The Sheriff's Sweetheart by Laurie Kingery

Pete Collier, Caroline Wallace’s late fiancé, had opened up a drugstore before his untimely death.
    â€œI see,” she said at last. “I guess that makes sense.”
    â€œThe sheriff’s job just seemed to fall into my lap. Besides, I think I’ll make a good sheriff for Simpson Creek. Don’t you?”
    â€œIf your first day on the job was anything to go by, you sure will,” she said. “Why, Delbert Perry might have killed Nick if you hadn’t been there.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know, it was just that Perry was startled, and—”
    She interrupted his modest dismissal. “But, Sam, how can you be sure I’m the one you want to court? You haven’t gotten to know the other ladies—some of the Spinsters you haven’t even met yet.”
    He looked down again for a moment, and when helooked up, his grin was broad. “Fishing for compliments, are you, Prissy? You want to hear that once I saw you, I didn’t have eyes for anyone else?”
    He expected her to laugh, but consternation filled her eyes.
    â€œSam, I, too, have a confession. I’m feeling somewhat guilty about you—”
    He blinked. “Guilty? About me? How’s that?” What could she possibly mean? They hadn’t so much as kissed. What could this innocent, beautiful girl have to feel guilty about?
    She nodded. “I’m president of the Spinsters’ Club. By rights, I should be encouraging you to get to know all of the ladies and make your choice. But I haven’t wanted to do that. I chose to…go on a picnic with you instead.”
    After a moment, he took her hand. “I’m glad you did, Prissy. Mighty glad you did.”
    All of a sudden there was no world beyond the sun-dappled shade of the ancient tree, no one but him and her.
    â€œOnce I saw you, I couldn’t imagine that anyone could compare to you,” he said.
    Prissy felt she could hardly catch her breath.
    She could smell his scent of bay rum and leather, and even the sweetness of the pralines they had eaten. She could have stayed in that moment the rest of her life.
    They both heard the creak of an axle and the sound of laughing children at the same time. A moment later, a buckboard wagon lumbered into view, the bed loaded with wriggling children, a local rancher and his wife seated on the plank bench in front.
    â€œHowdy, Miss Prissy, Sheriff,” the man called, raisinga hand in greeting. “Thought I’d take our young’uns to the creek t’git cooled off. Are y’all havin’ a nice picnic?”
    â€œWe sure are, Mr. Edwardson,” she called, grateful she could remember the man’s name in spite of the way her head was spinning, and hoping he and his wife couldn’t see the way she was blushing in the shade of the old live oak.
    â€œHave fun at the creek,” Sam said.
    The buckboard rumbled on, and she turned back to Sam, suddenly self-conscious.
    The silence under the tree was broken only by the buzzing of a fly swooping low over the remains of the picnic feast. Sam waved the insect away.
    She should start a new conversation. Her mother always said a lady should be able to make sparkling conversation about any interesting topic under any circumstance.
    â€œSam,” Prissy began, “tell me about your home. You said you were from Tennessee originally? And your family—I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned them.”
    He was silent for a long minute.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said, thinking she must have sounded nosy. “I didn’t mean to pry—”
    He held up a hand. “You weren’t, Prissy. No reason to apologize. It’s a natural enough question. Yes, I was born and raised in the hills of Tennessee.”
    â€œDid you live on a farm?”
    He gave a short, mirthless bark of laughter. “To call those rocky acres a farm would be stretching the truth, but yes, I