The Sheriff's Sweetheart. Laurie Kingery
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not exactly the most private location. There’s always the possibility that we’ll be talked about.”
“And you know somewhere less crowded?”
“No! No, I mean…I…uh…” Suddenly Prissy was afraid she’d sounded too bold. She didn’t want Sam Bishop to think she was not a lady. But she didn’t want the entire town observing their picnic, either. “I just meant somewhere where we could talk in peace, and not have to worry about a ball landing in the middle of the fried chicken all of a sudden—or whatever’s in that picnic basket.”
Sam chuckled. “No, we don’t want that,” he agreed. “Where did you have in mind?”
His smile was so warm she felt it like a physical touch. It was almost unnerving. “There’s a place…” she began. “Oh, but we couldn’t walk there, it’s too far. Maybe we’d better go there another time.”
“It just so happens I’ve checked with the Calhoun boy at the livery, and he’s got a horse and shay we could borrow for the afternoon. He could hitch it up while we’re picking up the basket at the hotel.”
“My, you’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? All right, then, there’s this huge old live oak, just a little ways out of town. They say it’s over a hundred years old.”
“And there wouldn’t be families and little boys throwing balls into the fried chicken there?”
“No. Chances are we’d have the place to ourselves today.”
“Sounds perfect,” he said.
Prissy felt her heart accelerate. She gazed up into those intense brown eyes and felt a niggle of doubt about the propriety of going off alone with this handsome man she’d so recently met. “But perhaps you shouldn’t go so far from town, since you’re the sheriff?” she said, twisting a fold of her pink skirt in her hand.
“I don’t think there’ll be a wave of lawlessness striking Simpson Creek on a Sunday afternoon,” he said lightly but without ridicule. “Would you feel more at ease, though, if we asked Sarah and her husband to come along?”
“Sam, you wouldn’t mind?” she said, relief washing over her.
“Of course not. They’re talking to Nick Brookfield by his wagon. Let’s go ask. I thought you might feel that way, so I told the cook to pack enough for four.”
Impulsively, she seized his hand and squeezed it. “You are the most thoughtful man!” she exclaimed, and was rewarded with a lopsided grin—as well as some interesting looks from the ladies of the Society.
Sarah and Nolan were perfectly agreeable to falling in with their plan, but just as they started down the street toward the livery stable with them, a cowhand on a lathered horse galloped into the churchyard from beyond the creek and slid to a stop by Nick’s wagon.
“Miz Milly says ya gotta hurry on home, boss! She commenced t’ havin’ pains ’bout the time you left, but she didn’t wanna tell you. Figured you’d be back in plenty a’ time. Now they comin’ faster. She thinks the time’s about here. She says you better come, too, Doc Walker, Miz Sarah! You take the horse, Mist’ Nick—I’ll drive the wagon.”
Sarah turned back to Prissy. “I’m afraid we’ll have to make it some other time,” she said as Nick took off toward the ranch. “My sister needs me.”
“Of course,” Prissy said. “How exciting, Sarah—you’ll soon be an aunt!”
After the excited Walkers and the wagon full of cowhands had departed along with the Walkers in the doctor’s buggy, Sam turned to Prissy. “Perhaps you’d rather have our picnic over in the meadow after all?” he suggested.
She turned and gazed across the creek. Just as she had said, families were spreading out tablecloths on the grass, and children who’d been confined to the pews in their stiff Sunday clothes were already wading in the creek, splashing and shrieking. She shook her head.
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