The Sheriff's Sweetheart. Laurie Kingery

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      On his right sat a very imposing mansion of brick, surrounded by a tall black wrought-iron fence with an ornate front gate. He whistled under his breath. That must be the home of the richest man in town. Maybe he was the president of the bank. He’d have to make sure to become friends with that gentleman.

      “I wonder how we’re going to find our Miss Priscilla, dog?” he mused aloud, surveying the town from beneath the broad, wide brim of his black hat. He tried picturing “Miss Priscilla Gilmore,” and couldn’t decide if she was one of the available spinsters herself or some grandmotherly matchmaking type.

      Should he try the post office? After all, the advertisement had listed a post office box address—surely the postmaster would be able to direct him to Miss Gilmore.

      The post office, by unfortunate coincidence, sat right beyond the jail. Sam had always kept clear of local lawmen, finding they usually sized him up on sight as the gambler he was. But this time it couldn’t be helped.

      Just act as if you have a right to be here, he told himself. You’re just here to meet a lady. Nothing wrong with that.

      As he approached the jail, three people emerged from it—a well-dressed old man leaning on a silver-headed cane, a man about Sam’s age who must be the sheriff, for his vest bore a silver star, and a young lady. Her face was hidden by the side of her fetching sky-blue bonnet, but strawberry-blond curls peeped from beneath it.

      “Yes, I’m expecting the man today, Mayor,” he heard the sheriff say to the older man.

      Just then the dog erupted into a volley of barks from his saddle perch.

      Sam tried to hush the beast, but it was already too late.

      “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.”

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