Anne Marie Duquette

by She Caught the Sheriff

  “This place is enormous!” she gasped.

  “Amazing what greed and dynamite can do to nature,” Wyatt replied. “Good thing the bats don’t mind.”

  He covered her hand with his and guided the flashlight toward the back of the cavern’s ceiling.

  Caro registered the warmth of his hand on hers. Then, what she saw illuminated by their flashlights caused her chin to drop in amazement. Hundreds, maybe thousands of bats hung upside down, their bodies packed tightly for warmth, their sharp claws curled around the ceiling’s rough, jagged formations.

  “They tend to cluster near the back. If you want to keep clean, it’s best to stay here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Wyatt’s guiding hand fell away from hers. Both of them lowered their flashlights, but not before Wyatt saw Caro frown.

  “What? Smell getting to you?”

  “No, I’ve smelled worse. But I was thinking… The skeleton we recovered had damp rot. I’m wondering if that’s from guano.”

  “You didn’t test for it?”

  “No. It’s not a test I routinely make, or even thought of making. I guess I should have,” she said ruefully. “Still…”

  “What?”

  “You know, there must be other chambers around. Chambers with deep shafts,” she added, mentally picturing the shattered, compressed leg bones.

  “There are,” Wyatt said. “But most flooded out a century ago. The few that aren’t are filled with bats and dead ends like this one. I doubt our skeleton came from there.”

  “Are you certain of that, Sheriff?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause, then Wyatt reached for her arms. He drew her toward him, just enough so she could see his face in the weak beam of his flashlight.

  “I do have a first name, Caro. It’s Wyatt. And I’m not in the habit of lying. Can’t you trust me?”

  Trust me… Caro wished she could see his eyes. But it was too dark, and shining the light directly at his eyes would only blind him, a dangerous thing to do in a cave.

  “I don’t think you had anything to do with the skeleton,” she said slowly. “But if Morgan’s involved…then I’d have to ask where your loyalty would lie. With him? Or with me?”

  “My loyalty would be to the truth—to the law. I follow the rules.”

  “I believe that, Sheriff.” She couldn’t bring herself to call him Wyatt, not just yet. “But I’m worried that your rules might not be exactly… textbook.”

  To her surprise, he laughed, his deep baritone echoing off the cave walls. “This from a woman who springs major evidence finds at dinner parties, scrapes gold off old men’s wheelchairs and lets people think she’s a dumb city slicker when she’s anything but!”

  He reached for a stray strand of hair that had escaped her Red Sox cap and tucked it in. “Your own set of rules is just as unconventional as mine. Lord knows what else you’ve done that I don’t know about.”

  Caro thought about the suitcase she’d hung under her window—and the arrangement she’d made with Marta. Suddenly she was glad the darkness of the cave hid her guilty flush.

  “However, if you wish to remain your cautious self,” Wyatt went on, “do check at the city surveyor’s office if you require confirmation. We can always come back if the skeleton tests positive for guano.”

  He studied her hair. “There,” he said. “I think that’s it.” He released her arm.

  “You aren’t mad at me?” She was disappointed that he hadn’t tried to steal a kiss in the dark, and annoyed for letting his touch distract her.

  “How could I? We think alike. We’re two of a kind, you and I.”

  “There are some differences,” Caro said tartly.

  The smile in his roving eyes was purely male. “And vive la difference. But remember one thing, Caro. Even the great Sherlock Holmes trusted someone.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t see you in the role of the bumbling Dr. Watson, and I’m sure as shooting not giving up my magnifying glass.”

  He continued to smile. There was something in his gaze that both confused and thrilled her.

  “You think I’m joking?”

  He threw up his hands in mock defense. “No way, Ms. Holmes.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Never in a million years.”

  Caro had no idea what to say. The possibilities, the fantasies she was dying to visualize, even verbalize, were too farfetched for her logical mind.

  Finally Wyatt said, “Let’s head back to the horses.”

  “Good idea,” she said shakily. “You go on. I’ll be right behind you. I need a few minutes alone…” To get hold of myself.

  “Staying behind isn’t a wise idea,” Wyatt warned. “Even I won’t do that, and I grew up around these caves.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Why? What’s so important that you can’t—Oh.” He broke off abruptly.

  The good sheriff thought she had to answer the call of nature, Caro realized. She didn’t, but she did want to be alone. And since she also wanted to take a few more readings and program those into her computerized map system, she went along with the pretense.

  “Sorry to hold you up.”

  “I’ll wait for you around the bend. Take your time.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff.” Seconds later, the sound of his footsteps faded completely.

  “This cavern might be too shallow for severe compression breaks,” she murmured to herself. “But I wonder… does it really dead-end here?”

  Maybe her little gadget could verify the truth of Wyatt’s statement. Caro turned on the navigator’s miniature radar. The ping stirred a few of the very mammals who’d inspired her instrument’s creation, and they squeaked in response.

  “Keep it down, guys,” she said. “Your chattering’s glitzing my machine.”

  A few minutes later her amusement was gone as the readings came winging back. “That can’t be right!”

  She took a second reading for confirmation. Then a third. Both told her the same thing as the first.

  The cave doesn’t dead-end as the sheriff claims!

  According to her view screen, there was a second opening off to the side and way in the back. It wasn’t large, it wasn’t very accessible, but her computer showed that it could easily accommodate a man or a woman.

  A chill went down her spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the cool dampness of the cavern. Either Wyatt doesn’t know about this—or he’s deliberately deceived me.

  Caro clamped her mouth shut, feeling sick to her stomach. She stared at her view screen one last time, saved the map, turned it off and rehooked it to her belt with shaking fingers. She wanted to believe the best of Wyatt, yet every time she tried, she ran up against more questions. It was, to say the least, very puzzling.

  And very unsettling…

  “Is everything okay?”

  Caro started at the sound of Wyatt’s voice. He’d returned. “Not really, but I’ll tell you about it when we get outside. Lead the way. I’m right behind you.”

  The desert sun was harsh and scalding after the coolness of the cave. She repositioned her Red Sox cap to get the maximum shade from the brim; Wyatt shifted his hat, too, and pulled out his sunglasses from a shirt pocket. He walked toward their horses, Caro right behind him. She watched as he checked on his mount and rubbed the stallion’s nose before lifting his canteen.

  Were his gently caressing hands—the same hands that had held her while he kissed her—those of a man of justice? Or did they belong to a lawman walking the edgedetermined to protect his brother?

  “You want to tell me what you found in there?” he asked. “I’m assuming it wasn’t gold, or you would’ve shown me.”

  “No gold, but we may find something interesting yet. Here. Look at this.” Caro punched up the last coordinates she’d taken, which showed the narrow passageway behind the bats, then handed Wyatt the instrument.

  He studied it. “Well, I’ll be… I didn’t know about this!”
<
br />   “Didn’t you?”

  Wyatt looked up sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “For someone who grew up playing in these caves, you don’t seem to know much about them.”

  He snorted. “What—you think I’m protecting Montezuma’s treasure in there?”

  “How about a gravesite?”

  He started to answer, then caught himself. “Does this little gadget have printout capability?” he asked.

  “It does.”

  “Then give me a copy.”

  “I can’t. I have to tie it into my laptop at your ranch first.”

  Wyatt clearly wasn’t pleased with her response. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to hike back for a quick look and see for myself what’s there.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Care to join me?”

  “I can’t. I don’t have my equipment with me. I was looking for gold, not crime scenes, remember? If the remains came from that area, I want to be prepared.”

  “I’m ready right now,” he said impatiently. “You can wait here.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Sheriff! Wait…”

  He was gone with a speed she hadn’t thought possible for such a big man.

  “Great. Just great.”

  Caro decided to move the horses, since the shade had greatly diminished as the sun had risen higher. She approached her mare first, intending to tighten the saddle straps she’d loosened when she’d dismounted. She busied herself with the cinch, but found the nylon strap catching on something.

  “What in the world…” She hadn’t had a problem with the saddle before. She tugged slightly, then harder, without success.

  “Everything okay?”

  Caro whirled around. Morgan. Where had he come from? “You startled me!”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I drove out here to find Wyatt.” He gestured toward the Jeep parked in the distance. “On business. Problem with that saddle?”

  “I’m just trying to tighten the cinch. 1 loosened it earlier,” she explained.

  The mare snorted with irritation as Caro tugged again, trying to free the end of the cinch. She tightened her grasp on the reins. “What in the world is wrong with this thing?”

  Morgan approached. “Maybe some of the blanket fringe has caught somewhere,” he said helpfully.

  “Here, hold the reins for me, would you please?” Caro asked. “I’m going to lift the saddle blanket.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said quickly. “You take the reins.”

  “I’m a big girl, Mr. Bodine. I’ll—”

  Caro froze, mouth open, her next words forgotten. Beneath the saddle blanket was a chilling sight. Her cinch strap had been cut. The knife mark was obviously recent, for the nylon edges were not at all unraveled.

  “What is it?” Morgan leaned over and looked at the slash marks. Then his gaze swung from it to her face. “This isn’t what you think,” he said in a calm voice.

  Deadly calm, Caro thought. Like the deadly desolation that surrounded them. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a parched, raspy sound. Her hand rose to her throat as she fought back panic. Morgan reached out his own hand in reassurance as Caro backed away one jerky step, then another, and another.

  That cinch wasn’t cut when I first mounted. I know! I checked! I always double-check. I saddled this horse myself.

  “Don’t be a fool!” he said harshly. “I didn’t do this!”

  Caro battled for control and forced herself to relax. “Of course you didn’t,” she managed to say. She even managed to inject some self-deprecatory chagrin. “Why don’t you take off the saddle and see if we can fix it for the ride back?”

  Morgan appeared to relax, too. “You’re a sensible woman, Dr. Hartlan. For a moment there, it looked like you actually thought…” He didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he patted the mare’s neck. “Come on, girl. Let’s get this off you.”

  He’s in uniform. Dare I try to get his gun? Or should I make a run for it? Wyatt, where are you?

  Caro tensed again and bided her time. A few seconds for Morgan to rip free the last joined piece of the damaged cinch strap. A few more for him to reach upward for the saddle. Then his hands were full.

  Now! her mind screamed. Now! Caro raced toward Wyatt’s stallion. Her mad dash spooked the Arabian, made him skitter and start away, but Caro’s reflexes were quicker. Already she had the reins in her hands, a foot in the stirrup, and then she was swinging herself into the saddle.

  The stirrups were too long. Her seat was so loose she grabbed onto the saddle horn as she kicked the stallion to gait. The stallion balked and bucked just once, a warning to the strange rider. Caro slid about on the saddle—and stayed on. She wouldn’t win any dressage contests, but she didn’t care. The man’s carrying a gun! If he had no qualms about cutting her saddle cinch, who knew what else he might be capable of?

  “Dr. Hartlan! Caro!”

  She exerted greater control over the stallion, her eyes never leaving Morgan’s gun belt. Then she was kicking the horse again, hard, imposing her will on his, yelling, “Yah!” and racing away.

  The heated air rushed through her hair as she urged the horse to greater speed. She hunched low in the saddle, listening, protecting herself, bracing for the sound, the feel of a bullet slamming into her back. She didn’t dare turn around, not at full gallop and without stirrups. All she could do was listen to the pounding of her horse’s hooves, her own ragged breathing…

  And pray she wouldn’t die with her boots on.

  “Come back! Please! Turn around!”

  She ignored Morgan’s plea. His voice only made her urge the stallion to even greater speed. At first Caro instinctively headed back the way she’d come. But as she put more and more distance between herself and danger, she realized that returning to the ranch might not be a wise move, either. Not without Wyatt there.

  Where should I go?

  Caro braved a quick glance behind her. Morgan had not taken pursuit in the Jeep; even that vehicle couldn’t follow the rough terrain she’d deliberately chosen. And he hadn’t mounted the mare. She now had a clear advantage. Luckily for her, Wyatt’s stallion was one of the larger Arabians. The mare, on the other hand, was the smallish size one usually associated with the breed. Morgan was a big man. He wouldn’t be able to travel fast riding bareback on the compact mare. Certainly not as fast as she could.

  Caro decided to take another chance. She pulled the stallion up short, just for a moment.

  First, adjust the stirrups to my length. Second, head into town, instead of back to the ranch. With Boothill sitting on a mile-high hill rising from the valley floor, navigation was easy. And Caro had seen horses, riders and hitching posts on Allen Street. She could leave the horse there.

  But then what?

  She remembered the walkie-talkie at Morgan’s belt. He might have people looking for her, and Wyatt’s silver stallion with the hand-tooled leather saddle and hanging silver fetishes would be spotted—and identified—in an instant. Even now, the fetishes were tinkling as she finished with her stirrups, their soft chimes carrying on the desert air.

  Well, one good thing about a tourist town, Caro thought, was its crowds. Easy to conceal herself among all those people until she could find help, until she could reach Wyatt, or safer yet, Marta. It was early enough that her secret partner might still be in her hotel room. Thank goodness, Caro, like most regular riders, had taken to carrying her wallet in one boot. She could always grab a bus or a cab to the airport if she was ready to call it quits.

  Which I’m not—not by a long shot.

  She checked carefully behind her. No one. Mentally setting a course, she spurred Arabian Pride into a quick canter toward downtown Tombstone.

  Locals and tourist alike stared as Caro reached the outskirts of town. The stallion’s coat was lathered with sweat. Caro wasn’t much better, her shirt as soaked as her mount’s saddle blanket, her cap lost along th
e way. She felt light-headed from adrenaline letdown, thirst, the wild ride…and fear.

  Caro approached the hitching post across from the public rest rooms at the end of Allen Street. A man she didn’t recognize called out, “Hey, isn’t that the sheriff’s horse?”

  “Sure is.” Caro immediately dismounted. “Please walk him for me. I rode him hard.” She thrust the reins into the man’s surprised hands and hurried toward the boardwalk.

  “But… where’s the sheriff?”

  “I don’t know. We got separated,” she said, not slowing her pace. She felt the curious eyes of other residents on her back, and she walked even faster, searching frantically for a phone. This town had public hitching posts, for heaven’s sake, so where was Ma Bell when she needed her? And why had she left her cellular phone in the car?

  Someone called her name. She flinched.

  “Caro, hold up!”

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw Morgan Bodine heading her way, with Kimberly right beside him.

  Forget the cellular phone! She should’ve brought a few bodyguards!

  Time for a new plan of action. Caro saw a group of about twenty tourists entering the Bird Cage Theater. She slipped to their midst, let herself be carried along through the brick-arched door, and prayed she’d lose her pursuers for good.

  “All right, people, your admission price has been taken care of,” said the tour guide, identified by his stick-on badge as Jackie from Jackie’s A-OK Southwest Travel and Tours. “So bypass the cashier, and let’s stick together.”

  Like a thorn on a cactus, Caro agreed.

  The group moved into the front saloon area. They all listened as Jackie, a Santa Claus-shaped man whose narrow, porcine eyes weren’t the least bit jolly, spoke.

  “The Bird Cage Theater was the Old West’s most famous—or rather, infamous—honky-tonk in the 1880s. It never closed its doors once in nine years during Tombstone’s silver-boom days. The entertainment ranged from gambling, faro, music, poker, theater, cancan dancers, shootings and, of course, prostitution.”

  Caro played the part of interested tourist and edged farther and farther from the door as Jackie continued his spiel.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he droned on, “this is the only completely original building in Tombstone that has survived with original furnishings. Nothing has been recreated or restored.”