“Really, Caro, this whole town is full of silver tailings.” Kimberly picked up her knife and buttered a roll. “And Tombstone’s full of old miners.”
“I realize that. But the town—more specifically, the graveyard—doesn’t have this kind of soil.”
“So?” Morgan demanded.
“So… the skeleton did. And so does Mr. Ellis’s wheelchair.”
Kimberly’s roll dropped onto her plate with a soft thud.
“Are you saying Hugh’s a grave robber?” Wyatt asked brusquely.
“No. I’m saying that the dirt on the skeleton came from Mr. Ellis’s ranch—or from the Silver Dollar.”
“You’ll need proof of that. The soil around here is probably the same from one ranch to the next. Everyone has pretty much the same stuff.”
“And everyone knows that Bodine land has an old silver mine on it. So do lots of the other ranches!” Morgan shouted.
“I have to agree.” Kimberly’s face was as pale as Morgan’s was red. “Come on, Wyatt, that skeleton didn’t come from your mine. It’s been boarded up for years!”
Morgan, Kimberly and Hugh stared at Caro again.
“I want to hear the rest of what Dr. Hartlan has to say about this…wrongful death,” Wyatt said.
“Correction. I’ve just officially upgraded it to murder, which is what I’ve suspected all along.” Caro reached for more soil and more water, mixing both in her already muddy palm as she spoke. “Number one, I have a motive for the victim’s death. Number two, he was probably thrown down a mine shaft after he’d been killed. The compression fractures on the long bones will bear me out. And I’d guess it’s probably an old mine and an old murder, or the remains would’ve been discovered much earlier. Number three—”
Morgan lost his patience. “Enough with the numbers, already!”
“Please, Morgan,” Wyatt ordered. “Go on, Caro.”
“Number three, I found precious-metal tracings on the skeleton, in addition to damp rot. And The Silver Dollar Ranch has an old mine on its land—”
“That silver was tapped out decades ago,” Morgan interrupted. “There isn’t any more.”
“I want to ride out to The Silver Dollar Mine tomorrow and see for myself. Sheriff, will you take me?”
“That’s a dangerous place.” Wyatt didn’t sound enthusiastic at all. “Silver traces on the bones doesn’t mean your skeleton came from our property. Or that there’s anything in the mine.”
“I think the chances are very good there is. You see, Sheriff—” Caro drew a deep breath “—I suspect your mine isn’t tapped out at all. I think it’s yielding again, and quite richly at that. I also suspect the skeleton must have died for those riches, and he’s somehow turned up again because of them.”
The room was filled with Morgan’s hoots of derision, Kimberly’s polite expressions of disbelief and Hugh’s wheezing, which could mean any number of things. Even Wyatt’s skepticism had overridden his usual poker-face look.
“Caro, your theory is faulty. There’s no silver on this ranch, nor any motive for old murders or present-day crime.”
“I didn’t say anything about silver. I said precious metal. I know what I’ve seen on the skeleton. And I know what I’ve just found in Hugh’s wheels.”
She rose and held out her fist in the middle of the table. It was Wyatt who took hold of her wrist, Wyatt who peeled back her fingers to the soil clasped in her hand.
A deadly silence fell on the room. Resting there in her palm—from a wheelchair that had crossed Bodine ranch land—were shiny flecks of metal.
“It’s…” Kimberly’s voice cracked and broke.
Wyatt’s eyes met Caro’s. No one bothered to finish the other woman’s sentence. They could all see for themselves the glistening, noncorroded sheen, a warm, shiny luster that could mean only one thing.
Gold.
CHAPTER SIX
Friday morning
“GOLD! OF ALL THE preposterous claims!”
Outside his brother’s official Jeep, Morgan Bodine strapped on the gun that his occasional stints as sheriff’s deputy demanded. “It’s even crazier than that woman thinking we’re grave robbers!”
Wyatt unsnapped the collar of his shirt to catch the rare coolness of the morning breeze. “She’s just doing her job, Morg. Can’t fault the lady for that.”
“The hell I can’t!”
“She’s doing the same job I do,” Wyatt replied. “And you. You’re one of my deputies, so I need to be able to contact you. Where were you yesterday?”
“Out with Kimberly.”
“She was working.”
“Not all day she wasn’t. I took her to lunch.”
“And you went over to the Bar E after dinner. Where you stayed till midnight—I heard you stumble in.” Wyatt sighed. “I’ll bet Kim tried to show you the door long before that.”
Morgan’s face flushed an angry, embarrassed red, and Wyatt knew he’d hit the mark. “Chasing her around like a schoolboy is beneath you, Morg, and you know it,” he said sadly. “I’m warning you—”
“Save it, Sheriff. And while we’re on the subject of warnings, let me tell you that high-tech Sherlock Holmes you’re chasing doesn’t know a clue from a cactus!”
“Maybe not cactus, but I’m a whiz at fingerprint retrieval.” Both men turned as Caro approached.
Morgan pointedly ignored her arrival, though Wyatt did touch the brim of his hat. “I’m off, Wyatt. I have better things to do than sit and listen to insults on my own ranch.”
Wyatt dangled the keys to the sheriff’s vehicle, regretting that this morning wasn’t going to give him his chance to talk to Morgan privately. Morgan snatched the keys out of his brother’s hand.
“Tell Kimberly I’ll check in with her after Caro and I come back from the mine,” Wyatt said.
“I hope you aren’t wasting your time.”
Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t underestimate the lady, Morgan. I checked with the Phoenix police. Detectives fight for her services. The percentage of crimes solved on the cases she works is far above average. She’s smart, and we’re lucky we have her.”
Caro was surprised—and pleased. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sheriff. I do work hard.”
Morgan was fumbling with the gun belt, yet Morgan had grown up with guns. Was it Caro’s imagination, or did he seem uneasy? Wyatt apparently thought the same thing.
“Morg?”
“Hmm?” Morgan wouldn’t look Wyatt in the eye, Caro noticed.
“Anything you’re not telling me?”
“Like what?” Morgan finally got the buckle to thread and fasten.
“Like about this case. Like how your keys turned up in that skull.”
“I told you yesterday! I don’t know! Now, are you going to believe me or are you going to call me a liar?”
“Morg, I—”
“Don’t play big brother with me, Wyatt. I don’t need it.”
With those words Morgan climbed into the Jeep, viciously cranked the engine to life and sped off in a cloud of dust.
“My apologies,” Wyatt said quietly to Caro. “It isn’t like him to be so rude.”
“I’ve ruffled a few feathers, I’m sure.”
“Which was your intention?”
“Naturally.”
“Well, you succeeded. Morgan’s in rare form.” And Kimberly, as well, he remembered. She’d called him early this morning to voice her complaints about Caro Hartlan. “My grandfather can barely breathe, Wyatt, let alone dig for skeletons and imaginary gold strikes!” she’d said. “I checked his favorite places—you know he can’t go far—and I didn’t see any metal anywhere. Except his aluminum wheelchair! Hugh’s in bed from the shock, and I’m worried sick about him.”
Wyatt had tried to soothe his childhood friend. He’d even used the affectionate diminutive of her name. “I’m sorry about that, Kimmie, but—”
“Sorry, my grandfather’s mule! I don’t know where that gold came from, an
d frankly I don’t care! You do something about Dr. Know-It-All and do it soon, or you can find yourself a new dispatcher!”
Kimberly had hung up on him, her voice trembling with emotion. First Kim, then Morgan had joined in the outcry against Caro Hartlan. Wyatt himself wasn’t thrilled with the events of last night, either, but he was forced to admit one thing. Caro Hartlan had made more progress in two days than he could have made in a week.
And although he hadn’t told anyone yet, he’d come to the same conclusion as Caro had. His crime-fighting instincts never lied.
Someone on the Bodine or Ellis ranch knows more than he—or she—is telling. It looks like there’s been one murder over treasure in the past. There isn’t going to be another if I can help it.
“Come on, let’s get out to the mine.”
With Caro right behind him, Wyatt made for the barn, his steps slow, his expression thoughtful. A few seconds later he was throwing a saddle on one of the two horses he kept for personal use, mouth set in a grim line. Caro saddled the other. Wyatt felt that she knew he wasn’t involved, but that wasn’t particularly reassuring. It meant he might have to arrest one of three people, people he’d known all his life. A man he’d loved like a father. A woman he loved like a sister. A brother. And whoever might have helped with those crimes.
As he helped Caro finish saddling the Arabian mare, Wyatt muttered a curse. The horse pricked her delicate ears, while Caro tactfully avoided comment. Wyatt gave the mare a soothing rub on the neck, and she swung her velvety gray muzzle his way to lightly brush his forehead.
It would take more than an equine caress to brighten his mood, Wyatt thought dismally as he led the mare and his stallion outside. If he had to arrest someone he loved, so be it. His own code of justice demanded no less—no quarter given, no quarter asked.
This woman was responsible for what would almost certainly be a painful disturbance in all their lives. No, he reminded himself, she wasn’t responsible for whatever had happened; she was merely bringing it to light. Still, how could he even consider any kind of relationship with her? And he had to face it, he was interested in Caro Hartlan. More than just interested. Intrigued and aroused by her mind, her body, her sharp wit.
Caro walked beside him, taking in the beauty of his silver Arabian—and the frown on Wyatt’s face.
Obviously not a happy camper. Well, she wasn’t too happy herself. Maybe his expression wasn’t pleasant, but the rest of him was as attractive and fit as ever. Like her, he was dressed in boots, lightweight jeans and a long-sleeved yoked shirt as protection against the sun. Only tourists and sun worshipers dressed scantily in the fury of the desert’s June heat. Unlike Bodine, Caro didn’t have a gun strapped to her waist, and she’d settled for her Boston Red Sox baseball cap, instead of a Stetson.
Outside the barn, Wyatt mounted, the bullet belt and holster bouncing a bit at the motion. Caro found herself staring. She knew that most policemen carried their guns twenty-four hours a day. In some states it was even the law. There was no such thing as off duty unless you’d quit or died.
“I know you’re an experienced rider, but I’m warning you, it’s a long way to the mine,” Wyatt said.
Caro smiled. “I’m an Arizona native, remember? And I’ll take good care of your mare—whom you haven’t introduced me to, by the way.”
“Delicate Cactus Blossom. And mine’s called Arabian Pride.”
Caro stroked the mare’s nose. “Delicate Cactus Blossom, huh, sweetheart? How about I just call you Blossom? You’re a pretty one, aren’t you? So, Blossom, ready to go stir up some bushes?”
“Pardon?”
“You have to stir up bushes and turn over rocks to find out where the snakes are hiding.” She let her meaning sink in before swinging gracefully into the saddle. “Let’s go, Sheriff. The snakes are waiting.”
The trek out to the old Bodine mine began in silence. The old trail was faint but visible, and not a difficult ride. Wyatt was in no mood to talk—and obviously, neither was Caro— despite the soothing coolness of the morning. A coolness that was fighting a losing battle against the sun.
The airborne predators were already circling, waiting for the ground animals to take advantage of the precious morning dew. Coyotes and other nocturnal predators waited to do the same before retiring from the hunt.
A hawk glided overhead. At its most primitive level, life was nothing more than survival of the fittest, Caro mused, not for the first time. She stole a glance at the man who rode beside her. Was he friend or foe? Hunter or hunted? Or perhaps both, like prey that would turn and destroy its predator—the deadliest kind of prey.
Caro hoped Bodine was an ally, believed it as strongly as she was able to believe anything. But even if he wasn’t, she silently vowed she’d survive. She knew that the best offense was a good defense, that knowledge was, and always would be, power. It was time to start building on the knowledge she already possessed.
“Sheriff…why didn’t you tell me those keys weren’t yours?”
His head swiveled her way, his eyes hidden under the Stetson’s brim. “Because I wanted to talk to Morgan first, give him a chance to explain. Before I could do that, you dropped your bombshell.”
“That’s hardly police procedure. The forensics expert and the primary officer for the crime are supposed to share all their information.”
“I agree. So why didn’t you tell me you’d fingerprinted the keys?”
Caro reined her horse close to his. “Fingerprinting is standard procedure, and anyway, I did tell you I planned to do it.”
“Fine, but you could’ve told me when you received the results.” He paused. “That’s some little computer you have, ma’am.”
“Silicon Valley’s finest, and I wouldn’t have had to use it if you’d been honest from the start.”
“I was going to tell you those were Morgan’s keys, damn it. You didn’t give me enough time.”
“Time to do what? Take them from me at the crime scene before I bagged them?”
Wyatt’s reaction was swift and angry. “What are you trying to say—Doctor?”
“I’m saying, Sheriff, that your methods are somewhat… freelance. You want to kiss me on the job, okay, I can live with that. I can even enjoy it,” she said bluntly. “But when it comes to letting someone take evidence or lie—”
“I never lied!”
“You deceived me by not telling me the truth. I believe that’s called a lie of omission. Doesn’t count favorably in my book.”
“I’ve already given you my reason for keeping quiet about the keys.”
“I see. Family comes first?”
“Justice comes first. But family matters to me, and so does fairness. As for kissing you…”
“Yes?”
“Rest assured, I won’t make that mistake again.”
Caro burned inside from anger and something else—a discouragement that surprised her with its intensity. They rode on, the stillness of morning broken only by the muffled thudding of horses’ hooves and the creaking of leather. After a few minutes of this, she decided it was time for a change of subject.
“Tell me about The Silver Dollar Mine, Sheriff.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything that could help us with this case.”
“There’s not much to tell. Bodines mined silver in the early days, but the mine was tapped out long before the boom days ended.”
“What did your ancestors do for a living, then?” Caro asked. “When the silver ran out?”
“What everyone else did who didn’t have a yielding claim. Fed those who worked the mines. My ancestors were all cattle ranchers, starting with Lem Bodine, who was the first Bodine to settle in Arizona.”
“So you’re the only Silver Dollar horse rancher?”
“That’s correct.”
Caro adjusted the grip on her reins. “Was Lem Bodine involved in the Earp-Cowboy wars?”
“No, he came into the picture a few years after t
he turn of the century. But Tombstone silver did play a big part in his life.” He slanted her a curious look. “How much do you really know about all that—aside from the movies and high school history books?”
“Enough, I guess. I know that during Tombstone’s silver-boom days, the Cowboys were almost a hundred strong. They were crooked cattlemen, drifters and fugitives who organized their own crime ring, with the protection of a corrupt political system.”
“Then you know the Earps eventually broke the Cowboy rule,” Wyatt said. “Including Tombstone’s corrupt political system—the judges, the lawyers, the courts. The Earps set out to destroy that monopoly and saw justice served.”
“Yes, but not without bloodshed,” Caro recalled. “Most people only remember that the Earps and Doc Holliday survived the shootout at the O. K. Corral. They don’t remember the rest of it.”
Caro and Wyatt both fell silent and Caro reviewed what she knew about the fate of the proud lawmen, sons of a St. Louis judge. The corrupt courts issued warrant for the arrests of Wyatt, Virgil and Morgan Earp, as well as Doc Holliday. Dead or alive. The hunters had become the hunted, who refused to surrender. The four men stood fast against the Cowboys—and suffered the consequences.
Morgan Earp paid dearly for his job as deputy. He was murdered by the Cowboys in December of 1881, a mere two months after the infamous shootout. The following March, Virgil Earp almost suffered the same fate; he survived a murder attempt, but was permanently crippled, thanks to a shattered arm and shoulder from a shotgun blast.
Wyatt and Doc were forced to leave their Arizona homes, and both men ended up in Colorado. Holliday gambled in various mining towns and died in a Colorado sanatorium of T.B. six years later.
Wyatt was hounded by men—decent and evil—for the rest of his life. He and Sadie Marcus followed the mining camps, where Wyatt succeeded more often as a gambler, deputy or marshall than he did as a prospector. He eventually roamed as far west as California and as far north as Alaska in search of a fortune, which he found, and in the attempt to avoid notoriety, which was impossible. Eventually he settled in California to breed and race horses.
Anne Marie Duquette Page 9