Anne Marie Duquette

by She Caught the Sheriff

  Caro whirled around. “Wyatt!” She smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  They both studied her recreation. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to identify this man soon. There must be lots of people with roots in early Tombstone. Someone has to know who this poor soul is. It’s our job to find out.”

  “There’s no need. I can tell you who he is right now.” Wyatt’s jaw set in a granite line.

  “That man is Lem Bodine.”

  Sunday morning, early

  IT WAS STILL RAINING, still gloomy in the predawn glow. Most of the storm’s fury had abated, but there was a thin drizzle and the remains of a wind that continued to make horse’s tails and manes whip about.

  But Wyatt wasn’t outside tending them. For the first time in a long time, he let Luciano and the rest of the hands feed the stock without him. He needed a chance to think.

  Wyatt gazed out the window. He wore old jeans, his feet and chest bare, a half-drunk cup of coffee in his hand. He watched the brood mares off in the distance, most of the herd crowded under the metal canopies that the horses preferred to their stifling barns in the summer. A few hardy mares grazed in the drizzle.

  Kimberly was home with Hugh, since Jamie, the deputy who’d worked last night, had promised to stand in as temporary dispatcher. Caro was sleeping in. He remembered her shocked face.

  “Lem Bodine? Your great-grandfather? The one who died in a cattle stampede?”

  “Lem Bodine, who had fallen—or been pushed—to his death,” Wyatt corrected.

  “But… are you sure it’s him?”

  “Caro, I’d recognize that face anywhere.” He shook his head in admiration. “My God, you are good.”

  Wyatt remembered how her face had flushed with pride at his words, but as usual, she’d remained her logical, practical self. “Maybe if I could see a photo, I’d know for myself,” she said. “I need one for evidence, anyway. Do you have one?”

  “No, but there are some of Fly’s in the Old Court House. They’re too fragile to be removed from the glass cases.”

  “I’ll need at least a reproduction of it,” Caro had said.

  “You can take a photo of the photo,” Wyatt suggested.

  “Both my cameras were wrecked.”

  “You can borrow mine.”

  “Thanks. You know,” Caro mused, “it would be better to have the case open—less reflection from the glass.”

  “You’re bonded, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll give you the keys to the building. Including one for the display case.”

  “Thanks—again,” she’d said gratefully. “I’ll do the Old Court House photos in the morning. Marta’s going to photograph the skull. In the meantime, is there someplace safe I can put it?”

  “Store it in my private safe. Let me buzz Luciano. He’ll show you where it is and how to change the combination. Then only you will have access to it. Good enough?”

  “Yes.” She’d smiled. Luciano had arrived a moment later and the skull had been carefully transferred to the safe. Then she’d yawned again, accepted Wyatt’s offer to sleep in Morgan’s room since Marta was fast asleep in hers, and left. She wasn’t there to hear him say to Luciano, “Keep close watch. I don’t want anything happening to that skull or to Caro Hartlan.” Especially Caro Hartlan.

  Now the sky glowed with the last of the dawn. Wyatt hoped Caro was still sleeping. He wished he could sleep.

  His mind was weary from his racing thoughts, and his heart was sick with worry over Morgan. He still had no idea where to look for him or why Kimberly had lied. Were the two in this together? The whole town knew how Morgan felt about Kimberly.

  And who’d been dragging the skeleton around? Who’d displayed it on Boothill in the first place?

  Wyatt had plenty of work to do, but he was having difficulty concentrating on it. Instead, he was remembering the feel of Caro’s body against his, above his, below his, strong, supple, with both a woman’s tenderness and a stubbornness that intrigued every male part of him. If Marta and Catfish hadn’t walked in on them at the motel and then played chaperon tonight…

  What? Would he have declared his surprising craving for her? Ever-constant exasperation with her? His admiration for her independence, determination, intelligence?

  He desperately wanted to wake her up—ostensibly to discuss the case—but his watch told him it was probably too early for that. She’d been working late into the night.

  Caro Hartlan. She didn’t miss much and that meant she was a threat to someone. Maybe two or three someones. And now the way she’d recreated the face of Lem Bodine—it was enough to set his nerves on edge, make him fear for her safety.

  Wyatt set his coffee on the windowsill and rubbed his aching forehead. It was time for some answers, answers only a local could get. Caro had shown him the way; it was time for Wyatt to take the lead again.

  For starters, why was Kimberly lying? Why had the seriously ill Hugh driven to the mine? Was Morgan in on the plot, whatever the plot was? Was there really gold hidden somewhere on this land? And most important, would he be able to keep them all alive?

  The sun burned through the mist with desert power, desert brightness, and suddenly the gloom of the morning was fighting a losing battle. Renewed vigor flowed through Wyatt’s veins. It was a good day to search for answers, and he’d begin with Hugh Ellis.

  The sun was just rising as Wyatt set off for The Bar E Ranch. He was travelling there, as usual, on horseback, although he wasn’t riding his favorite stallion. Pride had been given a well-deserved rest. He rode a younger gelding, one whose physical configuration was too flawed for breeding, but whose temperament and smooth, easy gait was a relaxing change.

  The air felt clean and brisk after the rain, another welcome change, but the ground was only slightly damp. The gelding tossed his head and pricked his ears with cheerful excitement. Wyatt loosened the reins in answer to the animal’s mood, letting him canter at his own pace.

  The Bar E ranch house was almost deserted, not surprising this early in the morning. The hands were out with the horses; the cook and household help hadn’t yet arrived. It was Hugh himself who answered the door.

  “Morning, Hugh. I thought you’d still be resting,” Wyatt said.

  “I’ll have plenty of time for that when they plant me six feet deep. Now get inside before you let in half the stable flies.”

  Wyatt stepped into the hallway.

  “Coffee?” Hugh asked.

  “Thanks, but no. I’m here on business.”

  “Figured as much when you didn’t hang up your hat.”

  The hat rack by the door was used by social callers. Those who kept hat in hand signaled to the host that the visit wouldn’t be long, or politely waited to be told if it was a good time to stay.

  Here I am, Hugh, hat in hand, looking for answers.

  Hugh coughed and wheeled his chair over to a well-worn but inviting couch, and waved him into it. “Sit down a spell, anyway.”

  Wyatt did. “How’s Kimberly?”

  “Fine. That girl’s like a cat. She always lands on her feet. Tough as nails.”

  “The Ellises always were.”

  “Not all of us, Wyatt. Not all of us.” The older man looked terrible this morning, face pale, breathing ragged despite the oxygen line to his nose. But Wyatt knew his sympathy wouldn’t be appreciated. He waited silently until Hugh had the breath to speak again.

  “Any word on Morgan?” Hugh asked after a moment.

  “Nothing.”

  “Not even from the forensics woman?”

  “She has some ideas,” Wyatt said, remembering the likeness of Lem Bodinehe’d walked in on last night.

  Hugh’s gaze was piercing. “You like that little gal, don’t you?”

  “Dr. Hartlan’s a first-rate forensic scientist,” Wyatt said firmly. “Tombstone’s lucky to get her.”

  “That’s not what I meant, young man, and you know it.” Hugh looked unhapp
y, but his words were matter-of-fact. “Maybe if you settled down with someone, Kim would find someone else.”

  “I wish she’d settle for Morgan. He’s always loved her.”

  “And Kimberly’s always loved you, Wyatt. There’ll never be anyone else for her as long as you’re unattached.”

  “I couldn’t marry my sister—that’s what Kimberly is to me.”

  “Two men and one woman in love, and nary a match among the three. A sad state of affairs for a dying man.” Hugh wheezed, then broke into such a fit of coughing that Wyatt rose from his seat, worried.

  “Let me get Kim,” he said. “I’ll—”

  “No,” Hugh choked out. “She’s sleeping. There’s nothing anyone can do for me, anyway. You and I both know that.”

  Wyatt sat down again. Deep inside he recognized the taint of evil. Hugh was hiding something; something Wyatt suspected he wanted to share. But just as he was about to speak, Wyatt heard Kimberly’s voice in the distance.

  “Hugh, if that’s Wyatt’s horse tied outside, tell him I’ll be right down!”

  Hugh’s face turned even paler, and Wyatt hadn’t thought that was possible. He half rose in his seat, alarmed, as Hugh gasped, “I want you to ride through the west pasture!”

  “Hugh, I—”

  “Do it! Make the time! One of the hands spotted—”

  Both men heard the sound of steps on the stairs. Wyatt rose to his feet. Hugh wheeled over to Wyatt’s side.

  “—Caro Hartlan’s baseball cap. Go get it, Wyatt!”

  Wyatt frowned. Was the old man’s illness affecting his mind? “Hugh, I don’t care about some hat. I have a brother to find, work to do!”

  “Go now, before Kimberly gets here!” Wheelchair or not, Hugh all but pushed Wyatt out the door. “Remember, the Bar E’s west pasture! Hurry!”

  Confused, Wyatt left, more from fear of upsetting the man’s delicate health than because he’d finished his questions. Something was wrong with Hugh’s statement. It smacked of an out-and-out lie, and this from a man who’d been like a father to him. First Morgan, then Kimberly, now Hugh…

  Is there no one I can trust?

  Then he realized—Caro Hartlan was the only person who hadn’t deceived him. She might have suspected him at first, she might even have withheld information from him, but he’d never once caught her in a lie. He was sure he never would. Wyatt recognized the golden vein of good in her that nothing could ever tarnish.

  Caro Hartlan and I have some serious talking to do, Wyatt decided. But first, I’m going to ride through the Bar E’s west pasture.

  KIMBERLY ELLIS stood at the window, watching Wyatt swing up onto his horse and ride off at a good clip. Her face was sad, her eyes dark with emotion. “Good heavens, Grandfather, what have you done?”

  “What I should’ve done years ago. I’m an old man, Kim. I want to die with a clean conscience.”

  “So you told Wyatt?”

  “I told him nothing. Nothing!”

  “You might as well have! You pointed him in the right direction!”

  “Wyatt’s a good man. He’ll do the right thing.”

  Kimberly pivoted to face him. “This could be a disaster for all of us! You, me, Morgan, all of us! It could ruin my parents’ reputation and…and their business, and they have nothing to do with this. We’ll all be ruined! Have you ever thought of that?”

  Hugh buried his face in his hands. For once Kimberly didn’t rush to his side. Instead, she went back to watching Wyatt, the gelding taking him ever farther toward the horizon.

  “No good can come of this, Hugh.”

  “Please, Kimmie,” the old man begged. “I had to do it!”

  Her eyes glittered with tears. “And now it’s too late.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Still Sunday morning

  WYATT CURSED the distance to the west pasture and blessed the gelding’s high spirits and willingness to run.

  What was out here? What had made Hugh so frantic?

  Thank goodness he’d ridden out on horseback. In most of off-road Arizona, it was still the fastest way to cover any distance.

  His horse snorted and increased the speed of his canter; Wyatt made no attempt to rein him in. Whatever was waiting for him in the west pasture, it was best to find out quickly. As long as it wasn’t another body—like Morgan’s. His heart raced in fear. Everything was so puzzling.

  And then, suddenly, it wasn’t.

  Wyatt pulled his horse to an abrupt halt and dismounted. If it hadn’t rained, if Hugh hadn’t urged him toward the west pasture, he would never have noticed it.

  The fierce desert sun often baked the land to a uniform hue. Time and heat could fade the most vivid of colors. But this soil was fresh and damp from the rain, and the sun was just beginning to peek over the east horizon. The dark patches stood out vividly against the light buff color of the desert floor, despite the cattle scattered over the area, grazing on the sparse grass. And because of the rain, Wyatt could smell the faint, uremic smell emanating from those patches—patches that glittered in the sun.

  Guano! And gold!

  The horse tugged impatiently at the reins as Wyatt hunkered down to run his fingers through the soil. Flecks of gold dust clung to his fingers, held fast in the mucky texture of the guano.

  Wyatt grabbed a handful and stood, bringing his palm close to his eyes. Understanding ripped through him like a .45-caliber shell. Caro was right. Someone was mining gold from The Silver Dollar Mine! And hiding the tailings under hundreds of cattle feet. If the rain hadn’t released the smell of guano, he would never have suspected a thing.

  But who was doing the mining? Kimberly? Hugh? Morgan? All three of them? No, that couldn’t be right. Morgan was too busy with his jewelry-making, with his store and the ranch and the occasional stint as deputy. Hugh? Perhaps—but then why had Hugh suddenly decided to drop such a broad hint? Why hadn’t he told him the whole story? What was Hugh afraid of?

  Suddenly Wyatt thought of the number of across-the-border laborers he’d seen in Tombstone recently. They were easily noticed—not locals, not tourists. Work was often scarce in Mexico, and Arizona ranchers employed many legal border-crossers. Although most spoke little or no English, as a rule they were hardworking, honest men determined to support their families. Wyatt himself employed them, both on a temporary basis and as permanent help—like Luciano.

  But this wasn’t the time of year ranchers needed extra help with calving or branding. If someone wanted a labor force—a labor force that spoke little enough English to believe they were doing honest work…

  It was a definite possibility. The gold was being mined by someone. What if that someone made regular trips across the border—avoiding the highway checkpoints—and exchanged the gold for cash in Mexico? Maybe even for American dollars… Mining equipment could be found. Mine pumps could be bought. A labor force could be amassed. Mexico was, after all, a mining country.

  But who was the ringleader? Who was the master deceiver? And how would he find out?

  Wyatt threw the damning clump of evidence down with such violence that his good-natured gelding skittered nervously. He swore and clamped down so hard on the reins that the leather cut into his palms. The more he learned about this case, the more confused he became.

  The motive—greed for gold—was simple enough. But Morgan wouldn’t hide the discovery if the gold was from the Silver Dollar. Morgan would haul it in and spend it like a shot. Could the metal come from Bar E land? But where was it, and who was mining it? A Bodine? An Ellis? Both? Neither? The only two people in the clear were Caro and her assistant, Marta.

  Wyatt’s brain kicked into overdrive. I’m missing something. Something I’ve seen, something I’ve discarded earlier—but shouldn’t have.

  He remounted. He couldn’t retrieve the information yet, but he’d remember it soon. He knew he would. His mind habitually filed away everything—everything a criminal had done. It allowed him to anticipate that criminal’s next actions.
Something told him that Morgan, not Kimberly or Hugh, was the weak link here. Morgan was the key to this puzzle. I have to find him!

  It was time to review this case, time to find that vital information he’d bypassed. And I know just the woman to help me do it.

  CARO FINISHED PACKING and boxing the completed skull, which she’d retrieved earlier from the safe. Marta shook her head in dismay. She had awakened soon after sunrise, alert despite her few hours’ sleep, and detailed the ever-willing Catfish to help her prepare a substantial breakfast, since Cook wouldn’t arrive until later. Then she’d shot two rolls of film to record the face on the skull.

  “I don’t know about this, boss. I don’t think I should leave you just yet.”

  “I need you in Tucson.” Caro tossed the wrapping tape on her work table. “My car’s ready. The garage called— they open early and we can pick it up now. We’ll get Catfish to drive us there. I want you to take this skull and all your film to Tucson.”

  “But you won’t have any backup here in Tombstone!”

  Caro ignored Marta’s protest. “Develop the film in Tucson, then courier the negatives and the skull to my parents. We can start searching through the record books when you come back with the prints. Let me get you my keys.” She rose from her seat.

  “Where will you be?” Marta asked curiously.

  “At the Old Court House. I understand they have some mining archives. I want to track down the picture of Lem Bodine and do a little research on The Silver Dollar Mine. You can drop me off there on your way.”

  “Aren’t you at least going to have some breakfast? You should eat. I had a good nap, but you’ve been up most of the night.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Caro, I worry about you. Listen, Catfish is working at Boothill later today. If you need any help…”

  “I shouldn’t. Ah, here’re my keys. Come on, Marta, find Catfish and let’s get rolling.”

  The drive from the ranch to downtown Tombstone was an easy one, enlivened by the banter between the older people. After a few more protests and words of caution from Marta and Catfish, Caro exited the truck. She’d asked that Catfish drop her off at the edge of town—she wanted a brisk walk and some fresh air. He beeped in farewell and was gone, headed for the garage.