She's The Sheriff (Superromance Series No 787)

by Duquette, Anne Marie

  “I’ve got a wife and champagne dinner waiting at home,” he said. “So here it is, folks, the last election results of the day. As you all know, the contest for sheriff of Tombstone was a real doozy. But you, the people, have made your choice. The winner of the election, the next sheriff of Tombstone, is...”

  Desiree held her breath. Everyone waited.

  “But first let me add—”

  Everyone groaned as the mayor dragged out the suspense.

  “That this is a landslide victory, so I don’t want the loser calling me up in the middle of my dinner and asking for a recount.”

  A landslide? Well, there goes my chance. She fought against her disappointment. She’d save that for later, when she was alone. Desiree sat up straighter, determined to be a gracious loser. I hope Virgil still intends to offer me a position as deputy. Well, if he doesn’t I can always shovel out horse stalls for Wyatt. She wiped her damp palms on her pants, ready to bite the bullet and shake Virgil’s hand.

  “Come on, Mr. Mayor! My dinner’s gettin’ cold!” someone else shouted.

  The mayor allowed the crowd to laugh.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce to you our new sheriff—Miz Dezzzoraaay Hartlan!”

  The cheers went up, someone pushed her toward the mayor, and she found herself shaking his hand instead of Virgil’s. The mayor continued to pump it as the cameras crowded close. Through all the lights and applause and shouted questions from reporters, Desiree saw Virgil’s face. He wore a shocked expression that she suspected exactly matched her own.

  I won? I really won?

  “Speech, speech, speech!” the pro-Hartlan supporters chanted over and over.

  “Not from the mayor, either!” someone else yelled.

  Desiree was led to the podium and a microphone pulled down to her mouth. She waited for the crowd’s silence, then took a deep breath.

  “Thank you for your votes, ladies and gentlemen. I promise to respect your choice with a job well done.” Cheers, confetti, flashbulbs. She waited until she had silence again. “My opponent, Mr. Virgil Earp Bodine, has always been worthy of the title of lawman. He and his expertise will always be welcome in the sheriffs department as long as I hold office.”

  More cheers, confetti and camera flashes.

  “Thank you again.” Desiree stepped away from the podium, waiting for Virgil’s customary speech of support.

  Or not. Maybe he planned to ask for a recount despite the mayor’s declaration. Desiree grimaced at the serious expression on Virgil’s face. This ought to be good She steeled herself to grin and bear whatever negative remarks Virgil might dole out.

  “To all my supporters,” he began, “thank you. I urge you all to throw your support behind our new sheriff. It was a fair race, and the people have spoken.”

  Desiree felt herself starting to relax. That wasn’t so bad. A quick handshake from him and the worst would be over. But nothing could have prepared her for his next words.

  “The city of Tombstone hasn’t lost a Bodine, after all. Our new sheriff has offered me a position as deputy, and I’ve accepted.”

  You’ve what? But you said...

  The crowd went wild. The media crowded close as Virgil offered his hand to Desiree. She allowed him to take hers and even managed not to wince at his strong grip—but she couldn’t keep her surprise from showing.

  “I thought you said you’d never work for me!” she whispered, making sure she angled her mouth well away from the microphones being shoved toward her.

  “I’ve reconsidered. This is my home, and it deserves the best.” His smile for the cameras was pleasant, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And you aren’t the best, Ms. Hartlan. So I’ll be there to step in when you fall on your face—and you will fall, Ms. Hartlan. My son deserves the safest town law enforcement can offer. I’ll have your job yet.”

  Her smile was as emotionless as his. “Over my stone-cold corpse.”

  “Hey, you two! How about looking in this direction?” someone shouted. “We want a shot of Tombstone’s newest team!”

  They did as requested. But despite their nearness on the podium, Desiree knew they were miles apart.

  THE THREE BROTHERS SAT in their order of age. Virgil, Wyatt and Morgan were lined up on Big Nose Kate’s bar stools, beers in hand. The celebration party was over, the hall empty except for the paper mess waiting to be cleaned up by janitors the next morning. The reporters and voters were long gone; so was Desiree. The Bodine women were home putting Bodine children to bed, and Virgil had gone out for a drink with his brothers.

  “How’s about a toast to our new sheriff?” the barkeep asked.

  Three identical sets of slate blue eyes, glowing with new-bullet heat, glared at the man.

  “Mmm, maybe not.” He hurriedly reached for a half-empty bowl of peanuts, muttered something about refilling the bowl and disappeared out back.

  “I thought I had her beat.” Virgil morosely took a pull at his beer. “I still don’t understand it. All she had going for her was a questionable reputation and a dog with a T-shirt! The safety of Tombstone is now in the hands of a lawyer. Lord help us.”

  “Sorry it wasn’t you, Virg,” Wyatt said, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  Morgan, Virgil noticed, was quiet. “I haven’t heard much from you, Morg.”

  “Want some more pretzels?”

  “Try again.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry you lost.”

  “Tell me why I lost. Because I sure can’t figure it out.”

  Wyatt shook his head. “You two don’t wanna go there.”

  “Don’t tell me what I want, Wyatt.” Virgil shoved his mug away. “And skip the sympathy. I need the hard facts, Morg, and you’ve never cut corners before.”

  Morgan hooked one booted foot on the bar stool before beginning. When he did, his expression was serious, his words solemn. “You’ve been gone a long time, Virgil. Things have changed since you left. People have changed, including you, I might add. And not for the better.”

  “The hell you say!”

  Morgan took a swig of his beer. “If you don’t like the answers, then don’t ask the questions.”

  “Let him talk, Virg,” Wyatt urged.

  You too, Wyatt? Virgil felt a pang of loneliness, tinged by regret. Understandably, the two brothers had a closeness they could never share with eldest son Virgil, the man who’d raised them after their parents died. Surely you don’t agree?

  Wyatt’s expression said he did.

  “Go on,” Virgil urged through clenched teeth.

  “Tombstone’s grown while you’ve been gone. We’re not just some dusty tourist stop anymore. There’s more to us than the O.K. Corral or the Earps’ hangouts. For instance, we have some of the finest jewelry artisans in the Southwest.”

  “Don’t tell me what I already know,” Virgil said impatiently.

  “Did you realize Native American crafts, both traditional and contemporary, are now a multimilliondollar business for this town?”

  “Million?”

  “Oh, yeah. We’re talking big money, with international recognition. Who better to know about international business laws, as well as state and national antiquities laws, than a lawyer? Who better to know about high-tech thieves and loopholes in their prosecution? Ray Hartlan’s worked the Phoenix courts. She’s a damn good lawyer who’s seen it all. In some ways, she’s seen more than you.” Morgan took another drink of beer. “We need that. This is no one-horse town, but you just didn’t get it, Virgil. That’s why you lost the election.”

  Virgil drew on the inner control that had always kept him calm—and alive—in times of turmoil. If it was any other man saying those words, he’d already be on the barroom floor with a broken jaw. But this was Morgan, and Morgan always spoke the truth. The three men had their own strengths. Wyatt could think like a criminal. Virgil could successfully track the coldest trail, follow the slightest lead. But even as a child, Morgan had an uncanny feel for character
, for moods and emotions.

  “Even if what you say is true,” Virgil muttered, “that’s not why I lost.”

  “I disagree. One—you come back home dripping money in your fancy foreign clothes. That says right there you don’t need Tombstone to pay the rent. The rest of us, Ray included, do. Number two—you think you’re the best—”

  “I am the best!”

  Morgan didn’t respond to that. “And you think the position is a given. You waltz into campaign mode and assume you’ll win. This town loves a fighter. Always has. It’s the Tombstone way. You didn’t even bother fighting for the job. Desiree did, one hundred percent.”

  This time Virgil couldn’t argue.

  “And now that you’ve lost, instead of taking it like a man, you’re sitting here complaining. In the meantime, you’ve forgotten that you’ve got a son waiting at home for you. Bad enough the boy has no mother. Where the hell’s his father? In a bar moaning like a sick cow with a bellyache.”

  Virgil rose to his feet, fists clenched. “That’s enough, Morgan.”

  Morgan remained seated. “Is it? Then why aren’t you back home tucking Travis in? Desiree’s already at the ranch helping Caro with the kids. Why aren’t you home?”

  Virgil took a step closer to Morgan. He felt Wyatt’s restraining hand on his shoulder, saw the few remaining patrons back away. “I guess I know who you voted for,” Virgil hissed.

  Morgan calmly finished his beer, reached for his Stetson, then stood. “You don’t know a damn thing.” He headed for the door.

  “Wait for me, Morg!” Wyatt slapped down a few dollars, grabbed his own hat and tossed his keys to Virgil. “Here. I’m riding home with Morgan. I’ve got family waiting, too. Oh, yeah...that reminds me. Morgan and I consider Desiree Hartlan family. For Caro’s sake, you’d better do the same, or so help me—brother or no brother—I’ll run you out of town myself.”

  Virgil took an involuntary step backward, in shock, not in fear. That predatory warning, the dangerous narrowing of the eyes, was a look he’d frequently seen Wyatt direct toward criminals, but never family. That hurt even more than Morgan’s blunt words. “Wyatt...”

  “Save it, Virg. I’m going home.” He, too, headed for the door, then paused to deliver a parting blow. “By the way, Morgan did vote for you. Just so you know.”

  Virgil Earp Bodine was left standing... alone.

  BY THE TIME HE’D DRIVEN home an hour later and parked in the Silver Dollar’s vehicle area, most of the lights in the main ranch house were out. Virgil had sat in the bar by himself, thinking—about Travis, about Desiree, about his brothers. So he’d lost the election. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Being deputy meant he could still keep an eye on the town, make sure the new sheriff did things the way she should. Plus, he’d have more time for his son. Yeah, he thought again, it wasn’t so bad. But it had taken a while to convince himself of that. Now it was late. They’re probably all in bed. I’ll apologize first thing tomorrow, he decided. First things first—he had to kiss Travis good-night.

  Damn that Morgan. He’s right, as usual. Deep down, Virgil realized Morgan wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. I haven’t liked who I’ve become lately. That’s why I came home. A heavy dose of reality could only help, and turnabout was fair play. He remembered all the lectures he’d given “the boys” after his parents died. If nothing else, he’d taught them well, judging by the honesty he’d heard thrown back tonight. Too bad he hadn’t taught them a little more finesse, especially Morgan.

  He’s about as tactful as an adobe brick dropped on the head.

  Virgil went inside, tossed his keys—he hadn’t worn a hat for years—on the stone fireplace mantel and hurried up the stairs to the bedrooms. He smiled, his first real smile of the night. He’d made the right choice to come back to Arizona—not just for Travis, but for himself, as well. Hell, in L.A. you could walk down the street naked as a jaybird and no one would even look! Family could mean anything there, whatever you wanted it to mean. At least in Tombstone, kin was kin, and a cow pie was a cow pie, be it cattle waste or a person.

  Travis wasn’t in their room with the twin beds. Virgil checked the upstairs bathroom. No Travis. He saw a light shining under a single door down the hall and, somewhat worried, went to knock there.

  On well-oiled hinges, the door opened at his touch. Inside, he saw his son asleep on a bed, Oscar curled up at his side. Travis’s arm was slung around the dog, who alertly watched the visitor.

  Desiree pivoted his way. “Ever heard of knocking?” she asked indignantly.

  “I tried to. The door swung open on its own. What’s going on?” Virgil asked. “Why is my son in your bed?”

  “Travis woke up from a nightmare. He didn’t know where he was. And I didn’t know where you were.” Virgil could hear the disapproval in her voice. “Morgan, Wyatt and everyone else were down for the night. I could hardly leave him alone and scared. So I brought him in here.”

  “Damn.” Virgil gently touched his son. “Thanks, Desiree.”

  “That’s Ray.”

  “Sorry I jumped all over you, but it’s been a long...” He stopped, suddenly aware of what she was doing. “What’s going on here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” She gestured toward the open suitcase, the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed.

  “I’m moving out. Until I find a place of my own, I’m checking into a motel. Starting tonight.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “YOU CAN’T MOVE!” Virgil protested.

  “I can’t move, I can’t win an election, I can’t handle the job. Your predictions are as flawed as your manners. My sister has serious health problems right now. She needs peace and quiet She doesn’t need this. Frankly, neither do I.”

  Desiree deliberately turned her back on him and continued with her packing.

  Virgil reined in his temper. “I didn’t mean to order you around.”

  “Didn’t you? Those baby blues of yours might work on California girls, but they do nothing for me. Please take your son so I can finish packing. It’s late, and I’m very tired.”

  Tired of you, her words seemed to imply.

  “First I’d like to apologize for intruding.”

  She lifted her head. “Apology accepted. Now will you leave?” He could hear the distaste in her voice despite the low whisper she was using. It was that distaste, the same emotion he’d heard in Morgan’s voice earlier, that made him drop all vestiges of pride.

  “Look, I’ve been a jerk, and I’m sorry. I don’t take losing very well.”

  “Who does?” Desiree wasn’t softening yet.

  “The motels are packed with media, and my brothers will have my head if you end up sleeping in your car. Which you will—I guarantee it.”

  Desiree lifted another pile of clothes from the dresser. “There’s always Tucson.”

  “That’s two hours away—hardly practical for the town sheriff. The job description says you have to reside in Tombstone. You don’t want to forfeit your badge before your first day, do you?”

  “Son of a desert cur!” She threw the pile of clothes back down on the dresser with a vengeance.

  Virgil grinned at her frustration, vented in the local oath. He used another Tombstone expression, made famous by the Bird Cage Theater, 1880s home of soiled doves and bawdy entertainment. “Hell’s belles, keep it down or you’ll wake my son. Now, if you’re done...”

  “Do I look done?”

  “I strongly suggest you move your suitcases, I move my son, and we all get to bed. There’s work waiting for us in the morning. Until then—” he held out his hand to her “congratulations. You won fair and square.”

  She slowly extended her own hand, eyes narrowed. Desiree’s handshake was cursory, nothing more.

  “Thank you.”

  . “So...you’ll stay?”

  “Until I find a place of my own, yes.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “I’m not so sure.” She moved her sti
ll-open suitcase to the floor, lifted Oscar into her arms and backed away from the bed, leaving Virgil a clear path to Travis.

  “Winning means you won’t have much time for Caro,” Virgil remarked as he picked up his sleeping child. “I wonder what she’ll do now.”

  “Caro wouldn’t appreciate your interference in her personal affairs any more than Wyatt would.”

  “I was just concerned.”

  “Don’t be—I know how to treat my family,” Desiree flung back. “Hartlan or Bodine.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not the stranger around here, mister. I’d suggest you be careful not to throw your weight around.” Her words stung, all the more because he knew they were true.

  “Maybe I didn’t win the election, but I own a third share in this ranch, lady. I’m entitled to do as I please on my own land. You take care of your responsibilities. I’ll take care of mine.”

  “Then take care of them out of my bedroom.” She set her dog back on the bed, then held the door open for him. The message was obvious.

  “Good night, Mr. Bodine.”

  “Ms. Hartlan.”

  “Sheriff Hartlan.”

  “That’s awfully...” Formal, isn’t it? he wanted to say.

  Too late. Desiree had already closed the door behind him and turned the lock.

  DESIREE AWOKE EARLY, despite her late night. For her, the coolness of the desert dawn had always been more effective than any alarm clock. Her sheet fell to her waist as she sat up in bed; she pulled up a fallen nightie strap and took a deep breath of the breeze coming through her open window. For the first time since she’d arrived here, she had a chance to leisurely enjoy her bedroom instead of rushing out to campaign. Someone—it had to be Caro—had furnished the room with a decidedly female guest in mind. The lace curtains would never have been the choice of a Bodine male. The men tended more toward the utilitarian look.

  The desk in the corner now had a feminine desk set, with a porcelain vase. The bed linens were no longer basic white but a delicate floral design in muted pastels. The traditional braided throw rug had been replaced with a woolen Navajo woven rug in subdued earthy colors. Even her dresser had been delicately scented with handmade sachets of desert flowers—again Caro’s handiwork. It wasn’t exactly Desiree’s taste, but both sisters knew she’d eventually move into her own place. Perhaps the room would be Cat’s after the new baby came.