The Sheriff's Sweetheart. Laurie Kingery

our fair town sound like a backwater—”

      “Oh, but I don’t need those things,” Mariah Fairchild assured her, with a glance at Prissy’s father. “I’m content to lead a very quiet existence.”

      “Oh, it’s quiet, all right,” Prissy agreed. “So quiet you can hear a hummingbird’s heartbeat.”

      Mariah Fairchild gave a trill of laughter. “It sounds perfect! Well, Prissy—may I call you Prissy?—your father was just about to walk me back to my hotel, and we were going to get a bite of dinner and talk about old times. Why don’t you join us, dear?”

      The woman was friendly, but Prissy had to smother the urge to respond like a sulky child. She knew rudeness would distress her father, and she had no real proof that this woman was doing anything more than what she said—paying a condolence call and merely considering moving here. What could be more logical than consulting an old friend who happened to be the town mayor?

      “No, thank you, Mrs. Fairchild,” she said with all the politeness she could muster. “Perhaps another time. I’m sure you and Papa have a lot of catching up to do.”

      Flora wasn’t going to be pleased about this, either, Prissy thought, watching her father gallantly offer Mariah Fairchild his arm as they descended the steps. She had probably had dinner all ready to serve promptly at noon, when Prissy’s father always wanted it, but now he was going to sashay down to the hotel and take his dinner there with this strange female. Prissy decided she would have to be extra appreciative of whatever Flora had prepared in order to make up for her father’s thoughtlessness.

      But she found Flora surprisingly philosophical about the situation.

      “Ah, well, chica, it’s not such a big thing. Your father is an important man—this is not the first time he has had to leave right before a meal. I can always give Antonio an extra share. That hombre is always hungry, you know.”

      “It’s hardly part of the mayor’s official duties to advise a lonely widow where to live in Simpson Creek,” Prissy grumbled. “Did you see the way she looked at him?”

      Flora raised a black eyebrow. “No, but I saw how he looked, Señorita Prissy,” she said, her face stern. “Your papa is a lonely man. He misses your mother, no? He misses having a lady around to smile at, to make conversation with.”

      “Flora, he has us to make conversation with,” Prissy protested.

      “It’s not the same,” Flora said. “You are his daughter, and I am his employee, and a married woman.”

      “But it was only this winter Mama died!”

      “Miss Prissy, he does your mother no dishonor by having dinner with an old friend,” Flora said. “You must not be so possessive of your old papa. One day soon you will marry and move out, and then he will be even more lonely.”

      Sam Bishop flew into Prissy’s mind before she could stop herself, but it would not do to think of Sam Bishop every time marriage was mentioned. What if he was not the man God had intended for her?

      Sam thought Prissy, standing outside the church talking to a bevy of other ladies, was just about the prettiest sight he’d ever seen. She wore a pink dress—of silk, unless he missed his guess—with short puffed sleeves trimmed in white lace. There was matching braid around the bodice, and a pink ribbon belt with matching tassels that emphasized her slender waist, while the back was gathered into a small bustle. High button shoes of white kid adorned her feet. She wore a straw bonnet with a pink ribbon band that enchantingly framed her heart-shaped face. Her strawberry-blond curls streamed down her back.

      There were a dozen or so ladies on the lawn, clad in pretty calico, gingham or muslin. Prissy outshone them all, in his opinion.

      “Oh, Sam, there you are!” she said, turning to face him, her face brightening and her blue eyes shining.

      “Good morning, Miss Priscilla,” he said, tipping his hat.

      “Ladies, I’d like to present our new sheriff to those of you who haven’t made his acquaintance.”

      He guessed they were all members of the Spinsters’ Club—or, in Sarah Walker’s case, past members. He could practically feel them sizing him up.

      “Prissy, have you told Sheriff Bishop about our Spinst—that is, our Society events?” one of the young ladies asked, fluttering her lashes at Sam.

      The ladies of the Spinsters’ Club were an interesting assortment—some short, some tall, some pretty, all friendly. It was on the tip of his tongue to mention that he’d seen their advertisement in that Houston newspaper, and that that was why he’d come to Simpson Creek, but just in time he remembered that he had supposedly come for the sheriff’s job.

      “No, I…um…haven’t had a chance,” Prissy murmured, suddenly seeming flustered by the other woman’s behavior. “Goodness, Polly, he only came to town two days ago.”

      Polly chuckled. “I’m sure you haven’t, bless your heart.” She turned back to Sam. “Well, we are the Society for the Promotion of Marriage. You must come to our events. If you’re a bachelor, that is. You are a bachelor, aren’t you, Sheriff?” Polly asked, peering around him as if he had a wife hiding behind him.

      “Yes, I am,” he said, amused by the confusion on Prissy’s face. Was it confusion—or jealousy?

      “Well, good. We’ll be happy to have you attend. We’d want our new sheriff to feel welcome, wouldn’t we, ladies?”

      “Reverend Chadwick,” Prissy suddenly said as the white-haired gentleman appeared. “I’d like to introduce you to the new sheriff. Reverend, this is Samuel Bishop.” Prissy seemed relieved to leave the topic of the Society, Sam noticed. Perhaps Polly’s flirting simply embarrassed her. Or was it more than that?

      “We met last evening. I’m afraid our new sheriff came upon me trying to sweet-talk my roses into blooming despite the heat. Again, welcome to Simpson Creek, Sheriff Bishop,” said the old gentleman, whose gnarled hand gripped his with surprising strength. His gaze was direct, and Sam had the impression he saw deeply inside a person. Did he guess that Sam was not all he seemed?

      “Thank you, sir. Please, call me Sam.”

      “I’ll do that. I hope we’ll get to talk more later, Sam, but now we’d better start the service. Sarah, are you ready?”

      “Sarah plays the piano for the singing,” Prissy explained. The other ladies filed inside, but Prissy put a hand on his wrist. “I thought you weren’t coming, that perhaps you had to capture some desperate outlaw,” Prissy said, gazing up at him.

      He shook his head. “No desperate outlaws passed through Simpson Creek this Sunday morning,” he said, smiling down at her and placing her hand on his arm. “I was delayed by arranging something, which I’ll tell you about later.” He winked and enjoyed the blush that rose to her cheeks. The first piano notes of a hymn wafted out of the open door of the church.

      They climbed the steps and entered, walking down the middle aisle to the front pew, with Prissy nodding at others who gazed at both of them with interest—and in the case of some of the ladies, with barely hidden envy. His amusement was almost enough to distract him from the fact that he was in a church for the first time in a very, very long time. If only his sisters, Etta, Lidy and Livy, could see him now!

      He was amused to spot Delbert Perry, his face scrubbed, his threadbare clothing spotless, his hair slicked down, sitting midway toward the front. Delbert beamed at him as he passed.

      So the town drunk was indeed trying to mend his ways. Perhaps there was something to church attendance, after all.

      Sam also saw Nick Brookfield, the former sheriff, sitting a couple of rows back with some weathered-looking fellows who were probably his cowhands.

      They reached the front pew, where Priscilla’s father stood, holding a hymnbook with a lady Sam didn’t recognize. Her father