Anne Marie Duquette

by She Caught the Sheriff

  “Looks like you scared this poor little gal to death,” Catfish announced.

  “She isn’t a girl, she’s a woman,” Marta said fiercely, getting into the act.

  “You tell them, Marta! I don’t scare easily,” Caro snapped.

  “By the looks of things when we walked in, Doc, I won’t argue. You was holding your own. More than holding your own,” Catfish said, admiration in his voice. “While you—” Catfish shook his head at Wyatt, disappointment expressed for the whole male species “—Lord knows what you had on your brain.”

  “I wasn’t making any moves on Caro Hartlan. Nor was I waiting here to destroy the skull.” Wyatt picked up his battered Stetson, attempting to punch the hat back into shape. “I didn’t even know she had this stuff hidden away.”

  “Not stuff—evidence!” Caro howled, hovering over the assortment on the table, even pulling it closer when Wyatt started to approach.

  “I’m not going to hurt your precious evidence. You have my word.”

  “Right. Like that amounts to a hill of beans after the way you manhandled her,” Marta sniffed. “You should call the state police and have him arrested!”

  Catfish tried to defend Wyatt, but Wyatt, now in control of himself, held up a restraining hand. “Who exactly are you, ma’am? Besides one of the witnesses that day on Boothill?”

  Marta looked to Caro for guidance. Caro made the introductions. “This is Mrs. Marta Wenkert, my investigative assistant.”

  Catfish stared. “You told me you were just a tourist interested in local history! A librarian who read a lot of Tombstone books.” Catfish’s voice rose as Marta smiled proudly.

  “Good cover, huh, boss?”

  “She’s in your employ?” Wyatt asked.

  “That’s right. Considering the caliber of help I’ve received on this case, surely you aren’t surprised,” Caro said dryly.

  “Well, I’m surprised, dang surprised!” Catfish glared at Marta, standing next to him. “You could’ve said something, woman!”

  “I was undercover,” she explained.

  “I don’t care about you playing Mata Hari! But you could’ve told me you was hitched! I didn’t know you was married!”

  Marta gaped at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I wouldn’t be showing you around town if I’d known you was married or on an official investy-gation!” Catfish replied. “I’ve a good mind to bill your boss for my time, Mrs. Wenkert!”

  “You do that, you old fool. And while we’re on the subject of money, my boss will be charging your friend for her microscope, computer, tools, car repairs… and… and whatever else she can think of!”

  Wyatt ignored the growing storm between Catfish and Caro’s assistant. He moved closer to the table where Caro herself sat guarding the evidence.

  “You said the bones showed damp rot.”

  Caro nodded.

  Wyatt held out his hand. “May I?”

  “Not on your life. Or this poor soul’s.”

  “Then I must ask you to smell the remains.”

  “Smell?” Marta echoed. Even Catfish lifted a questioning eyebrow.

  “Yes, smell. Remember what we were discussing out at the mine?”

  Caro did as he requested. She inhaled deeply, her eyes narrowing. There was something about that faint odor. She’d only smelled it once in her life, but the smell was unmistakable. She recognized the faint, pungent fetidness even before Wyatt spoke.

  “Recognize it?”

  “Bat guano?”

  Wyatt held out his hand again for the skull. This time Caro passed it to him. He rotated it so that the biggest area of damp rot was before his nose. He sniffed just once, his lips together in a thin line, and nodded in affirmation.

  “Number one, the skeleton probably came from my mine. Number two, if I was in on this, I wouldn’t have told you a thing about guano rot. And last, if Morgan doesn’t show up tonight, we begin an official search tomorrow. I want everyone ready and waiting at first light at The Silver Dollar Mine.”

  “We’re going to look for your brother there?” Marta asked, filling the ominous silence.

  “Yes.”

  Catfish played with his long white whiskers. “You don’t think…”

  Caro’s eyes lifted to Wyatt’s. She confirmed her own suspicions. “He’s hiding out in the mine?”

  Wyatt’s words rasped like a file shaping a tombstone. “Hiding—or worse.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Saturday morning, early

  LONG BEFORE the desert sun rose over the mountain peaks, the search party was under way. The night had been frigid, with a chill that went beyond mere coolness. Most of the searchers—there were nine in all—were traveling out to The Silver Dollar Mine by vehicle. Only Wyatt and Caro elected to go on horseback.

  Despite the body heat of the Arabian and the warmth of her flannel-lined denim jacket, Caro shivered. The man riding beside her—hiking boots in place of his cowboy boots—broke the silence for the first time since the two of them had set out an hour earlier.

  “Cold?” Wyatt asked. “I have coffee if you want.”

  Yes, she was cold all right. But the cold was more inside than out. Her very heart felt icy.

  “Thanks. I’ll pass.”

  A few seconds later, Caro shivered again.

  Wyatt noticed. “Let me give you that coffee,” he insisted.

  “You don’t understand. It won’t help. It’s not that kind of cold.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  Bodine’s gaze was piercing as he reined his stallion to a halt. Caro followed his action with the gentlest pressure on the bit. The desert wind blew strong, threatening to rip her hair from the confines of her borrowed hat. The cold slapped her face, stabbed through her jacket, chilled her bones.

  “Funny thing about evil, Sheriff. I can feel its power like a poison burning the bloodstream.” Reins still in hand, Caro rubbed at her arms. “It’s like biting into a piece of bread that’s just started to turn bad. You may not see the mold, but one bite, one taste, and you know. You know.”

  The wind kicked up, gusting and howling. Tails and manes blowing almost parallel to the ground, the two Arabians closed their eyes, their lids and delicate lashes protecting them from the stinging sand. Wyatt remained motionless.

  “You have a bad feeling about Morgan, too, don’t you?” he said. It was a statement more than a question.

  “Yes. Maybe he isn’t involved at all,” Caro replied. “Maybe someone wants it to look like he’s involved.”

  “I’d already come to that conclusion, Caro. I didn’t think you ever would, especially after what happened yesterday. What changed your mind?”

  “A couple of things.” Caro paused and gathered her thoughts. “For me, helping to solve crimes isn’t just gathering evidence, Sheriff. There’s a lot more—gut feelings, too.”

  “True. I’m a believer in a cop’s intuition. But intuition never sent anyone to jail.”

  “I think you know better, Sheriff. Any fool can throw materials into plastic bags at a crime scene. Not everyone knows how to take that evidence and use it to track down a criminal, target the way he acts. You do. And I may seem obsessed with the evidence itself, with facts, but I also have a sharply honed intuition. I rely on it. And so far, my intuition says you’re in the clear.”

  “About time you figured that out. What convinced you?”

  “I always wanted to believe it. But what finally convinced me was the way you acted yesterday in Marta’s room. You proved that you don’t know any more about what’s going on than I do. Starting with the fact that you tackled me for the suitcase.”

  “I said I was sorry about that.”

  “I’m sorry I had to fight back so hard. But I had to make absolutely sure the evidence wasn’t compromised by you— covering up for Morgan. And you can’t say I didn’t have grounds to worry. You’ve done it once already.”

  “I was wrong,” Wyatt admitted. “
But I’d do anything for Morg. Well, almost anything,” he amended. “I won’t protect him from the law.”

  He touched his heels to his horse, and they both started forward again. Wyatt massaged his ribs with one hand. “I’m glad you don’t feel as battered as I do. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “My mother. A girl can never be too careful, she always said. Anyone’s capable of killing under the right circumstances. Not that I agree with her, but I still had to listen.”

  The wind howled again. Wyatt’s Stetson blew off his head. He ignored it, even when the chin strap caught and jerked the weight of the hat against his throat. Caro watched him, the predawn darkness hiding his face.

  “No argument, Sheriff?”

  “Your mother is right. We’re all killers deep down.”

  “Your logic is faulty. Don’t think I’m capable of murder just because you say you are.” Caro shifted in the saddle. “I know how good cops work—and bad ones. You have to think like the criminal you’re chasing, feel what he feels. And unlike him you have to control it.” She paused. “You don’t like that part of yourself, do you?”

  Wyatt’s tight smile was without mirth. “Understandable, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is. I do understand. But most of my friends don’t. They can’t see why I chose a job like this.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because I have a gift. Like you do. Because I can see beyond the blood and gore and the sadness and tragedy to the actions, the motives of the person who caused it.”

  “And you call that a gift?”

  Her expression was rueful. “Well, it certainly isn’t something I would’ve chosen for myself. I’d rather be a concert pianist making beautiful music. Or an artist painting in a Paris studio. But I have no talent for either.”

  There was a hint of sadness that Wyatt would never have expected. But then it was gone.

  “Sheriff, I faced who and what I am years ago. I accepted it, and I use my abilities for good. Like you. You don’t enjoy the more grisly aspects of your profession any more than I do. But you take pride in seeing justice served—I know you do. I know because of your record with the DEA. And because of the conflict you’ve felt over Morgan.”

  Wyatt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Her words touched him deeply, left him with a glow of warmth, but he was afraid to fan that glow into anything else.

  “Caro,” he finally said, “I have to tell you something. If anything’s happened to Morgan—if I find out he’s hurt or…” He couldn’t say the word. Dead. “I’ll kill whoever is responsible. I’ll be serving my own kind of justice. And there won’t be a thing you can do to stop me.”

  “Perhaps not, but I’ll try my best. And my best is good, Sheriff. Damn good.”

  He didn’t know how to answer that. Didn’t want to answer that. He willed her to back off.

  They stared at each other as the wind increased. Caro’s hat almost blew off her head before she caught it. In the distance, a herd of horses moved restlessly, their actions evidence of the coming storm.

  She urged her mare to a canter, leaving Wyatt behind in the shifting sands and bloodred light of the rising sun.

  Wyatt watched her long, graceful form as her mare traveled ahead in an easy canter. Something deep inside him— even deeper than the darkness he tried to hide—moved and flexed. It was a strange feeling, a mysterious, primitive yearning, a compelling drive Wyatt had never experienced this strongly, this completely, before.

  Caro Hartlan had brains, beauty and courage. She was his equal, maybe more than his equal. Wyatt found himself wanting to know more about her. Everything. From her most closely guarded secrets to the way she made love….

  But we have to survive this case, survive this first. Whatever happened to Morgan isn’t going to happen to Caro—or to me.

  THE SEARCH PARTY—or some of it—was waiting outside the entrance to The Silver Dollar Mine. As she dismounted, Caro recognized Marta in Catfish’s old truck. She waved as Wyatt took her reins to picket the horses, a job he preferred to do himself. Marta and Catfish both came out to greet her, Catfish touching his hat brim in the automatic gesture of respect.

  “Where is everyone?” Caro asked when they were within earshot. “I don’t see Wyatt’s truck.”

  Earlier Wyatt had said he’d have a trio of men come out in a ranch vehicle. That group hadn’t arrived yet, and the vehicle was supposed to carry all the rescue and first-aid gear.

  “The road out here takes much longer than the trail, ma’am. But Luciano’s truck should be here any minute.”

  Sure enough, a vehicle’s headlights were visible in the early sunrise. Then a second set appeared behind the first. Catfish frowned. “That lead truck’s not one of Wyatt’s. Did you invite someone else?”

  “No.” Caro shook her head.

  Catfish glanced at Marta.

  “Me, neither,” she confirmed. “Everyone I know in Tombstone is here.”

  Wyatt approached, the horses now picketed. “It’s probably someone from the Bar E. Hugh told me his horse trainer’s daughter is into caving and climbing. I asked her to help us out. One of Hugh’s men is driving her over.”

  But Wyatt was wrong. It wasn’t Hugh’s foreman driving the Bar E truck; it was Hugh himself. Wyatt hurried over to meet the newcomers. The second truck parked; Luciano and two other men hopped out. Wyatt’s attention wasn’t on them, though. He stood by Hugh’s now-open door, barely noticing the dark-haired young woman in the passenger seat.

  “I can’t believe Kimberly let you do this!” Wyatt’s forehead furrowed with disapproval as he saw the oxygen lines and Hugh’s pallor. “Does she know you’re here?”

  “My granddaughter may run your office. She doesn’t run my life,” Hugh wheezed. “Now make yourself useful and get my wheelchair. And get me some coffee while you’re at it. I’m parched.”

  Wyatt gestured toward the bed of the truck with a curt motion of his jaw. His men immediately set to work removing the chair from the rear, but it was Wyatt himself who lifted Hugh from the truck and put him in it.

  Caro approached to see if she could help. Wyatt shook his head, so she turned to the trainer’s daughter, who looked to be in her midtwenties, and said, “Hello. I’m Caro Hartlan.”

  The younger woman nodded politely, but didn’t extend her hand. “Jasentha Cliffwalker. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Hartlan.”

  Caro dropped her own hand. Handshaking was not a Native American custom, and the climber’s black hair, bronze coloring and facial features, as well as her name, spoke more of Apache ancestry than Spanish. The serious brown eyes held intelligence—and steel. Caro recognized a kindred spirit. Despite Jasentha’s obvious youth, Caro had no doubt the woman was as capable deep within the caves of the earth and on its highest peaks as she herself was in the midst of a crime scene.

  “Please, call me Caro.”

  The woman nodded her acknowledgment, but not necessarily her assent. Her bearing and manner had a certain dignified reserve, and Caro suspected Jasentha wasn’t about to lower that reserve until Caro had earned the privilege.

  “Thank you,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to unpack my gear.”

  Caro was left standing alone. That didn’t bother her, but the frustration of not being able to assist did. She was competent outdoors, thanks to her mother and grandparents, who’d been ranchers, but search and rescue of the living, as opposed to search and recovery of the dead, was beyond her expertise. Obviously Wyatt thought so, too. He rejoined them, Hugh safely in his chair.

  “Caro, I want you to stay here with Marta, Hugh and my two hands,” he said. “Jasentha, Luciano, Catfish and I will head into the cave. If we find anything or need more help, I’ll send Catfish and Luciano back out. They’ll keep you posted.”

  Caro refused to be dismissed. “Wherever you want your men posted is your business. Where I and my assistant go is mine. Marta, are you comfortable staying here without me?”

  “I’
m going if you’re going,” was Marta’s loyal reply.

  “Neither one of you is in charge of this expedition,” Jasentha said. Everyone looked up at her words, but it was Wyatt who challenged her.

  “I’m the sheriff here, Jasentha.”

  “I’m the expert on caves. If you expect to stay safe or to use my services, you will all follow my orders.” She spoke softly, confidently, firmly. Caro recognized the professional tone as the same one she herself used.

  Wyatt seemed willing to bow to the young woman’s authority—not happy about it, but willing. “I’ll trust your judgment concerning the terrain. But when it comes to making any other decisions about Morgan on this case, be prepared to step aside.”

  Jasentha nodded once. “You, Catfish and the forensics doctor may accompany me. The rest will wait.”

  “Luciano knows how I work, and he’s a good man to have around. Caro—Dr. Hartlan is an unknown quantity,” Wyatt protested.

  “Caro Hartlan and Mrs. Wenkert are the only outsiders here. We need them to protect the integrity of this search.”

  Wyatt’s face turned almost as pale as Hugh’s. “What are you saying, Jasentha? That my integrity is not to be trusted?”

  “No. What I am saying is, you know the rules. So I insist that Dr. Hartlan accompany us. Marta will remain behind with Hugh. As will Luciano.”

  Wyatt shook his head. “You know that cavers always travel in pairs, Jaz. Caro doesn’t know the mine. Catfish does.”

  “Ought to,” Catfish agreed. “Used to work it.”

  “She’ll slow us down if we need to send for help,” Wyatt warned.

  “Then you and your foreman will go for help. The woman may remain at my side.” Jasentha finished unloading her gear. “Now follow me.”