She's The Sheriff (Superromance Series No 787)

by Duquette, Anne Marie

  Virgil stacked some silverware on a large platter. “Desiree, you should seriously consider finding yourself another job.”

  “Like what? I can’t exactly practice law at the moment.”

  “True, but you shouldn’t count on being sheriff.” He gave her a narrow glance. “Once the election’s over, that job’s going to be mine. Again.”

  “Bodine bluntness. First Cat, now you. Well, Caro did warn me,” Desiree said politely.

  “We could always use a good deputy. I’m sure Virgil could see his way clear to putting you on the payroll.” Morgan’s offer, as well as his tone of voice, was friendly and warm.

  Desiree replied in kind. “Thank you, Morgan. But maybe I’ll be the one to put Virgil on the payroll,” she said with a smile.

  Wyatt started collecting the napkins. “I’d be surprised to see that happen. You don’t have the experience. The law says you have a right to run, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  Virgil nodded. “Around here, the name Bodine is synonymous with lawman. Always will be.”

  “Are you saying the sheriff’s job has always been kept in the family? That makes it sound almost like some sort of dynasty, if you ask me,” Desiree said lightly.

  “There’s nothing corrupt about it,” Virgil emphasized. “We’re always in office because the citizens of Tombstone have always trusted us. Respected us. Voted for us. Our good name speaks for itself. Like the Earps... Our family remains in office because the voters want us in office.”

  “Oh?” Desiree froze as the implication of his words sank in, her fingers tight around her napkin. “Caro considers me family, even if you don’t.”

  There was an awkward pause. Morgan and Wyatt exchanged glances. Desiree took advantage of the moment to stand and face Virgil, her demeanor as cool as though she were in a courtroom. “As to my qualifications for the office of sheriff, we’ll let the voters decide. I’ll see you at the polls, Mr. Bodine. May the best person win.” She folded her napkin and laid it carefully on the table. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Desiree headed for the stairs. She was out of sight, but she could still hear Wyatt’s voice.

  “She’s Caro’s sister, all right. Better watch out, Virgil. Those Hartlans are no pushovers.”

  “And he oughta know, Virg,” Morgan added. “He married one.”

  Marrying a Bodine? That’s one mistake I won’t make, Desiree vowed. Not in a thousand... votes.

  THE SUN ROSE HOT and heavy, promising to quickly dispel the desert’s cool dawn air. Desiree was up early. Elections were in two weeks, and she intended to go campaigning. It was a Monday morning, and children were back in school. Travis would be starting in a few days, too; Desiree thought that was a good idea, even though she knew the boy was probably ahead of his class. Tourist traffic in the town should be light, making it easy for her to get acquainted with some of the twelve hundred yearlong residents. Desiree had her game plan all mapped out. She’d start with the gift shops and downtown restaurants, then head for the school about a half hour before dismissal. Once there, she could chat with the waiting parents.

  The whole town might know the Bodines, but it was time they got to know Desiree Hartlan, as well.

  She took one last glance in the mirror. Thanks to a sharp pair of scissors, her shaggy hair had been trimmed; she’d combed it wet into its usual sophisticated sleekness. Her makeup was light but dressy. She wore Tombstone’s traditional formal outfit—black pants, jacket and string tie over a white shirt, together with black boots. Her own version was assembled from her tailored court clothes and a lacy blouse, while high-heeled black suede ankle boots served to complete the outfit.

  Even though she rode, Desiree had no Stetson, no black headgear, which was traditionally a part of western formal wear. She preferred a baseball cap when she was astride a horse. But a ball cap would never go with this outfit.

  That’s okay. I’ll be inside most of the day. I’ll buy myself a hat in town-a Stetson. When in Rome... She reached for her briefcase, which would do double duty as a bag for her flyers and as her purse.

  “Oops! Almost forgot. Come here, Oscar.” She grabbed the white T-shirt she’d special ordered back in Phoenix once her name on the ballot was confirmed. She slid the white shirt over Oscar’s long body. “Aren’t you the pretty pup?” she murmured admiringly.

  On one side were the words, Vote D. Hartlan For Sheriff! surrounded by red, white and blue flags. The other side said Pet Oscar Hartlan For Fun! Tiny paw prints adorned his T-shirt, and a pink heart followed the name Hartian, as well.

  “Ready for your first political campaign?”

  Oscar scratched vigorously at his new T-shirt, and when he couldn’t get it off, put on a pitiful look. “Hey, it’s for a good cause,” she said, clipping his leash to his collar. “You know what they say about shaking hands and kissing babies. You get to help with the shaking and the kissing.” Desiree picked up her briefcase and Caro’s truck keys. “Wanna go for a ride?” she asked, jingling the keys.

  Oscar wagged his tail, in good sorts again.

  “All right, then. Let’s get this campaign rolling.”

  Despite her early start, the restaurants in town were long open and serving the breakfast crowd. In the desert, people who worked outside did as much as they could in the coolness of the morning. Then came the traditional Mexican siesta, the hottest part of the day, when only tourists roamed in the heat of the sun. The town rustled back to life again in the late afternoon. Desiree’s strategy was to whistle-stop during the morning hours, then hit the local newspaper’s air-conditioned offices around noon to drop off a bio and a self-written - interview for the public. Good thing she’d applied for Tombstone residency months ago—even before the lawsuit had been filed against her. Once she’d lost her job, she’d known it was only a matter of time before her money went as well. Tombstone was now her home in every sense, including the legal. And she wanted it that way. In addition to having a sister willing to help her get back on her feet, Desiree was strongly attracted to the place—the town and the ranch. Always had been. Not only that, rural Tombstone had a much lower cost of living and a lower level of taxation than Phoenix did. All good reasons to stay here. In fact, she’d been a legal resident of Tombstone more than long enough to satisfy the election requirements.

  Still, she didn’t have much time to campaign.

  “The personal touch is what’s going to win us that sheriffs spot,” Desiree said as she drove Caro’s truck down the long driveway to the Silver Dollar’s main gate. “A truck, a dog and lots of kisses. We can’t go wrong, Oscar.” She fondled the dog’s silky ears. “You keep wagging your tail, and between the two of us we just might kick some Bodine tail. We Hartlans play to win—hands down.”

  FOR A CHANGE, Virgil didn’t have to set his alarm. His body had always stayed on Silver Dollar time, and he immediately woke up at his feed-the-horses, clean-out-the-barns early hour. He’d been away from home for more than a decade, yet he’d never become used to California, Zurich, Monte Carlo or Rio de Janeiro hours. His soul had aligned itself with the Arizona sun more than forty years ago at his birth and had stayed aligned.

  Lord, but it’s good to be home. With a father’s eye, he immediately checked on the silent boy in the twin bed across the room from his. Still sleeping. He remembered his mother’s long-ago words....

  “Rule number one for parents. There is no such thing as too much love. Rule number two-never wake a sleeping child, unless it’s time for school or church.”

  Time to enroll you in the local school, son. And to start taking you to the local church, too. Built in 1882 by the Reverend Endicott Peabody, St. Paul’s was the oldest Protestant church in Arizona and the site of all Bodine christenings, weddings and funerals. Virgil remembered his shock upon first seeing L.A.’s stripmall churches, wedged between liquor stores, metered parking and Frederick’s of Hollywood. The churches even came complete with automatic teller machines.

  No more of that for us
, Travis. Time for a proper church. Maybe a routine will help you settle down. Seeing him asleep, no one would guess the anger he felt about his mother’s job or the trouble he’d caused...the sullen outbursts, the fights with other kids, the bad grades despite his private tutor. Even the shoplifting he swore he hadn’t done.

  Virgil had—briefly—told Wyatt and Morgan about his problems with Travis; he’d alluded to it in recent phone calls and discussed it in more detail the previous evening. He was worried sick about his son. He’d planned to spend all his free time with Travis—until Caro’s crazy sister announced that she planned to run for sheriff. Now Virgil had two problems to worry about: a child and a woman. He hoped he hadn’t taken on more than he could handle—and that his decision wouldn’t cut into his time with Travis.

  Uneasy, Virgil sat up, threw aside his covers and walked over to gently touch his child’s forehead and listen to his breathing. He’d always felt silly doing it but knew his mother had touched him the same way. As a child, he’d fallen asleep on the couch one day when he was home sick from school, then awoke to see her staring at him.

  “You okay, Mom?” Virgil had asked.

  “Yeah.” His mother had smiled somewhat sheepishly. “I was checking your breathing. It’s a parent thing. Go back to sleep.”

  Every night and every morning, Virgil still watched his son’s chest rise and fall, so he must be more like his mother than his father. That was no surprise. The three Bodine boys were much like their late mother and her father in looks. Sarah-Jo Bodine had named her sons after the legendary Earp brothers-and they’d followed in the footsteps of those men, becoming lawmen. themselves. According to all the books, the three Earps of history had no living descendants. Yet the vintage photos of C. S. Fly, the man whose cameras had chronicled the lives of Geronimo, the Earps and the town of Tombstone, raised interesting questions among the townsfolk, especially when it came to Wyatt Bodine, whose face was a dead ringer for the original Wyatt Earp’s. However, the Bodines, like the Earps, were a private people. No one but family was privy to their secrets or Silver Dollar traditions-and family meant blood kin, spouses and children.

  Travis may look like his mother, but he has Bodine, blood Maybe Earp blood...

  Virgil smoothed his son’s hair one last time and headed for the shower.

  Desiree, on the other hand, looks more like a Bodine than a Hartlan—with her blue eyes and blond hair. Not that it’s going to help. Virgil tossed off the briefs he’d slept in, adjusted the water and stepped into the shower. He’d had a hard time containing his laughter last night at Travis’s comment. Desiree—hardly a nineties name for a woman—had indeed resembled Shirley Temple, especially with that foolish little lapdog in her arms.

  Not that he had anything against women in any position. But “Ray” Hartlan didn’t even look the part of a would-be sheriff, let alone have the qualifications. He’d cut her some slack, he decided, sluicing his broad shoulders and chest with soap. She didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Tombstone of winning the election.

  A half hour later, he was on his way down to the kitchen for some coffee and a quick breakfast. Caro had slept in, Wyatt was already in town at the sheriff’s office, and the others were either eating or going about their morning’s work.

  “Morning, Morg,” Virgil said. “Jasentha. Hey, Kitty Cat.” He scooped up his niece from her chair and lifted her high. “How about a hug for your uncle?”

  Cat giggled, stuck out her tongue at him and giggled again. Virgil set her back in her chair as Jasentha gently scolded her niece in Apache. With one boot, Morgan kicked out the chair opposite his, the oak seat edge bearing scuff marks from three generations of this practice. Virgil stopped the chair with his hand and sat down to join them.

  “Where’s Travis?” Morgan asked.

  “Still out cold.”

  “I guess the flight was really rough on him.”

  “Yeah. Hey, Morg, do you mind if he tags along with you and Jasentha today? I thought Cat and Travis would be good company for each other.” Virgil grabbed a few slices of toast from a platter in the middle of the table and helped himself to scrambled eggs.

  “I don’t mind. Is that okay with you, Jaz?”

  “Of course, my heart.” Jasentha automatically spoke in Apache, then remembered and switched back to English for Virgil. The Bodine brothers were proficient in Spanish and could manage some Apache, but only Morgan bad grown up speaking the language fluently with the childhood friend he had finally tarried. “We’ve been taking Cat out with us after breakfast and having Ben bring her home for lunch. She goes to kindergarten for the afternoon session. Caro’s been having a bad time with this pregnancy, and it gives her a break in the mornings. There’s room in the truck for Travis, too.”

  “Mommy gets sick at breakfast,” Cat piped up. “Sometimes lunch, too. She always throws up. I hope Travis doesn’t get sick in the caves. The bats smell funny.” The child wrinkled her nose.

  “He’s used to L.A. smog. Guano might actually be an improvement,” Virgil said wryly.

  “Caro’s not up to watching two kids,” Jasentha said. “Cat’s a handful as it is, but at least she knows . the ranch rules and is comfortable around horses.”

  “What about Travis?” Morgan asked. “Isn’t he going to school here or are you keeping the tutor?”

  “I’ll send him to regular school as soon as he settles in here, probably right after the election. He’s ahead of his local fifth-grade class, anyway—I already checked. Southern California has year-round school, remember? Travis was in school all summer.” The state’s massive population had forced its schools to accommodate students with an untraditional track system-two months in class, one month off. Four staggered tracks ran concurrently.

  “I don’t mind taking Travis along,” Jasentha said, “but he’d have to spend the whole day with us, Virgil. He’d have to go where we go—the bat caves or the stables or wherever.”

  “With his behavior problems...” Morgan hesitated. “I can’t have him taking off, letting air out of tires—any of that. It’s not my place to discipline another man’s son, but—”

  “I’m giving you permission, Morgan. I trust you and I know he’ll be in good hands.”

  “Well...if it’s okay with Jaz.”

  “It is,” she said.

  “Thanks, both of you. Just get him up a half hour before you’re ready to go. He’s a speedy kid in the morning. Dresses quick and likes cold cereal. He can be ready to leave five minutes after that.”

  Cat scampered out of her chair. “I’ll go wake him up! And kiss Mommy goodbye.”

  “Catherine Earp Hartlan-Bodine, don’t you dare go upstairs!” Morgan ordered.

  Cat hesitated, and Jasentha was able to catch onto a little wrist.

  “Aw, Auntie Jaz...”

  “Come with me, sweetie. No, Morgan, sit down. You men finish your coffee. Virgil, I’ll see you later, okay?”

  The oldest and youngest brothers were left alone. Virgil started on his breakfast again. “Marriage agrees with you, Morg. Jasentha, too. Took you long enough. But then, you always did have the worst timing.”

  “Maybe. Speaking of couples, how’s May?”

  “Still pronouncing her name Tawnee. Still making . movies. And still keeping her life together-professionally, anyhow. Unlike Caro’s sister.”

  Morgan’s coffee cup paused halfway between tabletop and mouth. “Oh?”

  “She hardly fits the mold for sheriff!”

  “Don’t underestimate Desiree Hartlan, Virg. She’ll give you a run for your money.”

  “She’ll be lucky to keep rancher’s hours, let alone run a campaign.”

  “Wrong.” Morgan finally took a casual sip of his coffee. “She got all gussied up, borrowed Caro’s truck and left over an hour ago. She, uh, said something about the early bird getting the vote.”

  “Son of a desert cur!” Virgil pushed his plate away, the fork clattering against it. He shoved his chair back, too.
>
  “Where are you going?” Morgan asked.

  “To beat my competition!”

  “In those clothes?”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?” He wore kidleather loafers, eggshell white slacks and a tealcolored Ralph Lauren polo shirt. “They’re perfectly presentable.”

  “For a fancy L.A. bistro, maybe. Not for Tombstone. You want to fit in, not stand out. Ray knows that. She left her fancy car behind and took Caro’s truck instead.”

  “People aren’t voting for my clothes or my car, Morgan. Besides, I don’t have time to change. Tell Travis I’ll see him tonight. Until then, I’ll be downtown pressing the flesh.”

  “You know where the ranch vehicles are,” Morgan said. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks, but luck isn’t something I’m going to need.” Virgil hurried out, leaving his brother to sit and shake his head.

  “Is he gone?” Jasentha asked when she reappeared a few minutes later. Cat and Striker, Jasentha’s black German shepherd, trotted along at either side. Her question was in Apache, a language understood by her niece and the dog.

  “Virgil? Yep, he left.” Morgan’s eyes twinkled wickedly.

  Jasentha’s dark eyes narrowed in response. She knew her husband and his moods well. “What?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking about Virgil.”

  “Why? Where did he go?”

  “Downtown. After Ray, who’s already down there campaigning.”

  “Oh, my.” She bit her lip in dismay. “I doubt Virgil was happy to hear that.”

  “He certainly wasn’t.” Morgan’s grin widened. “You know, those two might make a good couple. They’re like salt and pepper. Oil and vinegar. Gunpowder and a lit fuse. Things would never be dull.”

  “I have no intention of playing matchmaker, my heart. Is that what you wish to do?”

  Morgan switched back to English. “Jasentha, I’d ride shotgun for Jesse James first.”