The Sheriff's Sweetheart. Laurie Kingery
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Perry nodded and grinned as if he and the Englishman were the best of friends. “’Bout how th’ good Lord loves me and has a better way for me to live, right, Sheriff Brookfield? Well, come on then, I’m ready.”
Sam felt his jaw drop. Brookfield wanted to spend more time with this drunken fool and talk religion with him?
He shrugged. Far be it from him to tell Brookfield he was wasting his time trying to cure a drinking man of drink, by talking about God.
As far as Bishop was concerned, the Lord didn’t have much to do with anything. Never did, never would. But he just thanked Brookfield and went on his way.
Chapter Three
Houston dozed in Prissy’s room in a wide, flat basket lined with an old towel that Antonio had found for Prissy in the barn. To look at the sleeping dog now, it was hard to believe how fast he had scampered after Flora’s orange tiger cat, which he’d encountered sunning herself by the stable door. The cat had sprung up, hissing, arching her back and puffing herself up to look twice as large as she was, but the little dog had refused to be intimidated and charged the cat, barking shrilly. The cat fled, and a merry chase ensued until the frantic feline finally took refuge up the massive live oak tree that shaded the front yard.
Flora had been miffed, and made it clear that until the canine learned better manners, he was not welcome in her kitchen, nor was Prissy needed to assist in the preparation of the supper, muchas gracias, which would now involve much more work, thanks to Prissy’s short-notice invitation. Prissy knew she’d have to find a way to soothe Flora’s ruffled feathers later.
If it hadn’t been for Houston, the hours until she would see Simpson Creek’s new sheriff again would have crawled by. But after the little dog explored each room and Prissy set up his bed and his food and water dishes, she had only an hour to get ready.
Prissy pulled dress after dress out of her wardrobe and held each one up to herself in the full-length cheval glass, then laid each one down on her bed with a sigh. Which one would Sam Bishop admire her most in, the blue-figured broché with puffed sleeves, the crepe lisse dress of the same green as spring leaves, or the pink silk with the white eyelet-lace trim?
Thank goodness Papa hadn’t wanted her to continue wearing mourning for her mother. That black, and even the gray of half-mourning—such drab colors! Prissy still grieved for her mother, of course, but Papa said seeing his only daughter swathed in black only made him sadder. A month after his wife’s passing he’d asked her to start wearing her pretty dresses again.
In the end, she chose the blue dress. She had just finished pinning up her hair in a becoming fashion that left tendrils loose around her forehead when Prissy heard Flora opening the front door in the hallway below. Houston erupted out of his basket in a flurry of barking.
Oh, heavens, she hadn’t even heard Bishop knock. She had intended to be downstairs setting the table so she could be the one to open the door to Bishop herself. Now she would have to be content to make a grand entrance coming down the marble stairway, which was visible from the doorway.
Houston scampered out of the room, heedless of his mistress’s attempt to grab him. Seconds later she heard the dog capering and yipping in the hall below, and Bishop’s deep, murmuring voice.
Her heart started to pound. Would Sam Bishop find her beautiful? Would his eyes light up as they had in front of the jail when he had first looked at her?
Prissy took one last look at her mirror and pinched her cheeks to bring the color into them. Perhaps a grand entrance would even be better, she decided, otherwise it would look as if she had been waiting at the window for the first glimpse of him coming in through the elaborate wrought-iron gates to the grounds.
Which she hadn’t been. Had she?
Her father was already shaking Bishop’s hand and welcoming him to the house when she set foot on the first step.
“Good evening, Mr. Bishop,” she said, trying to descend with regal grace. “I hope you brought your appetite, because Flora’s cooked something really special.” In truth, since Flora had banished her from her kitchen, Prissy had no idea what was on the menu, but her nose had caught savory, spicy scents wafting from the kitchen. Whatever it was, it would be delicious.
Bishop scooped up the little dog and ruffled his fur. “Why, good evening to you, too, Miss Priscilla,” he said. His lips curved into a smile of warm appreciation. “And yes, I have worked up quite an appetite, because I made my first arrest as Simpson Creek’s new sheriff just minutes ago. I hope you weren’t too disturbed by the gunfire from over at the saloon?”
Her father cleared his throat. “I heard it—unfortunately it’s an all-too common occurrence. I assume no one was hurt?”
Bishop shook his head. “Delbert Perry’s spending the night in the jail, Mayor Gilmore. Mr. Brookfield was kind enough to watch him so I could come to take supper with you.”
Prissy clasped her hand to her neck in alarm. “Thank God you weren’t hurt!”
“You’re so kind to be concerned, Miss Prissy, but I assure you I was never in any danger. Mr. Brookfield and I disarmed him without too much trouble,” he said, his eyes meeting hers, causing her pulse to race and a flush to heat her cheeks. What was going on here?
“Delbert Perry’s a harmless ne’er-do-well, except when he’s been drinking and takes his pistol to the saloon. I’ll expect you to come up with a plan to combat that, Mr. Bishop,” Mayor Gilmore said in a no-nonsense voice.
“I’ll make that a priority, sir,” Bishop assured him in a tone that matched her father’s gravity.
Flora bustled into the hallway, an immaculate lace-trimmed apron tied around her waist. “Supper is served, señores, señorita,” she said, gesturing toward the dining room.
As they settled themselves in their chairs, Prissy found herself studying Sam Bishop. He spoke to her father with real authority—he seemed like such an honorable man. She’d have to invite him to the church. He’d make a fine addition to their community.
When Flora set down the meal, Houston sat up by Prissy’s place at the table, waving his paws in the air and staring at her with liquid appeal in his dark shoe-button eyes.
“Prissy, I won’t have a dog begging at the table,” her father said sternly. “Make him go lie down.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I allowed him to develop bad habits on the trail,” Bishop said, coming to her rescue. “It was just him and me, and I’d toss him tidbits as I ate. He knew he could get more if he sat up like that, the rascal.” He raised an arm and pointed to a spot on the floor away from the table. “Houston, go lie down.” His voice was firm, and to Prissy’s surprise, the dog immediately did as he was bid without a backward glance.
Her father resumed the tale he’d been telling. “So as I was saying, Nick Brookfield, Dr. Walker and the rest of the posse went after Holt and the Gray Boys Gang and brought back Miss Sarah safe and sound. That ended the rustling sprees in these parts,” her father said.
“Sounds like I have tall boots to fill, sir,” Sam Bishop said, laying down his fork on the empty plate that now held only the remains of Flora’s chicken mole. “But I’ll do my very best.”
“I have every confidence you will,” her father said, “if today is anything to go by.”
I know you will, Prissy thought, sitting across from him at the long dining table, continuing to study Bishop while he spoke to her father. She wondered about his past, his childhood, where he’d grown up. And then she again wondered why she was wondering.
Her father put down his glass and rubbed his chin, a sure sign he was about to mention something that troubled him. “One recent development that’s troubled me about this town has been the arrival of some undesirable types. You’ll need to be aware of them.”
“Go