

  Raney gazed at him a moment too long before replying. “Wonderful city, Houston—completely unlike this part of Texas. Ever been there?”

  Sam needed. “I’ve been there. A little too humid for my taste. I like it better here.”

  That hooded gaze missed nothing, Sam thought, seeing the black eyes narrow as they dueled with his.

  “As to whether I’m staying,” Raney said, “it remains to be seen. A pleasure to meet you, Sheriff. I’m sure we’ll—”

  At that moment, Prissy came out of the mercantile, her arms laden with packages. She smiled at Sam and started toward him.

  Then she caught sight of Pennington and halted uncertainly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were speaking to someone,” she said, and looked to Sam in a clear plea for direction.

  Pennington touched his hat brim. “Miss Gilmore, no apologies necessary, your interruption is a happy accident and our pleasure.” He turned to Raney. “Miss Priscilla Gilmore, the mayor’s daughter,” he explained, almost as if presenting a commoner to royalty, Sam thought, feeling his jaw tighten in anger. “You’ll remember I spoke of her father, Mayor Gilmore.”

  “Yes.” Raney tipped his black derby with a flourish to her. “Miss Gilmore, enchanted. I pray we will meet again.” His eyes slid back to Sam after he said this, as if daring him to object.

  Sam remained immobile, fighting the urge to leap into the carriage, yank Raney out, and beat him senseless. Now Raney’s gaze returned to Prissy and crawled over her. Sam felt his hands clenching into fists.

  “Miss Priscilla,” he began, hoping she’d take her cue from Sam’s formality, “I’ll walk you home. I need to speak to your father.” He wasn’t going to allow Raney to breathe the same air as his beloved a moment longer.