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THE SHERIFF'S SWEETHEART

By LAURIE ANN KINGERY

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Houston, Texas, June 1866

"Hold him a moment, gentlemen," the silky voice purred, like a sleepy lion preparing to toy with some hapless creature his cubs had brought down.
Sagging between two burly men who each held an arm to keep him upright, Sam Bishop opened his eyes just enough to see Kendall Raney clenching his fist and drawing it back. The flickering lamplight winked from the pigeon's egg-sized ruby on the man's ring finger. Sam closed his eyes, reluctant to watch the pain coming at him. Pinwheels of fiery light exploded in his head, and everything went black.
He awoke moments later when they dropped him unceremoniously on the filthy floor of another room. His arms were tied behind him, his legs bound together. He gave no sign he was once again aware, hoping the dust wouldn't make him sneeze. Unconscious men probably didn't sneeze, and the pain an innocent sneeze would send shooting from the ribs they had broken might make him groan aloud.
"You want us to finish him, Mr. Raney, and leave him in some alley?"
He heard an anxious whine, and the scuffling of small paws on metal. To that was added an acrid smell that suggested the beast hadn't been let outside lately. He opened his eyes just a crack. His back was to the cage, so he couldn’t see the dog; all he could see was Raney's booted feet and beyond him, a square, squat safe on the floor against the wall.
"Wait till it's dark," Raney said. "We wouldn't want any pesky questions. Then we'll take him out to the bayou. I've seen half a dozen bull alligators out there sunning themselves on the banks. I imagine they'd relish a taste of this fellow." From the way he said it, it was clear Raney would also relish watching the event.
The other two chuckled, but their laughter was tinged with uneasiness. "Sounds like you've used those 'gators to solve your problems afore, boss," one of them said.
"Only when someone is foolish enough to accuse me of cheating," Raney answered in his silky voice.
Again, too-hearty chuckles. "Hope they don't mind if he's already dead by then," the other said. "He ain't hardly breathin'. I think I broke his skull when I hit him."
"I don't think they'll mind. Meat is meat, after all."
"You oughta take off that ring, boss. Looks like yer hand's swellin'. Ya might not be able t'git it off later."
"I believe you're right. Why don't you step outside a moment, fellows? Then we'll stroll down to Miss Betty's place for supper. It's on me, as payment for your services."
"Why thanks, Mr. Raney," one of them said. "You want us to walk yer dog for ya?"
"No, we're going to take that cur along when we go to the bayou. He's nothing but a nuisance. He's too small for fighting, and he chewed up my best gloves, blast his hide. The gators can have him along with that senseless fool on the floor."
So Raney planned to feed him and the dog to the alligators? Now freeing himself meant even more than avoiding another beating. Calling Raney a cheat shouldn't mean he or the innocent dog became a midnight supper for gators.
Sam heard the sound of the door closing behind the other men and Raney's booted feet crossing to the window. There was a swish of fabric as he wrenched the curtains shut. Of course—he wouldn't take a chance that one of his henchmen would peek in and be able to read the numbers he turned on the safe's dial through the glass. Raney's crouched form hid the safe's dial from Sam, too, but it didn't matter. There wasn't a safe or a lock made that could keep Sam Bishop out.
He heard clinking as Raney laid the money he'd "won" from Sam inside the safe, then the footsteps retreated and the door slammed.
Sam waited a full minute until their footsteps faded down the boardwalk, then cautiously opened his eyes and rolled onto his other side. In the corner sat a metal cage, and in it crouched a small, black, brown and white canine—some sort of terrier mixed with who knew what. The dog cringed as Sam looked at him.
"Don't worry, fella, I'm not going to hurt you, or leave you for 'gator food," he assured the dog, who cocked his head at the hoarse whisper. "When I leave here, you'll be free, too."
Once he had rubbed the circulation back into his wrists, he gazed at the safe, then back to where the dog was gazing at him as if he might be the sum of all things wonderful rather than Sam Bishop, a down-on-his-luck cardsharp who'd been fool enough to stop in at The Painted Lady and think that he could beat the house with his skill at cards. And more foolish still to think he'd survive calling the proprietor a cheat when he'd detected the man's surreptitious palming of a card.
While Sam worked the lock, one ear pressed up against the metal to listen for the tumblers falling, he pondered his situation. It was time for a change of scenery. Houston's supply of gullible card players was played out, which was why he'd taken the chance of coming to this infamous waterfront establishment to begin with. He'd been a riverboat gambler before the war, and he could go back to that, but the large number of Federal troops and carpetbaggers coming south via the riverboats had made his southern drawl a professional liability.
And, if he was honest with himself, it was a lonely existence, always coming back to an empty rented room with a saggy, lumpy mattress. Maybe it was getting to be time to think about settling down. Maybe.
The last tumbler clicked. The door swung open. There it was, his pitiful pile of coins, Raney's enormous ruby ring—and more money than he had ever seen in his life, all neatly sorted into stacks of gold coins.
Staring at the money, he whistled. There had to be hundreds of dollars sitting there, right in front of him.
Take it. Why shouldn't you? You could be set up for life. Raney deserved to lose it.
But it wasn't Sam's money, and who knew if Raney had come by it honestly? It was tainted. Besides, such a sum would only weigh him down. He didn't know where he was heading but he needed to get out of town fast.
But he was going to take that ring, he decided, gingerly touching his bruised, lacerated cheek. Never again would Raney wear it and inflict even more injury on someone he was punching. He stuffed it in a pocket, thinking perhaps he would sell it if he needed money down the line.
"C'mon, dog," he said, opening the cage door and walking out into the dusk. The dog scampered after him.
"Okay, boy, you're free," he told the dog. "Make the most of it. If you're smart, you won't come back here."
But the dog wouldn't leave his side. Sam chuckled at the mutt's determination. Ah, well, perhaps he could find the dog a better home on the way to some improved way of life he could find for himself.

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