Who's the Boss

by Linda Turner

  Who's The Boss

  Linda Turner

  The Wild West Book V

  The Hidalgo County War

  Riley Whitaker had been sheriff of Hidalgo County for so long, he wasn't figuring on much trouble come election time. So it came as a heck of a shock for a Texas good ol' boy like him to find out he'd be getting the fight of his life - from a woman!

  Becca Prescott sure was riled up, and every woman in the county was on her side in this battle of the sexes. But the damnedest thing was, that feisty little single mother had him wishing he could do a little fraternizing with the enemy....

  Contents

  Title

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  The red Miata had once been a hot little number, but that was before it tangled with the concrete support post of the only overpass within twenty miles.

  Watching the tow track haul off the twisted piece of metal, Riley Whitaker shook his head in disgust at the careless destruction of a good car. He'd always hated waste.

  Thankfully, he wasn't the one who was going to have to call Brenda Johnson and tell her what her little brother, George, had done to her new sports car when he took it out for a spin without her permission.

  No, that unpleasant task was going to be left to George—Riley would make sure of it. Wild and reckless ever since he hit fourteen and started to shoot up like a weed, the kid had been looking for trouble for the last three years. He'd finally found it.

  Directing a hard glare at the pale young man who silently stood at his side and watched the tow track head toward town, Riley said, "I'm going to have to take you in this time, son.

  You had an open can of beer in the car and you haven't got your license with you.

  "George, looking a very inexperienced seventeen, turned a sickly shade of green.

  "I guess it was a dumb thing to do."

  That went without saying.

  "What I can't figure out is how you even got in the damn thing," Riley retorted.

  "Those little bitty go-carts weren't made for big old boys like you."

  "That's why I had the top down," the teenager admitted in a voice that had a tendency to crack.

  "So my head wouldn't poke through the roof."

  The image of the youth's red head popping through a convertible top the way it would a T-shirt that was three sizes too small flashed through Riley's mind, threatening to drag a smile across his rugged face.

  "Well, at least you had the sense to wear your seat belt. I imagine your sister will be thankful you weren't hurt."

  His freckles standing out in his pale face, George nodded glumly.

  "Oh, yeah, she'll be thrilled. Now she can kill me herself."

  He sounded so forlorn that this time Riley couldn't help but grin.

  "Not as long as you're in my jail," he assured him, pulling open the back door to his patrol car.

  "I won't let her touch a hair on your head. So climb in, Son. The county's giving you a free ride to town."

  It was a courtesy George would have just as soon denied, but he didn't have that option. Folding his tall frame in half, he ducked into the back of the patrol ear.

  Seconds later, they were headed back to Lordsburg as the creeping shadows of early evening deepened into a darkness that was as vast as the surrounding New Mexican desert.

  When Riley saw the single headlight racing toward him in the oncoming lane, he assumed it was a motorcycle. But the minute the vehicle whizzed past, it was obvious it was an older-model ear with one headlight out. Swearing, he was half-tempted to let it go so he could get George into town and processed without delay.

  But the teenager wasn't in any hurry to call his sister. And a car with only one headlight on a two-lane road was an accident waiting to happen.

  "Hang on," he warned his passenger as he slowed down for a U-turn.

  "I've got a little business to take care of before I take you into town."

  As expected, George didn't utter a word of protest.

  With the wind rushing through the open window to. whip her already wild hair into a tangle of chestnut curls, Beeca sang enthusiastically along with the Reba McEntire song playing on the radio of her grandmother's old Ford. The road stretched like a black ribbon before her, straight as an arrow and deserted. Relaxed, her elbow resting on the window frame and her fingers tapping a beat on the steering wheel, she never thought to look behind her.

  Suddenly, a patrol car with light bar whirling and siren blaring came out of nowhere, scaring the life out of her as it raced up behind her and hovered threateningly on her tail. Choking on the lyrics about a cheating man, she snapped to attention, her heart in her throat.

  "Just because he's right on your fanny doesn't mean he's after you, girl," she told herself as she quickly lifted her foot from the accelerator.

  "He probably got a call and you're in his way."

  But when she drifted over to the shoulder of the road to let the vehicle behind her pass, it shadowed her every move and swung over to the shoulder, too. Her stomach dropping to her toes, Becca groaned.

  "Oh, no!" Muttering curses, she braked to a stop, racking her brain for the offense she had committed, but she couldn't for the life of her think of a single one.

  Unless the officer had ears like radar and had caught wind of her singing, she thought with a flash of dimples.

  Granted, she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket and her crooning had been known to make dogs howl, but that was hardly a ticketing offense.

  So what the devil had she done?

  Resigned to facing the music—for whatever she had unwittingly done—she grabbed her purse and stepped out of her car. As a former deputy sheriff herself, she knew what a difference attitude could make between getting and not getting a ticket, so she waited patiently for the officer to approach, silently cautioning herself to behave. This was not the time to let her sometimes-smart tongue get away from her.

  With the patrol car parked right behind her vehicle, blinding her, Becca could see little of the officer who made his way toward her with steps that wouldn't be hurried. Surrounded by the night, his features in shadows, he looked huge. And with every step, he grew taller, bigger, more intimidating.

  "Good evening, ma'am. Can I see your license, please?"

  He spoke in a low drawl that slipped out of the darkness like the rumble of thunder in the distance. Another woman might have appreciated the rough, sexy texture of that male voice, but Becca was already digging through her purse for her wallet and merely glanced up, distracted only to swallow as a gasp of recognition hit her like an unexpected fist to the throat.

  Riley Whitaker.

  She'd never met him face-to-face, but she would have known him in a crowd of thousands. Lordsburg was a small town, with only a few people who could be classified as celebrities, and like it or not, Whitaker was one of them. A private man who didn't seek the limelight, he'd been the sheriff of Hidalgo County for close to a decade and, as such, was one of the handful of elected officials who made the front page of the newspaper regularly.

  The gray-toned, stern pictures she'd seen in the Gazette, however, hadn't done him justice, she thought dazedly.

  Lord, he was a big man! Engulfed in shadows, his rugged face set in deep lines by the harsh glare of headlights that hit him from the side, he was taller than average, broad shouldered and lean hipped in his khaki uniform and black Stetson. In spite of the warmth of th
e night, he was neat as a pin, but Becca knew better than to mistake him for one of the button-down-collar types who ran the sheriff's office from behind a desk. He worked in the field, just as his deputies did, and had a reputation for being a hands-on law-enforcement officer who moved fast when he had to.

  Which didn't mean she thought the man could walk on water. There was no question that he was good in the trenches, but as an elected official, he was only as good as the men he surrounded himself with.

  And lately, his deputies had made an embarrassing number of mistakes.

  Normally, Becca wouldn't have held that against him.

  Mistakes happened. But when they became chronic and the man in charge did nothing to correct the situation, then he was falling down on his job. A job that she knew she could do better—which was why late that very afternoon, she'd registered as a candidate for sheriff in the upcoming elections in November.

  Now, however, wasn't exactly the best time to bring that up, she decided, prudently eyeing the ticket book he held in his hand. But Lord, she wanted to. Struck by the irony of the fact that after living in the area for nine months, she'd come face-to-face with him today of all days, she cursed her crazy sense of humor. Smart comments lined up on her tongue like sky divers waiting to jump, and it was all she could do to swallow them.

  Struggling to hold back a smile, she found her license and handed it to him.

  "Is there a problem, Sheriff? Unless the speedometer is off in this old bucket of bolts, I wasn't speeding."

  "Your speedometer's fine, Mrs. Prescott," he replied, reading her name off her license and showing no sign of recognition.

  "Can't say the same about one of your headlights, though. The right one's out."

  "Are you kidding?" Surprised, Becea started around to the front of the car, only then noticing that the beam of the old Ford's headlights was noticeably absent on the right side "I guess I wasn't paying attention. This was my grandmother's car and it hasn't been driven in a while"

  "Was?" Riley broke in sharply, arching a dark brow at her.

  First George, now this woman. Didn't anyone drive their own cars anymore?

  "She died three months ago," Becca explained.

  "She had a stroke right after Christmas, and I moved out here from Dallas to take care of her. She left me this old tank and this is the first time I've driven it. I wouldn't be in it now, but I had to make a quick trip into town to get some things for my daughter's lunch tomorrow, and the battery on my Jeep was dead."

  It was a logical excuse and probably the truth. Even in the fractured light, Riley could see she had the open, honest features of the girl next door. Her driver's license said she was thirty-two, but with her heart-shaped face, dimples and large green eyes, she didn't look anywhere near that. In fact, with her dark hair falling in unrestrained cur is around her shoulders,-she could have passed for a college student, and a darn cute one, at that. The thought slipped up on him from his blind side, catching him by surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really looked at a woman, married or single, especially on the job. He didn't care for the distraction. Scowling, he tore his eyes away from the delicate lines of her face, only to have his gaze land by chance on the inspection sticker on the lower corner of the windshield.

  It had, he noted suddenly, expired nearly ten months ago. Without a word, he stepped around to the rear of the old car to get a look at the license plates. They, too, had expired.

  "It looks like you've got bigger problems than I thought," he said sternly as he rejoined her.

  "Your husband should have taken a look at this old heap before he let you drive off in it. The plates and inspection sticker are both out-of-date."

  Becca's eyes glittered dangerously. Let her? she thought indignantly.

  No man let her do anything. She almost told him just that before her common sense reminded her she was on the verge of getting a ticket she couldn't afford if she didn't find a way to get on this stem man's good side. And it took only one glance at the blue eyes frowning down at her to tell her she had her work cut out for her. The man looked as unbending as a crowbar.

  Dragging in a calming breath, she let it out slowly and forced an easy smile that she was honest enough to admit had gotten her out of more than one tight spot.

  "I wish I could blame this on a man, but I'm a widow, Sheriff. And I admit I should have known better. I was a deputy sheriff in Dallas before moving here and"— It was the wrong thing to say. Becca knew it the minute she saw Riley's eyes narrow.

  "You were a deputy?" he said.

  "Yes, but"

  "Then you're right. You should have known better. I'm going to have to give you a ticket."

  "What?" Totally forgetting her plan to charm him, she cried, "You can't be serious! I'm only a half mile from home!"

  For a moment, she thought she saw his mouth twitch but immediately dismissed it as a trick of the harsh lighting when he merely looked at her, not the least impressed with that argument.

  "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Everything! Can't you just cut me some slack this once? I promise I'll go right home and I won't drive this old junk heap again until it's street legal. Scout's honor." Staring down into those incredible green eyes of hers, Riley was damn tempted to let her go with just a warning. And it had nothing to do with the way she was looking up at him so pleadingly, he told himself in annoyance. The offenses she'd committed were minor, and he needed to get George into town and booked.

  Unfortunately, the situation wasn't that simple. His office had been taking some heat lately from the mayor and the press for not issuing enough citations for serious infractions. He readily took the blame for that—he didn't think a sheriff had to be hard-nosed to be effective. But some of his younger deputies had been a little too easygoing, so just that morning, he'd sent out a memo that no more warnings would be issued. If people broke the law, they would be given the ticket they fined.

  And Mrs. Beeca Prescott had broken the law. Filling out the citation, he handed it and her driver's license back to her.

  "Sorry, ma'am, but the law's the law. Make sure you have the headlight fixed and the car inspected and licensed before you drive it again. Have a good evening."

  That last, inane comment, Beeca decided, was too much. Giving him a withering look, she growled, "Stuff it!" and slipped behind the wheel of the old Ford. Seconds later, she pulled back onto the highway and drove off. But not before she'd caught sight of his crooked grin in the rearview mirror.

  Chuckling, Riley stared after her long after her taillights disappeared from view, appreciating the lady's spunk. So beneath those cheerleader -cute dimples of hers, the lady had a temper. She was the type to lead some man a merry chase, and a lifetime ago, it might have been him.

  But not now. It had taken him a long time to find contentment, and no woman was messing that up. Dismissing her from his thoughts, he turned back to his car and George. His shift was over, and he would have liked nothing better than to leave the problem of the teenager to the next deputy who clocked in. But if he made the collar, he did the paperwork—it was that simple.

  Resigned to at least another hour of work before he could head for home, he climbed back behind the wheel and headed for the jail.

  As it turned out, booking George didn't take all that much time.

  Dealing with the youngster's sister, however, was another matter. Just as soon as Brenda Johnson was assured her brother hadn't been injured in the wreck, she threatened to choke him until his eyes bugged out.

  Thankfully, George was already behind bars at the time, so she couldn't get her hands around his throat.

  "He's dead meat," she told Riley, glaring at her brother through the bars.

  "Just as soon as he's out of here."

  Amusement gleaming in his tired eyes, Riley turned her toward the front door.

  "Then if he turns up mining, I'll know who to blame. Go home and cool off, Brenda. I promise this'll look better in the morni
ng."

  She apparently didn't think so, but she finally took his advice and left. Riley planned to do the same thing as soon as he checked his messages. But before he could touch them, his newest deputy hesitantly knocked on the doorjamb of his open office door, and it was all Riley could do to swallow a groan.

  It wasn't that he didn't like the kid. He'd hired Mark Newman five months ago because he had all the makings of an excellent deputy. Fresh out of college, with a degree in criminology, he was young, enthusiastic and willing to do whatever was asked of him. At the time, his eagerness to be the best law-enforcement officer New Mexico had ever seen had seemed like an asset. It had taken a week for Riley to realize that Mark's eagerness bordered on a zealousness that more often than not led to mistakes.

  Just looking at the younger man made Riley feel every one of his thirty-five years, but it was his constant bungling that strained Riley's patience. He'd lost count of the times he'd almost let Mark go, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. Newly married, with a baby already on the way, the younger man really was trying to do his best.

  Firing him would be like kicking a big, overgrown puppy for tripping over his own feet.

  Motioning to one of the chairs angled in front of his desk, Riley said,

  "Have a seat, Mark. What's on your mind?" Loose limbed, with his uniform, as usual, straining across his broad shoulders, Mark rushed in and dropped into the nearest chair, his brown eyes bright with an all too-familiar eagerness.

  "It's about the election, sir... I just wanted you to know I'm backing you one hundred percent. If you need any help with your campaign, any help at all, all you've got to do is ask." Surprised, Riley didn't even want to think about what Mark's well-intentioned fervor could do to a campaign.

  "I appreciate the offer, but I wasn't actually planning to do much ... just put up a few posters to remind people I'm running again. Since it's a one-horse race, it's a waste of money to do anything else."

  In the act of stretching out his long legs, Mark froze.