The Sheriff's Sweetheart. Laurie Kingery

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      He squinted at Sam through bleary, red-rimmed eyes. “Sheriff? You ain’t Nick Brookfield. He’s the sheriff. I don’t know you.” But he kept his hands raised nonetheless.

      Sam kept his voice friendly. “But you see I’m wearing the badge, Delbert, don’t you?” he said, nodding toward the tin star pinned on his vest. “We haven’t had a chance to meet yet. I’m Sam Bishop, the new sheriff.”

      “N-new sheriff? B-bishop?” the man muttered, his words slurred and thick.

      Behind Perry, Sam saw Nick inching forward from the back room, his pistol held ready.

      “That’s right. Now lay the gun down on that table by you.” Nick was right; this man wasn’t going to be difficult to take into custody.

      Just then, Nick slipped on some spilled whiskey. He skated forward on the floor, glass crunching as he cart-wheeled both arms, trying to regain his balance.

      Perry whirled. “What in tarnation?” he screeched, and leveled his pistol straight at Brookfield’s chest.

      Sam fired before he even had time to think about it, neatly shooting the pistol from the drunkard’s hands. Perry’s bullet went wild, embedding itself in the wall beyond.

      The man yelled, dropping his pistol and clutching his hand. Staring at Brookfield, who had now regained his balance, he cried in horror, “There’s the real sheriff! Nick, did I shoot ya? Why’d ya have to creep up on me from behind like that? Are ya all right, partner?”

      “I’m fine, Delbert,” Nick assured him, though his face hadn’t entirely regained its color yet. “Now turn around and raise your hands in the air, and tell Sheriff Bishop you’re sorry for raising such a ruckus on his first day here.”

      Sam stared as Perry, meek as a lamb now, did exactly as Nick told him. “S-sorry, S-Sheriff. Reckon I j-jes’ had too much t’ drink.”

      Another man, wearing an apron and clutching a dingy dishcloth, crawled out from behind the bar. “Thanks,” he said to both of them. “Nice t’meet you, Sheriff Bishop. Welcome.” Then he stared glumly at the damage around him. “Guess I’m gonna have to cut him off after two drinks—not two bottles—from now on.”

      “Meet George Detwiler, proprietor of this fine establishment,” Nick said, walking up behind Perry and pulling his wrists into the come-along he took out of his back pocket. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that, Bishop?”

      “I used to shoot squirrels out of the trees growing up in Tennessee.” Brookfield didn’t need to know it was sometimes all he and his sisters had to eat.

      “I’m much obliged. That could have ended much worse. Perry’s fingertips are merely grazed. I’ll take him by Doctor Walker’s and have him bandaged up before taking him on to jail.”

      “No, he’s my responsibility,” Sam said. He may not have come here for the job, but he’d taken it on, and now he had to live up to the oath he’d sworn only hours ago.

      “There’s no need. I’m sure you’d probably like to tidy up a bit before you present yourself at the mayor’s house. Go on back to your quarters, and I’ll watch over Perry till you’re finished with supper.”

      “But you must want to get back to the ranch and your wife,” Sam protested, feeling guilty because he longed to take Nick up on his offer. “Go on home. It’s my job now.” He glanced at the drunken man, who stood with his hands shackled, gentle as a newborn colt and about as unsteady.

      Nick Brookfield only smiled. “You just saved my life, Bishop. Believe me, my Milly won’t mind if I show up a few hours later because I’m doing you a favor. Besides, I want to have a talk with Perry about the Lord.”

      Sam blinked, sure he’d misunderstood the Englishman. “You want to talk to him about God?”

      “Indeed I do. We’ve had those talks before, haven’t we, Delbert?”

      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.

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