“You’re looking at the future sheriff of Tombstone, Cochise County, Arizona.”
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Copyright
“You’re looking at the future sheriff of Tombstone, Cochise County, Arizona.”
“Sheriff?” Virgil blurted. “You?”
“Yep, me.” Desiree flicked him a quick glance. You sound like you have a problem with that.
His next words confirmed her suspicion. “Let me ask you this. How many years were you actually with the Phoenix police before you entered law school?”
“Almost one.”
“Almost one?” Virgil paused. “You don’t have enough police experience to act as sheriff.”
That comment made her bristle. “My courtroom experience and my work in the D.A.’s office have given me a unique knowledge of criminals and the law.”
“But not of enforcing the law. Not in Tombstone.”
“I’m officially on the ballot. The job’s as good as mine.”
Desiree saw Virgil relax in his seat again. “Bodine men have held the position of sheriff since I first won the election twenty years ago.”
She chose her next words carefully. “You don’t think a woman can beat a man in this race?”
“I didn’t say that. I will say you don’t have a hope in hell of beating a Bodine.”
Dear Reader,
As a native of the American Southwest’s “Four Corners” area (Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico and Utah), I love writing about my home turf.
Tombstone, the location of this story, is a very real community, a delightful scenic town in southern Arizona. Please note that the law enforcement system in Tombstone—a system that originated in Wyatt Earp’s day—can be a bit confusing to nonresidents. The sheriff is an elected official voted in for a term of three years.
The characters and events that appear in She’s the Sheriff are purely fictitious—although the references to Tombstone’s history are accurate. And while it’s true that this is an active tourist town, I’ve taken certain liberties.
The Tombstone Travelers, Trailers & Truckers Campground, along with the unsavory characters camping there, is an invention. In reality, the residents of Tombstone have preserved their town’s historic flavor and its reputation as a place of law and order.
I’ve also taken liberties by creating blood ties between the real Earps and my fictitious Bodine brothers.
Sadly, James, Virgil, Wyatt, Morgan and Warren Earp have no living descendants. Warren and Morgan were murdered while young and childless. James and Wyatt died childless. Virgil had one daughter and one grandson, but the latter died with no offspring. Three of patriarch Nicholas Earp’s daughters died in childhood. The fourth, Adelia, died with no surviving offspring. Most are buried near Colton, California, the family home.
In truth, no one can claim direct descent from the five full-blooded Earp brothers. Lawmen Virgil, Wyatt and Morgan Earp were the models for the fictitious Wyatt. (She Caught the Sheriff), Morgan (In the Arm of the law) and Virgil Earp Bodine (She’s the Sheriff) in this trilogy.
The Earps were famous for bringing law and order to nineteenth-century Arizona. I hope you enjoy their heritage in my present-day hero, Virgil, and his lady, Desiree. Welcome back to Tombstone!
Sincerely,
Anne Marie Duquette
SHE’S THE SHERIFF
Anne Marine Duquette
TORONTO • NEW • YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN
MADRID • WARSAW. • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
A sad farewell to Romance Writers of America member
Pamela Macaluso, her husband and her two sons.
For all the laughs and chats and good times
over the past ten years, Pam, thank you.
I miss your lovely smile, my friend.
Think of us as we will think of you.
May you and your loved ones rest in peace.
Happy Trails...
The author wishes to thank Mr. Ben T. Traywick, Tombstone,
Arizona’s city historian, and author in his own right.
Your carefully researched history books on Tombstone
and your Old West hospitality on the phone were
of great assistance.
For your time and expertise during the writing of these
stories, I thank you, sir.
CHAPTER ONE
Early Fall...
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA’S infamous Santa Ana winds blew blistering hot and desert dry through L.A.’s smog, but the heat was the last thing on Virgil Earp Bodine’s mind. He concentrated on two things—guarding Chrissie Evans, a beautiful teenage starlet, and watching for her obsessive stalker. An adoring fan gone wrong....
Sweat rolled down his brow. He ignored it, for he was Arizona born and raised. Virgil remained motionless outside the mansion, a mansion his teenage employer had paid for in cash, thanks to her TV role as a high school harlot. It was a show he’d watched only once—a show that made even this “seen-it-all” bodyguard blush. He’d never waste his time on that program again, let alone permit his ten-year-old son, Travis, to see it.
Trash, he thought. Just like this poor misguided girl. Just like this city.
The stalker behind the bushes made enough noise to wake the proverbial dead. This fool’s as mixed-up as the girl is. Hope he’s not dangerous.
Virgil deliberately kept his grip easy and relaxed on the gun in his hand. He carried a dark, sleek 9 mm Luger Parabellum that matched his dark, sleek Armani suit. Virgil appreciated the small touches. So did his customers. In fact, they demanded subtlety, class, an urbane appearance, and considering the price tag that came with his services, Virgil delivered style as well as results. His fee was thought outrageously high, but was willingly paid, nonetheless. Hollywood was full of people who could afford the best.
Virgil Earp Bodine was the best.
The stalker finally emerged, his face concealed by a baseball cap and sunglasses. Virgil mentally gauged the enemy, the stalker himself now the stalked. His prey trampled noisily through the hibiscus, leaving torn blossoms on the Italian tiles surrounding the huge pool.
Virgil watched him head straight for the starlet’s bedroom window—the very room he’d equipped with a hidden autostart infrared security camera. The stalker’s face lit up with joy at his good luck when he tried the window and it opened.
Enjoy yourself while you can. I made things easy for me, not you.... Didn’t even arm her security system. No police around to foul things up. Virgil smiled, a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It’s just you and me, buddy. Just you and me.
“Buddy” had done more than stalk the starlet. He’d begged for dates, begged for the chance to show Chrissie how much he “loved” her. When refused, he’d vandalized her car, trashed her studio trailer and, finally, poisoned her beloved collection of exotic pet parrots. It was then that she’d hired Virgil.
Virgil remained as still as the surface of the pool in the afternoon’s dead, motionless air. He watched the stalker climb through the win
dow, saw the gun exposed in his waistband before he disappeared. Virgil mentally nodded; he’d expected as much and had covered all his bases. He’d secured the bedroom door that led into the rest of the house with four-inch wood screws. The stalker would have to come out the same way he went in—once he finished attacking the girl’s possessions.
Fifteen minutes later, a sneaker-clad foot in a dirty sock poked its way out the window, followed by the rest of the trespasser. If his prey hadn’t been so close, Virgil would have made an audible snort of disgust. Instead, he used the remote control for the outside video camera to zoom in on the stalker’s armload of stolen goods—lacy red teddies, skimpy nighties, flimsy see-through bras and black panties...crotchless panties.
Virgil stared at the lingerie, trying to match its decadence to the sixteen-year-old girl who owned them. Merciful heavens, where were this child’s parents? Still in court fighting over her money? He wouldn’t let a daughter of his wear clothes like that at home—let alone on television. Not for all the money in the world.
He saw a silk teddy slide off the pile and flutter to the tiles. The baseball cap fell off the stalker’s head, revealing a boy who couldn’t be much older than the starlet.
Great—another mixed-up teen. Smile pretty for the camera, son. As the kid bent to retrieve hat and teddy, Virgil stepped forward into sight, the 9 mm in his hand following the boy’s heart as he straightened. Predator and prey exchanged glances.
“Hands in the air.”
The boy swallowed.
“Now.”
The boy refused. Under cover of the lingerie in one arm, he slowly started to reach beneath his baggy T-shirt.
“Don’t do it, kid,” Virgil warned. “You’ll be dead before your head hits the ground. Be smart.”
The kid hesitated, then dropped the lingerie and grabbed for the gun Virgil knew he carried. Virgil was prepared—until Chrissie ran screaming out of the bushes right into his line of fire.
“Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!”
The boy’s attention was diverted. The man’s was not. He pushed the girl aside, reaimed and shot straight at the boy’s shoulder, disarming and incapacitating at once. The whole sequence took mere seconds. Virgil immediately kicked the fallen gun into the pool as Chrissie grabbed for the bleeding boy. Virgil grabbed for her.
“You promised to keep away from the house!” he shouted.
“I know, but the paparazzi found out about you! I was coming to tell you!”
Confirming her words, a herd of paparazzi stampeded into view less than a minute later, eager for Virgil’s blow-by-blow description. They were disappointed, but there was enough ongoing drama to keep them happy.
“You killed him!” Chrissie wailed, cradling the boy’s head. Her skimpy cutoffs and see-through crop top garnered plenty of attention.
“Great shot!” the photographers cried, some focusing on her braless breasts, others on her stalker.
“I love you,” the wounded boy moaned.
“Then you won’t sue me?” she begged.
“No, never, never... Why did you shoot me?”
“I didn’t shoot you! He did! I just wanted to catch you, not kill you!” She sobbed hysterically. “I’m so sorry you’re hurt....”
The boy reached for her cheek with a bloody hand. “You didn’t want to hurt me?”
“No! I just wanted to find out who was following me...scaring me! You killed all my birds! I loved those birds.”
“You don’t need them! You have me! I’m all you need. I just wanted to see you...touch you.” The stalker moaned. “God, I’m dying. Kiss me goodbye. Please?”
Chrissie did. She glared at Virgil, real tears in her five-million-dollar-a-year eyes as the boy continued to bleed from the shoulder. “How could you kill him? I only wanted you to stop him!”
Virgil Bodine Earp stared at the sickness before him. It hovered in the air, as tangible as the city’s pollution. He stared at the two children before him, the ravenous paparazzi all around, and he couldn’t help thinking of his former life in Arizona.
He thought of his Hollywood-raised son left at home behind safely locked gates, the son of his marriage to the actress Tawnee—Tawnee with “no last name, like Cher.” His son had a tutor; he’d never attended a school, public or private, because Tawnee—formerly May Harrison—was always on location. Virgil was continually working so he could afford Travis’s nanny and expensive tutor...and pay for top-notch bodyguards, since Tawnee’s famous son had stalkers, too. In the meantime, he dragged Travis all over the world so the boy could visit his mother at various shooting locations, visits that occurred all too rarely. Travis was weary, Virgil even more so, yet still he continued to work.
For what? So his son could grow up in a town like this?
He thought of his brothers, Wyatt and Morgan, and their wives back in Arizona. They all knew the difference between real love and some sick obsession. He remembered the clean, dry desert air, the freedom of vast spaces. He pictured the family ranch, the Silver Dollar, where car doors were never locked, and even the youngest children were safe. He visualized his niece, lovingly tended by family instead of paid baby-sitters, schooled in town with other happy children like herself.
He—Virgil Earp Bodine—had given all that up so Travis could have a few lousy minutes with his mother. If her photographers didn’t get in his way.
May was a rarity, a truly talented woman who was honest and honorable. While she loved Virgil, she hadn’t wanted children at this stage—or any stage—in her career. She’d always been straightforward and open about that. But she’d become pregnant anyway, for him—a great sacrifice for a woman who didn’t want children, but an even greater one for an actress who played single-woman, action-adventure roles.
Virgil knew it was unfair to ask her to be a parent, let alone a full-time mate. He should never have married her thinking he could change her mind; he should have known better. Inevitably, they’d decided their marriage wouldn’t work. So May continued loving Travis and Virgil from afar as husband and wife filed for an amicable divorce. Virgil hadn’t found any of it easy, although he’d managed to adjust.
But life doesn’t have to be so confusing for my son.
Long before Virgil called the police, administered first aid, called the girl’s parents via their lawyer, pointed out the watery location of the boy’s weapon to the police and chased off the paparazzi...
Before he comforted Chrissie and gave her the phone number of the crackerjack counselor he’d used for Travis after the divorce...
Before he directed the ambulance in and contacted his own lawyer for eighteen-year-old Mitchell Gibson, then held the stalker’s hand while they lifted him onto the stretcher...
Before he did any of these things...
Virgil Earp Bodine had made up his mind.
I’m going home.
DESIREE HARTLAN DRUMMED her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of her sedan. She was circling the Phoenix terminal of Arizona’s Sky Harbor Airport for the seventh time. The passengers she was picking up were late, and she wasn’t sure if she should park and inquire inside or circle again.
Yesterday had been her last night at her Phoenix home. Desiree was leaving the city behind to stay at the Silver Dollar Ranch, home of her sister, Caro Hartlan, and brother-in-law, Wyatt Earp Bodine. She’d stay with them for a few months, then—if things worked out in Tombstone—she’d find a place of her own.
Even though she was driving there, she’d ended up at the airport. That was because she’d received a call from Caro the night before.
“I know you’re busy packing, sis, but I have a big favor to ask.”
“Sure. How can I help?”
“I need you to pick up Virgil and Travis. They’re flying in tomorrow.”
Caro was pretty good about keeping Desiree informed of family doings. Had she missed something? Virgil, Wyatt’s oldest brother, rarely flew home. “What’s the occasion?”
“A big one, it see
ms. Virgil called this morning and said he’s having his car and his things shipped home—he and Travis are back for good.”
Desiree whistled. “Wow. Talk about short notice—and on a Labor Day weekend, too.”
“That’s the problem, Ray.” Caro used the family nickname—the pronunciation of the last syllable of Desiree. It had been coined by their father at her birth, when he called Desiree his “little ray of sunshine.” Caro went on. “All the flights into Tucson are booked solid because of the holiday and some big golfing tournament,” she explained. “The rental cars, too. Virgil managed to get a flight into Phoenix, but he doesn’t want to buy bus tickets. Travis is sick.”
“Poor kid.”
“He could always hire a cab, I suppose, but that’s so expensive, and since you’re coming here, anyway... Do you think you could possibly swing by Sky Harbor and pick them up? I know this is last minute, but it would save us a trip.”
A long trip, at that; Tucson was a two-hour drive from Tombstone, and Phoenix’s airport was another two-hour drive from Tucson.
“No problem, Caro. Is Virgil going to call you back?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell him to meet me outside. I’ll time it so I won’t have to park.”
“Let me give you the flight info, then. But wouldn’t you rather meet them at the gate?”
She's The Sheriff (Superromance Series No 787) Page 1
