Who's the Boss

by Linda Turner

  "You ought to be hung by your ankles and left to twist in the wind."

  The weathered lines at the corner of Riley's eyes crinkled.

  "Actually, I was thinking of something a little less painful. The lady wants a chance to prove herself, which is only fair, so I've arranged for a little competition in the high school gym next Thursday night at seven."

  "Like a wrestling match?" someone yelled from the back of the crowd.

  "Well, hell, Riley, I'd pay twenty bucks to see that. You oughtta sell tickets!"

  Riley chuckled along with the rest of the audience and shook his head.

  "Sorry, Joe, but it's not going to be that kind of competition. I'm going to pretend to be a criminal and see if Mrs. Prescott can handcuff me." A murmur went up from the stands and excitement rippled like 'a breeze through the crowd. Raising his voice, Riley added,

  "Later on, we'll have a shoot-off at the shooting range and a long-distance run."

  "And she's supposed to beat you?" Margaret called out indignantly from the front row.

  "That's hardly fair, Riley Whitaker, and you know it! Your legs are twice as long as her ?

  " Not beat me, Margaret," he assured her.

  "Just meet the standards I set for my deputies. If she qualifies to do their job, then she can handle mine." Glancing back over his shoulder at Becca, he dared her with his eyes alone.

  "Well, Mrs. Prescott? How does that sound to you? Thing you can hack it?"

  Hack it? Becca almost choked. He wasn't asking any more of her than he would one of his deputies. The only trouble was, his deputies were all men. And that was something she could hardly object to since she was the one who had claimed she could pass any physical test he could.

  Too la she realized she may have bitten off more than she could chew, but there was nothing she could do about it now. He was calling her bluff, and to admit any doubts' at all at this stage would just about kill any chance she had of winning the election. Aware of every eye on her, she gave him a smile that was nothing but pure bravado.

  "Of course. I'll be there with bells on."

  "Good," he said.

  "Then it's settled. Thursday night at seven in the high school gym.

  I'll see you then."

  His promise was met with a thunderous ovation. Pleased, Riley returned to his seat and made no attempt to hide the glint of satisfaction in his eyes as his gaze met hers.

  Stretching his long legs out in front of him, he shot her a grin that all but said, Top that.

  Not surprisingly, she rose to the silent challenge like a trout to the bait. She was quick, Riley had to give her that.

  And so competitive, she made it all too easy for him to push her buttons. As soon as the emcee introduced her and gave the crowd a brief summary of her educational background and work with the Dallas Sheriff's Department, she was stalking toward the microphone like a woman with a mission.

  Sitting back, Riley crossed his arms over his chest and prepared to enjoy himself. But if he was waiting for her to let her temper get the best of her, he was doomed to disappointment. She had more self-control than that and quickly concealed her irritation with him behind a friendly grin that immediately caught the attention of everyone in the stands.

  Since she was fairly new to the area, she could hardly talk to the crowd as if she'd known most of them all of her life, but she did point out that Lordsburg wasn't completely foreign to her. She mentioned her grandmother, who had been well respected in the area, then did something that Riley hadn't been willing to do in any depth about himself—she spoke of her past.

  If anyone else had told her story, they might have been accused of trying to garner sympathy votes, but not Beeca. In a matter-of-fact voice, she talked about losing her husband to cancer while she was pregnant with her daughter, of being a single mother who got by on a deputy's salary by living in a low-rent area that had more than it’s share of crime. She'd known there was a better way of life out there somewhere, but she hadn't known how to get to it until her grandmother's illness brought her to New Mexico.

  "This is my home now," she finished in a soft voice that had the whole audience riveted to their seats.

  "Mine and Chloe's. And like the sheriff, no one appreciates the peace of this community more than we do. If I'm elected, you can sleep nights knowing that I'll do everything in my power to protect the quality of life you have here. Thank you."

  Getting to their feet, everyone in the audience cheered loudly, and try though he might, Riley could fit shrug it off as just good manners on the part of the home crowd to make Beeca Prescott feel welcome. She'd touched a chord, and people liked what they'd heard. And that had him worried.

  Gable Rawlings was right—the lady was going to give him a run for his money. And if he didn't begin taking her seriously, he was going to be out of a job

  The campaigning began in earnest the very next day, and Becca loved it.

  When she wasn't working at the school, she was out canvassing the county, meeting people, shaking hands, boldly asking for votes. With the first competition with Riley only days away, she wanted to make as much of an impression as possible, so she didn't let any grass grow under her feet. And although she was fortunate not to run into her opponent, she heard about him everywhere she went.

  "Yeah, the sheriff was just out here yesterday," Buddy Gardner told her when she stopped at his ranch to introduce herself.

  "He said you weren't big as a peanut, and I gotta tell you, I think he's right. Girl, how in the world do you think you're going to handcuff that man? His arms are longer than your legs!"

  "A peanut, hmm?" Becca said, a slow, dimpled smile playing about her mouth as she looked down at herself.

  "Well, I can't very well lie about my size, can I?"

  "Nope," the rancher retorted with a lopsided grin.

  "You're short, girl. You might as well admit it."

  "But I'm quick," she retorted, her green eyes sparkling.

  "And I can hide in a crowd. Which is more than Riley Whitaker can say."

  Laughing, the grizzly old gentleman had to agree.

  "I'll tell him you said so."

  He didn't have to, however. Becca did it herself. As soon as she put Chloe to bed that evening, she sat down at her grandmother's old rolltop desk and jotted him a quick note. So he thought she was a peanut, did he?

  I'm surprised at you, Sheriff. A peanut? And here I thought you'd learned not to call me names. I must be making you nervous. And you should be. I'm coming after your job. So enjoy it while you can. Your days are numbered , you just don't know it yet."

  With a slow smile spreading across his rugged face, Riley leaned back in his office chair and stared down at the simple, feminine B scrawled at the bottom of the note he'd found on his office desk when he'd come into work that morning.

  He didn't have to ask how it had gotten there—he was quickly discovering that with Becca Prescott there was no telling where she'd show up next. Everywhere he went, she had already been them or had made plans to show up later that day.

  Laughing suddenly, he pictured her face when she heard what he was saying about her and found himself enjoying the image. Grabbing a piece of paper with the county letterhead, he began to write.

  A peanut by any other name is still a peanut. So don't make the mistake of thinking I'm worried, small fry.

  I've got you right where I want you—eating my dust. You just don't realize it yet.

  Copying her format, he scrawled an R at the bottom, then stuffed the letter into an envelope. With a quick flick of his he sealed it and grinned. If this didn't get a , nothing would.

  The minute they got home from school, Chloe was out ' out of the car like a shot, running for the mailbox. I'll get the mail! “she cried.

  It was the highlight of her day, even though she never lived anything herself.

  Standing on the porch, Becca watched indulgently as Chloe charged out to the big box set back from the road, her small legs pumping. She
couldn't get over how her daughter had changed since they'd moved to New Mexico.

  Tanned and full of energy, she'd become less wary and more spontaneous, and Becca sent up a prayer of thanks every night for that. New Mexico agreed with her with both of them.

  "Hey, Mom, you got another one of those funny letters."

  At Chloe's call, butterflies fluttered in anticipation in Becca's stomach. She didn't have to ask what kind of funny letter; she knew.

  It was another note from Riley. She'd never dreamed that the teasing message she'd sent him three days ago would be the start of a full scale game of tit for tat, but that was exactly what had happened.

  Every morning she dropped off a letter at the sheriff's department for him, commenting on the accuracy of the remarks that were filtering back to her, and every evening she came home to find an answer with his distinctive scrawl waiting tauntingly for her in her mailbox. She couldn't remember the last time she'd enjoyed herself more.

  As Chloe raced back to her and handed her the day's mail, Becca told herself that it was the letters themselves she was enjoying. Riley was a worthy opponent, and matching wits with him as they tried to top each other kept her on her toes. If she woke each morning with a sense of expectancy that she hadn't felt in years, it had nothing to do with the man himself. And if her heart started to pound the second her fingers closed around his letter, it was because she never knew what to expect from him. That was all it was. All it could be.

  Dancing impatiently beside her, Chloe shifted from foot to foot.

  "Can I set up cans for target practice now, Mom? Huh? Please, please, please? If you don't practice, how are you gonna beat the sheriff? "

  Laughing, Becca ruffled her hair and pushed her toward the house.

  "Okay, okay. Go change out of your school clothes and we'll get started."

  "All right!" Grinning from ear to ear, the five-year-old darted into the house.

  Following more slowly, Becca glanced down at the letter she still clutched like a present, her thumb toying with the sealed flap as her eyes started to dance. She had a few minutes while Chloe changed.

  She'd just read it now . "Good news, dear?" Margaret called from next door, stepping outside to retrieve her own mail. Outlandishly dressed in a flowing purple robe decorated with golden stars, she could have easily passed for a gypsy in search of a carnival.

  "Your eyes have the most wonderful sparkle."

  Becca flushed just like a teenager caught mooning over the new boy in town, then wanted to kick herself. Quickly shoving the letter into the pocket of her skirt, she forced a smile.

  "Oh, it's nothing—just a note. I can read it later. Chloe and I are going to go out back for some target practice, so don't be alarmed if you hear shots. In fact, you might want to call Lucille and Clara and warn them, too."

  "Oh, of course, dear. No problem. So how is the campaigning coming? You wouldn't believe how many people have stopped me in town and told me how impressed' they were with your speech the other day." Behind her glasses, her brown eyes started to twinkle.

  "Riley Whitaker has met his match. He just doesn't know it yet.

  Something about the way she slipped in the last two sentences made Becca glance at her sharply, but Margaret only returned her searching look with an innocent smile. Then Chloe came slamming out the back door and the moment was lost.

  Sure she must have imagined any innuendo, Becca said, “He will on election day," then excused herself to retrieve her gun from the locked cabinet in the study.

  Riley was pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot in the staff room when the call came into the sheriff's of rice John Sanchez, playing dispatcher for the day for Myrtle, who was home with a sick granddaughter, took the call.

  "Firecrackers?" he said in surprise, after identifying himself and listening to the caller's complaint.

  "Are you sure? It's a little late in the year for that sort of thing."

  It was obviously the wrong thing to say. Moving to the open door of the main office area, Riley struggled with a grin as he watched his usually unshakable deputy slowly flush with color. Shifting in his seat like a schoolboy taking a scolding, John rolled his eyes at him and said into the phone, "Yes, ma'am, I'm sure you know the sound of firecrackers when you hear them. I didn't mean any offense. It's just that sounds carry in the desert, and it's kind of hard to tell what they are or even where they're coming from. But we'll get someone out there right away."

  Visibly sweating, he hung up with a sigh of relief.

  "Let me guess," Riley said with a chuckle.

  "That was either Evelyn Dryden or Priscilla Vickers. They're both as spooky as old cats."

  "Actually, it was Lucille Brickman and she didn't take too kindly to me questioning her. Damn, that woman's got a sharp tongue." Shaking his head, the deputy said, "I guess I'd better get someone out there before she calls back. Mark was patrolling in that area about an hour ago. I'll get on the horn and see if he's still close by."

  Riley, who had straightened like a poker at the mention of Lucille's name, didn't like the sound of that. The old lady lived right next door to Becca Prescott and was one of Becca's biggest supporters. A strong-willed woman with a reputation for speaking her mind, she wouldn't hesitate to bring up the election with Mark and no doubt rattle him into saying something he shouldn't.

  Making a snap decision, Riley set aside his coffee and retrieved his hat from the hat rack.

  "I'll go. Round up Mark and send him out to the Teen Canteen. The seniors have a big bash planned and someone's bound to show up with a bottle of something they shouldn't. As soon as I've mimed Mrs. Brickman down, I'll swing by and help him keep an eye on those kids so they don't do anything stupid."

  He strode out the door before he could question the wisdom of his decision, but not before he saw John hastily conceal his surprise. The younger man didn't say anything, but then again, he didn't have to.

  Riley knew as well as his deputy that Mark could have handled Mrs. Brickman with patient finesse. The teenagers at the student cans were another matter, however. Riley was far more effective at keeping the kids in line and they both knew it.

  Face it, the voice in his head needled him. You saw a chance to run into Becca again, and you jumped at it.

  You'd better watch it, man. You're playing with fire, and if you're not careful, you're going to get burned.

  Out of habit, his first instinct was to dismiss the idea with a snort of harsh laughter.

  He liked her—he readily admitted it. And there was no question that sparks flew' between them every time their eyes chanced to meet and if he ever got her into his bed, they'd probably set the sheets on fire.

  But it wasn't going to happen. He only had to look at her to know she wasn't the type of woman a man turned to for a one-night stand, and he wasn't interested in anything else.

  That, however, didn't stop his heart from kicking into overdrive just at the thought of possibly tangling with his green-eyed opponent again.

  Fifteen minutes later, when he turned into Lucille Brickman's driveway, he couldn't stop his gaze from swinging to the white clapboard house next door. Becca's Jeep was there, but nothing moved in the yard.

  Sunset was thirty minutes away, and the place looked deserted.

  Reminding himself that he had business to take care of, he stepped from his patrol car and started up the porch steps to Lucille's front door.

  It was then that he heard the sounds the old lady had called about.

  Shots, not firecrackers, he noted, stopping to listen. A .38. And coming from the rear-of one of the one-acre tracts Lucille and each of her neighbors owned.

  Skirting the house, he strode quickly toward the desert wilderness in the distance, his booted feet kicking up dust.

  His gaze focused straight ahead, he never saw Lucille watching him from her kitchen window, her lined, angular face softened by a slow smile of satisfaction.

  Becca took one last look to make sure Chloe hadn't moved
from her position on a boulder a safe distance behind her, then turned her attention to the empty tin cans she'd set up on a weathered log fifty feet in front of her.

  Her feet spread slightly apart, both hands clasped around the cold metal of her .38, she took aim and slowly squeezed the trigger. One of the cans—the one she'd been aiming at, thankfully—went flying with a satisfying ping.

  "All right, Mom!" Chloe cried, her hands clamped protectively over her ears.

  "Hit another one."

  Complying, Becca did, hitting the next five in succession. Laughing, she reholstered the pistol in her shoulder harness, her gaze on the scattered cans that lay like fallen soldiers in the dirt.

  "Now we're cooking with gas, sweetheart!

  And I was afraid I'd lost my touch. Wait till Riley Whitaker gets a load of my fancy shooting. The poor man'll never know what hit him."

  "You think so?" a familiar masculine voice drawled from behind her.

  "Anybody can hit a can from spitting distance. That's baby stuff."

  Startled, Becca whirled to find Riley leaning against a big boulder a few steps back from Chloe, a crooked grin hitching up one corner of his sensuous mouth. His eyes, dark and slumberous, slid over her lazily, taking in every inch of her without seeming to move at all. Suddenly hot and breathless and disgustingly aware of the raggedness of the old T-shirt and cutoffs she'd changed into before trekking out into the desert, Becca would have given anything to deny the wild, welcoming lurch of her heart.

  Damn the man, but she was glad to see him. She'd eat ants before she'd let him know it, though. Her smile mocking, she said, "Better watch it, Sheriff.

  You're beginning to sound just the teeniest bit worried. What's the matter? Afraid I'm going to beat you?"

  His eyes laughing at her, he snorted.

  "Not a chance, sweetheart."

  The endearment slipped out as naturally as if he'd been calling her that for years, stunning them both. As his blue eyes locked with her green ones, neither Riley nor Becca noticed Chloe watching wide-eyed from the rock where she still sat, until she asked, puzzled, "Why does he call you that, Mama? Sweetheart's what you call me."