by Linda Turner
"You mean you don't know?"
Something in his shocked tone warned Riley he wasn't going to like what was coming next.
"Know what?" he asked carefully.
"That you've got some competition this year. And it's a woman, too!
Let me tell you, it about knocked my socks off when I heard about it.
From what Isabel Martinez over at the county clerk's office said, the lady just barely met the residency requirements. She moved here from Dallas"
"Dallas?" Riley echoed sharply, the memory of flashing green eyes working their way back into his thoughts.
"You aren't talking about Becca Prescott, are you?"
"Yeah. According to Isabel, she came out here to take care of her grandmother after she had a stroke. You know her?"
"Only well enough to give her a ticket she wasn't too happy about," he said flatly.
And to know that the lady wasn't big as a minute. Barely five-four if she was an inch, she couldn't have weighed a hundred and ten pounds dripping wet. She might have held the title of deputy in Dallas, but Riley seriously doubted she could have been anything but a paper-pusher. No man with a brain in his head would want a woman like her as backup in the field.
Memories, dark and bitter and long buried, stirred like the ashes of a fire that refused to die, but Riley had no intention of letting them fan to life. His expression cold, he ruthlessly forced the stark pictures back to the distant, black pit of the past. There were some things a man was better off forgetting.
"Isabel said she seems just spunky enough to give you a run for your money," Mark said, worry knitting his thick brows together into what looked like a ledge across his square forehead.
"You know, it might not hurt to schedule a few more speeches and see about getting a campaign manager. Just in case. You wouldn't want to underestimate the lady or anything."
Shaking off his grim mood, Riley almost laughed. If his opponent had been anyone but a woman, he might have had something to be concerned about. But Lordsburg wasn't a big, cosmopolitan city like Dallas. This was ranch country and still pretty much a man's world.
The voters were conservative, and they weren't going to take kindly to the idea of a Becca Prescott toting a side arm or dealing with troublemakers who weighed twice as much as she did. She could campaign until she was blue in the face, but it wasn't go' rag to change the fact that she was the wrong sex for a sheriff, and an outsider as well. She was beaten before she even got started.
"I'll think about it," he agreed, mainly to appease the younger man.
"But I'm not going to lose any sleep over the lady. Once the voters get a good look at her, she's going to have a hard time convincing anyone she's serious."
Seated at her kitchen table as she figured up her monthly bills, Becca stared down at the pitiful balance in her checking account and tried not to wince. It wasn't easy. That morning she'd sold her grandmother's old Ford to Frank Taylor, the rancher down the road, but she hadn't been able to get much for it, since she hadn't replaced the broken headlight or done the other things necessary to make it street legal. What little she had gotten had gone to pay last night's exorbitant ticket. Then she'd had to dip into her miserable excuse of a savings account to buy a battery for her Jeep. With what she had left in her account, she and her daughter, Chloe, would he lucky to eat hamburger until payday.
For what seemed like the thousandth time since her grandmother had died, Becca found herself second guessing her decision to stay in Lordsburg. Granted, she'd inherited her grandmother's house, but there wasn't much work in the area. The only thing she'd been able to find was a part-time position as a teacher's aide three days a week, and it didn't pay peanuts.
She knew if they returned to' Dallas, she could probably get her old job back. But she and Chloe hadn't exactly been living high off the hog there, either. She hadn't been able to afford an apartment in the best area of town, which had presented another problem. Some of the neighborhood bullies had decided it would he fun to pick on a deputy's daughter, and Beeca had been afraid to let Chloe out of her sight.
There was no way in hell she was going to put her back in that situation, especially when she was so much happier now.
If, however, she could manage to sell her grandmother's house, she'd be able to afford something in a better neighborhood than they'd been in before. Playing the devil's advocate, Becca had to admit that was a big if.
Lordsburg wasn't exactly a hot spot for real estate. The house could he on the market for years before a buyer was found.
Which left her and Chloe right where they were, with barely two nickels to rub together. God help them if they had any kind of emergency.
A knock at the back door distracted her, but before she could answer it, Margaret Hawkins, one of her neighbors, blew in like a dust storm.
"Becca, thank God you're home!" she breathed in relief, her brown eyes snapping behind the leases of her bifocals.
"I'm so mad, I could spit!"
The most eccentric of three ladies who had been her grandmother's neighbors for fifty years or more, Margaret lived life with a vigor that Becca couldn't help but love.
Eighty if she was a day, she kept her hair dyed strawberry blond and didn't care a fig if it looked natural or not A potter by trade, she wore clothes and jewellery as outrageous as her hair. No one could ever accuse her of being dull.
Grinning affectionately, Becca pulled out a chair for her at the table, then headed for the stove.
"Have a seat while I make a pot of tea. You look like you could use some." Too agitated to sit still, Margaret paced the length of the big, old-fashioned kitchen with her usual restless energy. Her free flowing red-and-gold-gauze dress streaming out behind her plump figure, she whirled suddenly and waved a piece of paper under Becca's nose.
"Look at this—this garbage. That man actually had the nerve to give me a ticket for disturbing the peace!"
Bewildered, Becca echoed, "A ticket? For disturbing the peace? Let me see that. "
"I wasn't doing a thing," the other woman claimed with outraged innocence as Becca smoothed out the crumbled citation and read it.
"Just crossing the street in front of the art-supply store when that pup of a deputy-Mark What's-his-name—stopped me and accused me of jaywalking. Right there in front of God and everyone!" she buffed, her softly lined, usually smiling face snapping into an indignant frown.
"But there're no crosswalks there or traffic signals," Becca said.
"What did he expect you to do—go three blocks down to the nearest light and cross there?"
"You got it, sweetie. Can you imagine? I told him he was crazy, and that if I was his granny, there was no way in hell he'd make me do that."
Her eyes starting to dance, Becca said dryly, "Let me guess... that's when he gave you the ticket for disturbing the peace."
"Yes! Just like I was some drunk making a ruckus in the middle of church! So I figured if I was going to get a ticket anyway, I might as well speak my mind. And let me tell you, he didn't like it one little bit when I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, picking on an old lady who didn't have anything but her Social Security. That's when he got all red in the face and threatened to haul me in if I didn't go on about my business."
Her smile slipping, Becca could picture the scene all too easily.
Under other circumstances, it would have been comical. But there was nothing funny about her elderly friend scraping together what pennies she had left after her bills were paid for a ticket that should never have been issued in the first place.
Tucking the citation into the pocket of her jeans, Becca slipped an arm around the older woman's shoulder and gave her a hug.
"Don't worry about it," she said reassuringly.
"I'll take care of it."
It wasn't an idle promise. Looking after her three eccentric neighbors came as easily to Becca as nursing her grandmother had. The only adult under seventy-eight in a string of four houses ten miles outside
of town, she ran errands for them, took care of them when they were sick and took on their battles when they needed a defender.
And right now, Margaret needed someone to fight a battle for her.
Becca was just the one to do it.
Ha! interviews. His success as sheriff was well documented and a matter of public record. It was his past he didn't care to discuss, the life he'd buried before he'd settled in Lordsburg. That was ancient history and had nothing to do with the man he was today.
But some things couldn't be avoided, especially in an election year when he had competition for the first time in nearly a decade. That thought brought the image of Becca Prescott to mind, irritating him no end.
With Sydney O'Keefe seated across his desk from him, the last thing he needed was the distraction his opponent provided. A reporter for the Hidalgo County Gazette, Sydney had the nose of a bloodhound when it came to a story and the tenacity. With the awards she'd won, she could have made a name for herself on any big-city paper in the country, but for reasons Riley couldn't begin to guess at, she didn't seem the least bit interested in venturing further afield.
Dreading the thorough questions he knew were sure to come, he resigned himself to the inevitable and settled back against the age-softened leather of his desk chair.
"I've got fifteen minutes," he told her, his blue eyes glinting with challenge.
"Give it your best shot." More than equal to the task, Sydney jumped right in.
"It's no secret that you've had some problems with your staff over the last couple of months.
Do you plan to make any changes before or after the election? Assuming you're re-elected," she quickly added with a small smile when he gave her a sharp look.
Half expecting the question, since the problems he'd been having were the talk of the town, Riley said, "Whenever you take on new, inexperienced personnel, mistakes are going to be made. It goes with the territory. That doesn't mean you fire"— A sudden commotion in the outer office interrupted him.
"Wait!" John Sanchez, one of his deputies, called out in surprise.
"Ma'am, you can't go in there! Sheriff Whitaker's busy"
"This won't take a minute."
With the promise floating down the hall ahead of her, Becca hurriedly evaded the deputy and rushed through the open office door. The second she spied him seated at his desk, she had eyes for no one but Riley. Her gaze locked with his, and suddenly her heart was pounding crazily. From irritation, she assured herself quickly, refusing to notice how ruggedly handsome he looked in the light of day.
He might he a good-looking son of a gun, but what kind of sheriff allowed his deputies to harass little old ladies?
Marching right up to his desk, she carefully laid the ticket down in front of him and gave him a sweet smile that was as sharp as the daggers in her eyes.
"Good afternoon, Sheriff," she said pleasantly. Too pleasantly.
"Forgive me for interrupting, but I was wondering if you'd care to explain this."
Riley's gaze shifted from the citation to Becca Prescott to the flustered deputy who hurried in after her with the clear intention of doing whatever he had to to get her out of there.
All too aware of Sydney taking in the entire scene like a kid at a candy store, he could already see the headlines.
Sometimes, he thought, swallowing an oath, it just didn't pay to get out of bed in the morning. Quickly waving John away, he said, "It's okay. I'll handle it."
Not fooled by her apologetic manner, Riley knew a riled lady when he saw one. Oh, she hid it well—he had to give her credit. But behind that saccharine smile of hers, she was all but grinding her teeth, champing at the bit to light into someone. It didn't take three guesses to figure out who.
He picked up the citation she'd laid before him, assured it was the one he'd given her last night, though he couldn't for the' life of him figure out why she thought arguing about it now was going to do her any good. Then he read it.
"This is for disturbing the peace," he said.
"That's right," she said approvingly, like a teacher praising a first grader's attempt at reading.
"One of your precious deputies gave it to my eighty-year-old neighbor because she argued with him when he stopped her for jaywalking. JayWalking, Mr. Whitaker," she stressed in a honeyed voice, her eyes mapping with fire.
"What's the matter? Were your deputies having a slow day? Or do they make a habit of picking on little old ladies to liven things up?"
"No, of course not"
"So giving frivolous tickets to octogenarians is standard practice for your office? Is that what you're saying?"
She was spoiling for a fight, but Riley wasn't a man who let anyone pull his strings easily. Especially this little bit of woman who he hadn't even known existed yesterday.
"My deputies aren't in the habit of harassing anyone, especially senior citizens," he said carefully.
"Since this is the first I've heard of it, I can't comment on the circumstances, but you can be sure I'll look into it."
If that was supposed to reassure her, Becca had news for him. She knew the procedure as well as he did—he'd question his deputy, then accept his version of the incident as gospel, case closed. And poor Margaret would still be stuck with a ticket she didn't have the money to pay.
"That's it?" she demanded incredulously.
"You're just going to look into the matter?"
Beginning to get irritated, Riley suddenly found himself battling a crazy urge to grin. Damn, she had a short fuse.
"You got a better suggestion?"
"You're dam right I do," she retorted.
"But if you think I'm going to tell you how to straighten up this place' and get you re-elected, you're crazy!"
She stormed out without another word, leaving behind a silence that fairly crackled with tension. Muttering a curse under his breath, Riley tore his gaze from the empty doorway only to have his eyes lock with Sydney's amused one. After one look at the Cheshire-cat smile slowly spreading across her face, he knew he was in trouble.
God, how could he have forgotten her? She'd sat as quietly as a mouse, eating up Becca Prescott's defense of her friend with a spoon.
Tomorrow's paper would be full of it.
Sheriff Accused Of Harassing Old Ladies.
He'd never live it down.
Sitting back in his chair, he surveyed Sydney wryly.
"I suppose it's too much to hope that you don't know who that was."
Unabashed, she laughed softly.
"You're darn tootin', cowboy. You know me—I always do my homework.
"By lunchtime today, I knew everything there was to know about Becca Prescott, including her shoe size. You're in for a tough fight."
That was just what he'd been afraid of. If today had proved anything, it was that the lady was more than willing to stand up for what she believed in.
"She's an outsider. That won't sit well with a lot of people."
"So were you at one time," she reminded him.
"And that didn't stop you from getting elected. She also has experience, the kind that could get her hired in any law enforcement office in the country. Her ex-boss in Dallas could do nothing but sing her praises when I called him about her.
Said she could have been bossing him instead of the other way around if she hadn't been a woman." She waited expectantly for him' to respond, but Riley's moma hadn't raised any idiots. He liked Sydney, respected her, admired her tenacity. But he never, ever, forgot that she was a reporter.
"That dog won't hunt, Syd. This election isn't going to be a battle of the sexes."
"Maybe not for you," she replied easily, undaunted, "but don't bet your job that it won't be on the minds of every dude and dudette in this county.
Becca Prescott is going to gain a lot of sympathy from the women around here. She lost a husband to cancer while she was pregnant with her daughter, then paid off his medical bills with the little bit of life insurance they had. She could have gone on
public assistance, could have sat down and felt sorry for herself, and no one would have blamed her. But she didn't. She got a job with one of the largest sheriff's offices in the country and supported herself and her baby without anyone's help.
Then, when her grandmother got sick, she walked away from a good job to do the right thing. That takes guts, and once the women in this county learn more about her, they're going to like what they hear."
"I didn't say they wouldn't like her," Riley argued diplomatically.
"From the sound of it, she has a lot of admirable traits. But this isn't a popularity contest. We're talking about who's best for the job, and my record speaks for itself. I've protected the citizens of this county and their property for almost ten years, and I don't think they're going to be too keen on voting me out of office, let alone replacing me with some newcomer they don't know from Adam."
"What about the problems you've been having? The mix-ups? The mistakes?"
A muscle rippled along Riley's granite jaw. Ten years of excellent law enforcement shouldn't be shrugged aside because of a few stupid mistakes. His blue eyes shuttered, he struggled for patience, refusing to let her rattle him.
"We've had some turnovers in the last year, and anytime you take on rookies, you've got to expect some problems," he explained calmly.
"Inexperience will show every time, but you don't fire someone just because he makes a few minor mistakes. Rookies are by nature overeager and too anxious to make an impression. Unfortunately, it's usually the wrong one."
"So you think this is just a temporary condition?" she asked shrewdly, nailing him down.
"Of course," he said confidently, and silently prayed he wasn't whistling in the wind.
Chapter 2
Sydney left soon after that, and Riley couldn't deny he was glad to see her go.
Usually they got along fine, but there was no question that she made him nervous when she got that reporters gleam in her eyes.
