The Sheriff's Sweetheart Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Prissy?” her father asked, eyeing her.
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œ Mmm, pecan pie’s my favorite,” Bishop murmured appreciatively. “Though it’s hard to believe anything could be better than the main dish.”
    â€œYes, we’re very fortunate to have her to cook for us,” Gilmore said. “Though Prissy’s become quite the accomplished cook, too.”
    â€œWith 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.”
    â€œI see. And what’s your culinary specialty, Miss Prissy?” Bishop asked in his lazy drawl.
    â€œFried 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.
    â€œWell, fried chicken and biscuits is just about the finest meal on this earth,” Bishop declared.
    â€œThen 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.
    â€œWould 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.”
    â€œThere’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.”
    â€œDuty calls, eh?” her father said, clearly approving of his answer. “Well, welcome to Simpson Creek, SheriffBishop. 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.
    â€œAnd don’t linger too long,