The Sheriff's Sweetheart. Laurie Kingery

two fancy gents have bought a big ranch northeast of here, toward San Saba. From what I’ve heard, they’re turning it into quite an impressive estate. Nothing wrong with that, but the rumor is, they’re using these saddle tramps to pressure folks to sell their property to them, folks that’ve been hard-pressed to hold on to their properties what with the higher taxes the Federals have put on our backs—older folks, women who’ve been widowed by the war and so forth.”

      Sam’s eyes were thoughtful. “I see.”

      “I want you to keep an eye on ’em—they call themselves the Ranchers’ Alliance,” her father said. “I won’t have our townspeople being pushed out or harassed. If they’re doing anything illegal, I want to know.”

      “Yes, sir. I’ll look into it first thing.”

      Apparently satisfied by the answer, her father turned in his chair and said to Flora, who hovered at the doorway, “I believe we’ll have our dessert now.”

      Bishop took advantage of her father’s momentary inattention to favor Prissy with a smile across the table, a smile which sent heat flooding up her neck and into her cheeks. He grinned as he noticed her blushing, but he managed to wipe his amusement from his face as her father swung around in his seat again.

      “What’s wrong, Prissy?” her father asked, eyeing her.

      “Oh, nothing,” she said, feeling her face grow hot again. “I-I think Flora put a little more chili powder than usual in the frijoles, that’s all. It made me a little warm…” She avoided Bishop’s knowing eyes. What was wrong with her that a handsome man’s smile could make her blush so?

      Her father stared at her for a moment, then to her relief turned back to Bishop. “Our Flora makes the best pecan pie in San Saba County.”

      “Mmm, pecan pie’s my favorite,” Bishop murmured appreciatively. “Though it’s hard to believe anything could be better than the main dish.”

      “Yes, we’re very fortunate to have her to cook for us,” Gilmore said. “Though Prissy’s become quite the accomplished cook, too.”

      “With Sarah’s help,” Sarah admitted modestly as Flora bustled in with the pie, already sliced and laid on dessert plates, and began setting it at their places. “Sarah Matthews, that is—I mean Walker. She married Dr. Walker recently.”

      “I see. And what’s your culinary specialty, Miss Prissy?” Bishop asked in his lazy drawl.

      “Fried chicken,” she said. “And biscuits.” Thank goodness she didn’t have to admit to Bishop just how hard it had been to learn the art of making light, fluffy biscuits. Her first attempts had been leaden disasters.

      “Well, fried chicken and biscuits is just about the finest meal on this earth,” Bishop declared.

      “Then perhaps we could invite you back some time when I’m cooking it,” she said, and quickly added, “I’m sure there are many people we’d like to introduce you to. A dinner party of sorts.”

      Bishop’s smile broadened. “I’d like that, Miss Prissy,” he said.

      He made short work of his pie.

      “Would you like to sit a spell out on the veranda with Prissy and me?” her father asked, when there was nothing but crumbs on his plate. “There’s a nice breeze this evening.”

      “There’s nothing I’d like better, sir, but I left Nick Brookfield guarding my prisoner, and I know he’d like to get home to his wife. I’d better return to the jail. I thank you both for your hospitality.”

      “Duty calls, eh?” her father said, clearly approving of his answer. “Well, welcome to Simpson Creek, Sheriff Bishop. I hope you’ll like it here and put down roots. Prissy, take that dog out, would you? He probably needs to go out,” her father said.

      As if he knew he was being referred to, Houston scampered up from where he’d been lying. Tail wagging, eyes shining, he came to Prissy’s side.

      “And don’t linger too long, Prissy. I’m sure Flora could use some help with the dishes,” he said with a meaningful look. “Good evening, Sheriff.”

      “Good evening, Mayor Gilmore.”

      Sam felt Prissy’s father’s gaze on them as they left the dining room and walked down the hall to the front door with Houston trotting alongside them. He opened the massive carved pecan-wood door and they stepped out into the soft, balmy twilight of the June night.

      “I’m sorry,” Prissy murmured, as they descended the limestone steps that led down to the lawn. “I’m afraid Papa’s a little overprotective of me, especially since Mama died. He doesn’t mean to sound so disapproving.”

      “Don’t worry,” he assured her, “I’m sure if I was the father of a daughter, I’d be overprotective too when a stranger was around—”

      “But you’re not a stranger,” she protested.

      “I’m barely more than a stranger,” he said. He’d been just as fierce a guardian when young men had shown up to court his sisters, and had scared off a few shiftless ne’er-do-wells. But now his sisters were all well and safely married and each had two or three children, the last he’d heard. “We only met this afternoon, you know.”

      Her laugh was immediate and musical. “But that makes you an old friend, by Simpson Creek standards. We don’t stand on ceremony here, Sam.”

      Was she always so open and unguarded, or only with him? There was an innocent artlessness about her that suggested no one had ever taken advantage of those qualities.

      “That’s good to know, because I wanted to ask you something,” he said.

      “Oh? And what’s that?” She looked up at him with open curiosity as they strolled slowly toward the gate.

      He’d been watching the little dog as he explored the lawn and dashed barking after a catbird that took hasty refuge in the boughs of the big live oak, but now he turned back to Prissy and smiled down at her.

      “I know I really should ask your papa first,” he began, smiling down at her with the smile that had melted the heart of many saloon girls, “and I will ask him, but I wanted to make sure it was agreeable with you first before I did.”

      “Go on,” she said.

      “I’d like to call on you again—if that’s all right with you, that is. That’s what I wanted to ask you, before I asked permission of your father. It doesn’t do me much good to ask him if that isn’t something you’d care for, now, is it?”

      Her considering look wasn’t quite the reaction he’d been expecting. Where had she suddenly found this womanly dignity? After a moment, she nodded.

      “Was that a yes, Miss Prissy?”

      She nodded again, flushing pink. Her blush was so charming, Sam nearly leaned over and kissed her, but he knew better than to do such a thing. Even if she did not object to his boldness, her father might very well be watching through a window.

      He allowed his grin to widen. “That’s settled, then. Give me a couple of days to get settled into this sheriffing job, and then it will be my great pleasure.”

      “Sam, I hope you don’t think I’m being very forward. But it’ll be Sunday day after tomorrow…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked at him expectantly.

      He went blank, wondering what she was hinting at. For years, Sunday mornings had been a time when he lay in some dingy hotel or boardinghouse room and groaned at the church bells that woke him up early to a headache.

      “Would you—I mean, if you wouldn’t mind, and if there are no desperate criminals in the jail at the time for you to guard—will you sit with Papa and me when you come to church?” she asked him, glancing up at him from under those thick lashes.

      His