The Sheriff's Sweetheart Read Online Free

true, at least. He had come because of an advertisement—Priscilla’s ad for the Society for the Promotion of Marriage.
    â€œWhere’d you see it?”
    Sam said a quick prayer to the deity he hadn’t paid much attention to in a long while. “In a Houston newspaper,” he said, hoping vagueness would suffice.
    Brookfield gave him a look he couldn’t read. “Bring your saddlebags and come inside. I’ll show you the jail and your quarters behind it. Then we’ll take your horse down to the livery and we’ll take a little walk around town so I can introduce you to folks.”
    The jail looked much as he’d expected; two cells and a desk, with a rack next to the door holding a pair of rifles and a couple of pistols, boxes of bullets beneath. A short hallway between the two cells led to a door that opened into his private quarters—as he’d expected, nothing palatial, just a room with a bed and another room with a table and two chairs and a cabinet, but no stove. Apparently even his morning coffee would have to be obtained at the hotel. He dropped his gear on the table.
    Seventy-five dollars a month. He’d made that much and more in one night of card playing. Well, at least here he wouldn’t be dealing with sore losers like Raney. And he’d have the chance to woo the lovely Prissy…
    â€œSo how does an Englishman come to be living in a small Texas town?” he asked as they walked back outside, down a side street to the livery, leading Sam’s black gelding.
    Brookfield gave him another of his inscrutable looks. “It’s a long story,” he said.
    It seemed he was going to leave it at that, which made Sam curious. Did the Englishman have a past he wasn’t proud of, too? Interesting. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry,” he said.
    Brookfield gave him a sidelong glance. “It’s I who should apologize,” he said in his formal way. “I didn’t intend to sound churlish.”
    Sam wasn’t sure what “churlish” meant but he was relieved Brookfield seemed to be thawing a little.
    â€œIt’s no secret, I suppose,” Brookfield said. “I came to Texas to take a post at the embassy office in the capital, took a side trip to Simpson Creek, and met my wife, Milly. Now I’m a rancher instead of an embassy attaché. Life takes interesting turns, does it not?”
    â€œThat’s a fact,” Sam agreed. He wondered more about what Bishop had not said than what he had. Why would an Englishman take a side trip to a little backwater town like Simpson Creek? But Sam knew better than to probe further. He’d already irked the Englishman—perhaps it was best to douse his curiosity. After all, the code of the West dictated a man’s past was his private business, if he wanted it to be.
    â€œHere’s the livery,” Brookfield announced as they came to a large barn and corral, in which several horses stood, tails swishing. “Run by the Calhoun brothers, now that their father’s died in the epidemic. Hello, Calvin,” he said when a tow-headed youth came forward out of the shadows of the barn. “Meet Sam Bishop, the new sheriff. Calvin will take good care of your horse.”
    â€œI sure will. Pleased t’meet ya,” the boy said, and tookthe gelding’s reins, leading him into the box stall nearest the door.
    Before Sam could reply, shots rang out. He and Nick spun around to see a man sprinting toward them.
    â€œSheriff! Thank God I’ve found you! Ol’ Delbert’s liquored up again, an’ shootin’ out th’ mirror and th’ lights!” he shouted as he neared them.
    Brookfield didn’t take time to explain he was no longer the sheriff. “Is everyone all right?”
    â€œYup, George took cover behind the bar an’ everyone else went out th’ back door. Delbert ain’t mad at anyone, he’s just had too much