The Sheriff's Sweetheart. Laurie Kingery

      “Oh, what a darling dog!” the girl cried, and rushed forward. “What’s his name?”

      “I…I don’t know, ma’am,” he murmured idiotically, but he couldn’t have made a more intelligent reply to save his life, for he was transfixed by the face looking up at him, framed by the bonnet. She had eyes the exact same sky-blue hue as the bonnet, sweeping, gold-flecked lashes, a sweetly curved mouth, all in a heart-shaped face.

      She blinked in confusion and a faint color swept into her cheeks. “You don’t know? Whyever not? Ooh, how sweet!” she cried, when the dog raised his paw and wagged his tail at her.

      Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw the lawman’s face harden and his gaze narrow. He knew the man had caught sight of his lacerated cheek.

      Wonderful. He was already under suspicion.

      He touched the brim of his hat respectfully. “Well, not exactly, ma’am. He just adopted me, a ways down the road. I reckoned I might find him a home here,” he said, aiming a brilliant smile at the girl. He saw her spot the healing cut on his cheek but he could still salvage the situation with the dog’s distracting help. “My name’s Sam Bishop.”

      “I’m Prissy—um, Priscilla Gilmore,” the girl said, blushing a little more as she corrected herself.

      Thunderation. He’d thought the good Lord had given up on him a long time ago, but surely this was a sign. He’d blundered right into the very lady he’d been looking for—and she was a far cry from grandmotherly. But did she have to be accompanied by a lawman who was already looking narrow-eyed at him?

      “Miss Gilmore, I’m right pleased to meet you,” he said.

      “This is my father,” she went on, nodding at the old man, “Mayor James Gilmore.”

      “Sir,” he said, fingering the brim of his hat once more. Miss Priscilla was the daughter of the mayor? This just kept getting better and better.

      “And Nicholas Brookfield, the acting sheriff.”

      “Sheriff Brookfield,” Sam said, nodding at the man who was staring at him with that cold gaze that must come to lawmen as soon as they pinned on those tin stars. But what had she meant, “acting sheriff”?

      “May I hold him?” Miss Priscilla inquired, reaching up for the dog, who wagged his tail again and positively wriggled with eagerness. Sam thanked his lucky stars he’d had enough sense to let that dog tag along with him. He handed down the dog into the girl’s gloved hands and managed to conceal the grimace the movement caused.

      “What’s your business here, Mr. Bishop?” the sheriff inquired, surprising Sam with an English accent rather than the Texas twang he’d had been expecting.

      But he was spared the necessity of a reply as the dog jumped up in Miss Priscilla’s arms to lick her face enthusiastically.

      “He likes me!” Priscilla said, and giggled—a sound that Sam Bishop felt down to his very toes.

      “He surely does,” Sam said with a smile, though he knew Brookfield was waiting for an answer. “I—”

      “Say, you wouldn’t be the man Nick was expecting, would you? The applicant for the sheriff’s job we advertised for?” asked Priscilla’s father.

      “No, his name was something else,” Brookfield said, his gaze no less distrustful than before.

      Sam had to think fast. He’d have to have a reason for staying in town while he became acquainted with the enchanting creature who was now holding the dog, especially with the acting sheriff looking at him as if he suspected Sam were here to rob the bank.

      “I may not be the man you’re expecting,” Sam said quickly. “But I did come about the job. I’d be proud to be Simpson Creek’s sheriff.”

      Prissy watched, stroking the affectionate little dog, as shifting emotions played over Nick Brookfield’s face—suspicion, skepticism and finally hope.

      “Why don’t you give him a chance, Nick?” she said, with the familiarity born of knowing Milly Brookfield’s husband since the day he, too, had come to town a stranger. It was only fair that he give this stranger a chance, just as he had been given one.

      “I’m voting with my daughter. After all, you did say the other fellow was several days overdue,” her father put in. “Maybe he’s changed his mind about the job.”

      Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s possible. I certainly thought Purvis would be here by now. Have you had any experience as a sheriff, Mr. Bishop?” he said, shifting his cool blue gaze back to the man on the horse.

      Prissy wished Nick wouldn’t sound so obviously suspicious. Why, Sam Bishop was apt to take offence and ride off before anyone had the chance to get to know him—and she did want to get to know this handsome stranger.

      She tried to catch Nick’s eye—it would have been too obvious if she’d reached around her father to nudge Nick into civility.

      “Please, call me Sam,” Bishop insisted, reaching out a friendly hand to Nick who, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward and shook it. “And yes, I’ve had some experience—before the war, I served as a deputy to the sheriff back in Tennessee where I grew up. Lately I was a deputy sheriff in Metairie, just outside of New Orleans.”

      “And during the war?”

      Prissy saw a shadow flash over Sam Bishop’s eyes. The war didn’t provide too many happy memories for any of those who had served in it.

      “I was a blockade runner—I received the cotton that was brought down to Matamoros, just over the border, and took it out in my boat into the Gulf to a larger ship that transported it to England.”

      “What made you want to leave Louisiana?” Nick asked.

      Bishop shrugged. “Tired of Spanish moss and alligators, I reckon. I wanted to see the wide-open spaces of Texas. And then I heard your town needed a sheriff. Mind if I ask what happened to the old one?”

      “Sheriff Poteet died in the influenza epidemic we had here this past winter, Mr. Bishop,” Prissy said. She felt a strange little tingle when he focused those dark eyes on her.

      “Is that right?” he murmured. “I’m real sorry to hear that. It must have been a terrible time.”

      Prissy nodded, remembering when she and her friend Sarah had nursed Mr. and Mrs. Poteet. The sheriff had perished from the illness, and they’d nearly lost Sarah, too, for she’d caught the infection. Only Dr. Walker’s medical skill and Heaven’s intervention had saved her.

      “Nick, it seems Mr. Bishop’s arrival is a godsend,” her father said. “I know you need to get back to your ranch, spring being such a busy time and all.”

      “That’s a fact,” Nick admitted. “The hands are doing what they can, but what with all the chores, and the baby coming quite soon, I know Milly would feel better if I were at home…”

      Yet he didn’t look happy to be handing over the job, Prissy noticed. She knew him well enough to know it wasn’t because Nick Brookfield had relished his role as sheriff. He could have had it permanently with the town’s blessing. No, it wasn’t that. Prissy sensed he still had some reservations about Bishop.

      “I think we should give him the position,” her father said. “Subject to council approval, of course, and a probationary period of a month, as we agreed upon when we met to discuss Poteet’s replacement. The salary’s seventy-five dollars a month, Mr. Bishop. I hope that’s satisfactory—we’re only a small town, you understand. But it includes your quarters, your meals at the hotel, and stabling and feed for your horse.”

      Sam nodded. “Sounds just fine, Mr. Mayor.”

      “Then the job’s yours. Why don’t you show him the jail and his quarters, Nick, then show him around town?”

      “Thank