Anne Marie Duquette

by She Caught the Sheriff

  “Pretend I’m Sadie Marcus, and Wyatt Earp is taking me home,” Caro improvised.

  “In that case…” Wyatt stole one last kiss, then swept her up in his arms à la Rhett Butler and bounded up the wooden staircase of the Bird Cage Theater. They left to the sound of thunderous applause.

  “Tell all your friends about Jackie’s A-OK Southwest Travel and Tours.” Jackie could be heard working the crowd. “We have the greatest tours in Arizona, and tips are welcome!”

  Once outside, Caro felt the sun hot and heavy on her back, Wyatt’s arm strong and steady around her waist.

  “You want to sit down somewhere? Maybe get something to drink?”

  “I’d like some water—anything. But first, let’s get out of here.” She threw one last glance at the Bird Cage Theater as Wyatt led her away from the tour bus toward a nearby family restaurant. A few minutes later, Caro was drinking a tall, cool glass of hand-squeeze lemonade, washing away the last taste of fear. She finished the drink in one long pull. Wyatt switched his untouched glass with hers.

  “Thanks,” she said gratefully.

  “No—thank you,” he replied. “You really saved my butt and Morgan’s back there, plus a good chunk of our tourist trade.”

  Caro took a big swallow of Wyatt’s drink. “I’m glad it worked out. But Morgan…” She paused, not knowing what to say to the brother of the man who’d tried to hurt her—maybe even kill her.

  “Tell me about Morgan. From the beginning, please,” Wyatt coaxed.

  She did.

  The way she always loosened her saddle when she dismounted. The way it was slashed when she went to retighten it. How Morgan had suddenly turned up and insisted on fixing her tack. Why she’d refused. Her wild, primitive escape through the desert. Hiding from Morgan in the Bird Cage Theater. Her fear of him as he caught up to her. The way she threatened to bash in the Black Moriah if Morgan took one step closer…

  And the way Wyatt had shown up, just in time.

  Caro finally relaxed. She was safe—safe with Wyatt. Safe from Morgan. And safe from doubt.

  WYATT LISTENED to her words in shock. He was shaken— deeply so.

  Caro could have been severely injured or even killed! But by his own brother? It was unthinkable!

  Wyatt reached for her hand, holding it tight within his. Today had revealed some frightening things. His brother was definitely a suspect. And he himself had left Caro alone, subjecting her to danger; his failure to protect her had made him feel like an alien in his own town. The tourists in the theater had been ready to turn on him—and Morgan; their hostility had been almost palpable.

  Until Caro had brilliantly pretended to be an actress. She was a quick thinker, something he usually was. But he’d finally, however slowly, reached one inescapable conclusion: there was evil in Tombstone—evil Caro blamed Morgan for. He believed, had to believe, she was wrong about that. Nevertheless, Caro, an outsider, had smelled the scent of crime, perhaps corruption, when he, the sheriff, hadn’t even recognized it. Had refused to recognize it.

  The worst part—the absolutely worst part of all—was the way she feared his family. She honestly thought Morgan was guilty of attempted murder, and she suspected Wyatt might try to protect his brother, in the process breaking his sworn oath to uphold the law.

  The sick taste in his mouth was something he hadn’t felt for a long time. Not, in fact, since he’d left the Tucson DEA. He knew that whatever was wrong went far beyond a cut cinch and a misplaced skeleton. He’d have to find the real culprit to save Caro. He was afraid for her now, afraid her life was at stake. But it also meant he’d have to let loose that shrewd, remorseless part of himself. The part he hated.

  That part of him could sniff out another’s crimes like a coyote could a carcass. It had never let him down. Ever. But he still hated it, hated even more letting it surface.

  I’m not ready for that. Not while Caro’s sitting in front of me.

  He didn’t want her to see him become a cunning and ruthless hunter, a man who could identify with the worst in others. He wanted her to think the best of him. For now, Wyatt concentrated on easing her tension.

  “How’re you doing? Maybe I should’ve ordered us a couple of stiff Scotches, instead.”

  That got a spirited response. “Do I look like a swooning woman? I don’t need liquor in a crisis, thank you. Now, a pair of handcuffs for your brother—that’s another matter!”

  “I’ll take care of Morgan myself,” Wyatt said tersely.

  “You believe me, then?”

  “I believe your cinch was cut. I don’t know if I believe Morgan did it.”

  Caro abruptly pushed away the half-filled glass. “So that’s how it’s going to be.” She rose to her feet.

  Wyatt immediately jumped to his. “Caro, wait! You’re reading this the wrong way!”

  Her eyes narrowed, hard and accusing. “I don’t think so, Sheriff.”

  She hurried toward the door, Wyatt right beside her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Anyplace other than The Silver Dollar Ranch! If you don’t have Morgan detained for questioning by the end of the day, I’ll be picking up my things—and calling for reinforcements from Tucson! Now get out of my way!”

  “You shouldn’t be out alone,” he protested.

  She ignored him. Wyatt went to stop her, but a local tour tram was passing just then and Caro quickly sprinted to catch it, leaving him behind. Wyatt felt a strange, stabbing sensation in his gut, but there was no time to analyze it.

  He reached for his radio and contacted his office. Then he ordered one of his other part-time deputies to track down the tram.

  “Keep an eye out for my brother,” he ordered. “Keep an even closer eye on Caro Hartlan.”

  “Will do, boss. Over and out.”

  Wyatt approached the O. K. Corral, ahead on his right, intending to cut through the open area to Fremont Street, then head toward City Hall and the Sheriff’s Department.

  He strode casually through the admission gate, then across the dirt-floored area of the O. K. Corral, which held the stalls and antique carriage-and-wagon collection. He continued on into the open corral.

  Before him stood the three-dimensional life-size models of the legendary heroes and villains involved in the shootout. He took a few more steps and paused in their midst. The Cowboys, brothers Billy and Frank McLaury, along with Billy Clanton, stood in bizarre vigil over the spots where they’d died.

  Wyatt, Virgil and Morgan Earp were also there, Virgil who was later crippled, Morgan who was later murdered in retribution for the three Cowboys’ deaths.

  And among them, another figure—the gaunt, tubercular, doomed man who was himself a cold-blooded killer, exdentist Doc Holliday. He became Wyatt’s loyal friend, yet he never lost his reputation as a man to be neither admired nor trusted. Even Wyatt Earp vowed he was the most deadly man with a six-gun he’d ever met, and Earp was one mean shot himself.

  Wyatt passed a trembling hand across his forehead. He wondered what the town would say if they realized Wyatt Bodine was more like Doc Holliday than Wyatt Earp?

  The only difference was that Holliday readily gave in to his darker side when Earp wasn’t around. Bodine suppressed his at all costs. He’d left the Tucson DEA because he was tired of thinking like a criminal. Tombstone had been his haven.

  Until now.

  Wyatt Bodine hated what he was going to do, but knew there was no alternative. He also knew he could control the heady criminal intelligence that was Wyatt Bodine, the man, at his worst, and Wyatt Bodine, the lawman, at his best.

  Bodine took one last look at the figures, his gaze coming to rest not on Doc Holliday but on his namesake. The painted figure of Wyatt Berry Stapp Earp, named after Captain Wyatt Berry Stapp of the 1847 cavalry, stared silently back at Wyatt Earp Bodine.

  “So tell me, Sheriff Earp. How did you do it? You never took a bribe, although plenty were offered—by men of power and women of beauty. Even the
criminals trying to kill you admired you. You escaped every single bullet ever fired at you.”

  Wyatt studied the figure before him. Earp’s statue was a realistic six feet tall, an impressive height at a time when the hardships of the West produced much smaller people. The artist had caught the lean, wiry muscles of legend, the handsome features, the straight nose, blue eyes and generous mouth partially hidden by the sweep of a light brown handlebar mustache.

  “History says you died peacefully when you were eighty-one. Peacefully!” The word sounded like a curse. “How did you keep their filth from touching you—tempting you? Tell me!”

  The painted eyes of the motionless Wyatt revealed nothing, nor did the living Wyatt expect them to. Bodine straightened his back and lifted his chin. He would have to fight criminals, his own dark nature—maybe even his favorite brother.

  And he’d have to do it alone.

  WYATT ENTERED the sheriff’s office, closing the heavy old door with quiet deliberateness. Coming from him, that was as good as a slam. He saw Kimberly look up from her desk, eyes wide, lips wisely closed.

  “It’s all right, I won’t bite,” he reassured her.

  He hung his Stetson on the hat rack and made for the phone at his desk. He lowered himself into his chair with the slow, easy grace that characterized all his actions. But he didn’t rest his boots on the desk the way he usually did when he reached for the receiver, a relaxed attitude that indicated all was well. Kimberly, who’d started to rise from her own desk, noticed the omission and sat down again without speaking.

  Wyatt put down the receiver and lifted one eyebrow. “You heard about Dr. Hartlan and Morgan?”

  “Some, not all. This is a small town, Wyatt. Oh, if you’re worried about your horses, I already had some of my men pick them up. They’ll be trucked back to the ranch once they’re walked.”

  “What about the Jeep?”

  “Morgan took it.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “No, but someone else did. He was headed back to the ranch.” Kimberly set aside her paperwork. “He’s probably there by now. So be honest, did Dr. Hartlan really think Morgan tried to kill her?”

  “Yes.”

  Kim made a scoffing sound. “I hope you told her otherwise!”

  “Doesn’t matter. She thinks Morg’s guilty and that I’m covering up for him. I can see how it could seem that way.”

  “Oh, please. Ms. City Slicker probably cut the cinch on some brambles.”

  “She knows horses, Kimberly. Our big-city forensics expert rides like an Apache.”

  Kimberly shrugged. “So she can ride. Big deal. So can almost everyone in this state. But her say-so doesn’t make Morgan a suspect! We can’t even be sure there’s been a crime. For all I know, she might’ve cut the cinch as a ploy to get your attention.”

  “What?”

  “Women in love have been known to do desperate things,” Kimberly said softly.

  “Caro Hartlan has brains, beauty and bucks, Kimberly. Even if it was her style, which it isn’t, she doesn’t need to play the helpless female to get a man.”

  “I have brains, beauty and bucks, too, Wyatt, and it didn’t work for me. For us.”

  “We’ve already covered this ground, Kimberly,” Wyatt said wearily. “Suffice it to say I don’t believe Caro cut that cinch any more than I believe Morgan did.”

  “Someone did!”

  “A trip back into the mine might help me find that someone.”

  “How, Wyatt? You and I have known every inch of that mine since we were kids. We both know there’s not much left to explore. The deeper shafts were flooded out long before we were born! We’ve already seen anything that’s left to see.”

  “No—Caro Hartlan discovered a new tunnel today. The ground water must’ve settled since we were kids—because I’m sure not doing any pumping.”

  Kimberly shuddered. It was so uncharacteristic of her that Wyatt immediately noticed.

  “What?” he asked.

  “New tunnels, old tunnels, what’s the difference? Wyatt, the air’s so foul! The footing’s so slick! If there are more passages, you’ll need oxygen to explore, proper boots, spelunking gear, the whole works. I hate to think of you going in there. You could get hurt!”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “You’re really going to wade through all that guano?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Kimberly whistled in awe. “Well, count me in. Not to explore,” she added quickly. “I hate bats. But I can drive a Jeep out with gear and help guard the entrance against unexpected visitors.”

  “I’d appreciate it, Kimberly. We need to ensure that the horses and tack are safe.” As he spoke, he calculated the possibilities: if Kim was in some way involved in whatever was going on, he’d be able to keep a watchful eye on her, maybe even catch her out. If she was innocent, he could use her help.

  “Are you sure Caro’s cinch was really cut, Wyatt?” she was asking. “Maybe it split from normal wear.”

  “I’m sure it was cut, Kimberly.”

  “I wonder who did do it.”

  “That makes two of us. Any suspects?”

  Kimberly rose, her curls tumbling gracefully about her shoulders. She crossed the room to his desk and perched on the corner. “Besides Morgan, my grandfather and me?”

  He flinched inside at her words, but revealed nothing. “Kim, dear…”

  “Kim, dear, has your jealous side tempted you to kill off the competition?” Kimberly mocked. “Kim, dear, has your senile, invalid grandfather finally gone off his rocker? Kim, dear, you know I love you like a sister?”

  “Caro Hartlan has nothing to do with the way I feel about you.”

  Kimberly’s expression turned ugly. “Why don’t you admit it, Wyatt? You find her exciting. I can see it in your eyes when she’s around. I can see it now when you say her name.”

  Wyatt flung himself out of his chair. “She’s an outsider, Kimberly. She’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Which makes her all the more appealing, doesn’t it?”

  Wyatt’s patience had already been sorely tested today. “You know how I feel about personal conversations when we’re working,” he said irritably. “I have a case to solve. Back to business, please.”

  “Sorry, Sheriff. I forgot.”

  Kimberly’s tone was sarcastic, but she swung her legs around and seated herself sedately. Her feelings were hurt, and he knew it. But Kimberly had her pride. She wouldn’t belabor the point.

  That in itself made Wyatt relent. He followed her to her desk, and this time he was the one who hovered above her.

  “I’m sorry, too. If only you and Morgan…” Wyatt ran a hand through his hair. “You know how Morgan feels about you, Kim. Couldn’t you and he… ?”

  “Forget it!” she snapped. “Having a deputy for a husband is one thing. Having a criminal is another!”

  Wyatt’s concern for Kimberly was shoved aside at his brother’s name. “What are you saying?” he asked.

  Kimberly bit her lip. “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.” His voice was as quiet as his movements had been when he’d closed the door earlier. And, like earlier, the quiet spoke volumes to the woman who’d known him since childhood.

  “Look, I don’t know anything about any secret mines. Or skeletons. And I don’t know where that gold on Hugh’s wheelchair came from. Neither does he. But if there were any rich veins around, I’d bet my last buffalo nickel Morgan would be scrambling for it.”

  Wyatt stared at his longtime friend. Morgan in financial trouble? He must have spoken the words aloud, because Kimberly answered, her expression as somber as his.

  “I’ve heard things, Wyatt—things that worry me.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

  “Because he’s your brother! Because I don’t have any proof!”

  “Doesn’t matter. I want details.”

  She hesitated. “It’s just grapevine talk.”

&n
bsp; “Which can be very accurate.”

  “Which is why you should speak to Morg yourself.”

  “I’ll do that.” Wyatt grabbed his hat and a set of car keys from the wall. “Because you’re wrong about Morgan. He’s an honest man.”

  The words sounded hollow, even to him….

  CHAPTER NINE

  Friday afternoon

  “YOU POOR THING!” Marta exclaimed. She and Caro were standing by the door of her room in the Triple B motel—the B’s standing for Boothill’s Bunk and BBQ. “I had no idea forensics could be so dangerous! Although you did warn me….”

  “Well, nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  Marta handed Caro a glass filled with tap water. “Here. Sit down and drink this.”

  “Are you sure? I smell like horse, guano, sweat.”

  “I’ll open the sliding window. Now sit before you drop.”

  Caro did as she was told, although she did choose the dinette’s patio-style plastic-covered chair, instead of the freshly changed bed. She gratefully slugged down the water.

  “More?” Marta offered.

  “Please.” Caro handed her partner the empty glass.

  “Let me run out for some ice and soda. I’ll be right back. Will you be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  The older woman patted Caro’s shoulder, then left. While she was gone, Caro took time to compose herself in the bathroom. First she carefully washed and rinsed her face and hands. Next she reached for the comb in the back pocket of her jeans and ran it through her hair.

  She returned to the dinette table to empty her pockets and sort through evidence. Then she made a phone call—to the sheriff’s office. By the time Marta got back Caro was almost herself again. In front of her lay the tiny navigational computer.

  “You’re looking perkier!” Marta grabbed two glasses, unwrapped them, then joined her.

  “I feel much better.”

  Marta smiled. She pulled the tabs and poured out the sodas. “I’ve ordered us some lunch from room service, too. So relax, okay?”

  “Thanks, Marta, you’re very kind.”