She's The Sheriff (Superromance Series No 787)

by Duquette, Anne Marie

“I’m glad you feel that way, husband. Let Virgil and Ray fight for the vote—or anything else-without our interference.”

  “Agreed. Still...I wish I could be there when Virgil shows up.”

  “Morgan Earp Bodine, shame on you!” But her grin showed that her feelings were the same as his.

  VIRGIL DROVE with open windows, the blast of an air conditioner missing for the first time in months. It had been ages since he’d been home in clean desert air, ages since he’d last smelled the tarry aroma of creosote bushes and the tartness of sage, seen the green bark of the mesquite trees or driven past the mighty saguaro, the Arizona state tree and keystone for all desert life.

  In coastal California you could only see for miles if you looked out toward the ocean. The land was covered with buildings and apartments and more buildings and more apartments to house the throng of humanity that lived and worked in southern California. But here in the desert, he had room. He could drive without worrying about other drivers, their beeping horns, rude gestures, cellular phone conversations. He could forget about rush-hour traffic and drive-by shootings.

  It’s good to be back Damn good It’s time Travis had a real home.

  Virgil drove in a leisurely fashion, enjoying the San Pedro valley and mountains, a sight he’d grown up with. Even Boothill, the graveyard with its stark white tombstones, brought back memories of school field trips. The docent had told of soldiers warning Edward Schieffelin that he’d never find gold. The only thing he’d find would be a tombstone, courtesy of the Apaches. But Schieffelin struck it rich on a mountain of silver that became first the claim, then the town of Tombstone. The mountain would eventually pay out eighty-five million dollars to local inhabitants.

  What a joy to be home! Virgil drove up Fremont Street, where City Hall was located, and turned a block south onto historic Allen Street. It had been so long since he’d seen the 1880 Oriental, Wyatt Earp’s hangout, now a Southwestern jewelry shop, or the Crystal Palace, Old Tombstone’s most popular meeting place. Or Big Nose Kate’s Saloon and restaurant, named after Doc Holliday’s fearless girlfriend. Even the building that housed the Tombstone Visitors’ Center looked good to him.

  But first on his list of places to revisit was the O.K. Corral. There, the three Earp brothers, sons of a St. Louis judge, and Doc Holliday, ex-dentist, fought the Cowboys, the West’s first large-scale organized crime ring. The Cowboys were almost one hundred strong during Tombstone’s silver boom days. They were crooked cattlemen, drifters and fugitives who committed crimes with impunity-and with the protection of a corrupt political system, which included Tombstone’s courts. There, in the Old West’s most famous corral, the battle for justice by four men against one hundred began in earnest.

  The O.K. Corral summed up the whole history of Tombstone’s commitment to truth, justice and the enforcement of law. After the Bodine homestead, it was Virgil’s favorite spot in the world. He was older than his brothers and remembered his mother taking him there for the very first time.

  She never had to pay the docent for admission, nor did anyone else in the family. It was at the O.K. Corral that Sarah-Jo Bodine, named after Wyatt’s last wife, Josephine Sarah Marcus Earp, revealed the Bodines’ connection to the Earps, a connection the history books had no record of but local townsfolk had suspected for some time. It was at the O.K. that Virgil had shared that connection with his younger brothers when they were mature enough to keep the secret. It was there that all three of them had decided to become lawmen.

  Virgil could hardly contain his excitement. It was Monday morning, early enough to have the whole place to himself. The Corral should be deserted—but it wasn’t.

  What on earth is going on? He slowed his ranch vehicle, amazed at all the people crowded around the front entrance. He hadn’t seen so many locals since the last time he was in town for a Fourth of July weekend. Virgil frowned. I’// be lucky to find a place to park without a long hike into the Corral. He didn’t mind hiking, but he’d figured he’d left parking headaches behind in L.A. Minutes later, he locked the truck doors—something he did from years of big-city living—slammed the door behind him and started toward the crowd.

  Hope no one’s hurt, he thought, his mind kicking into lawman mode. He picked up his pace, his off-white loafers raising beige puffs of dust as he hurried down the street. The crowds were tight. Many of the locals didn’t even notice him at first, their attention focused on someone near a Silver Dollar pickup truck. And then...he saw the crowd’s draw.

  Black, form-fitting dress slacks outlined female curves. Black boots added height and stature to a woman who was much shorter than he. The jacket was stark beneath the straight sleekness of her blond hair, the white silk of the blouse snug against a nicely proportioned bust. Damned if she wasn’t wearing a black Stetson and string tie!

  A silver concha belt—authentic Native American craftsmanship, no cheap costume piece, he could tell—was her only decoration. It was cinched around a trim waist and defined her figure even beneath the conservative black jacket.

  That can’t be Caro’s Shirley Temple of a sister, can it? Not... Desiree?

  He made his way through the crowds to get closer. Before him was that silly lapdog of hers, posing on the lowered tailgate of Caro’s pickup. A dog wearing an election banner? Hell’s bells, it’s a T-shirt! Now I’ve seen everything!

  But he hadn’t. The majority of the people weren’t fussing over the dog. Their attention was on the dog’s owner, who stood quietly, one boot heel resting on the tire, the other hand absently playing with the dog’s ears. Her voice rang strong and true, carrying on the clear desert air.

  “The way I see it, our legal system has failed us. Criminals receive a slap on the wrist, a short sentence, and they’re back in the community. That’s if the suspects even make it to court at all. The blue-collar class consistently gets convicted and jailed, while the well-to-do white-collar rich hire tricky lawyers and walk free. It’s bad enough that the poor and minorities are usually denied the best lawyers. But a lot of women are neglected, as well.”

  The crowd’s women murmured their assent.

  “The legislative body of the United States of America has repeatedly failed to sanction, let alone pass, the Equal Employment Opportunity Amendment to the Constitution. Except for federal positions, women in this country are routinely—and legally—paid wages one-third to one-half less than men’s for the same jobs. Not only that, criminals seem to have more rights than their female victims! Crimes against women aren’t always prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

  Virgil could remain silent no longer. “They would be, if women had more trust in the legal system. Justice is for all citizens, rich or poor, men or women.”

  The crowd recognized him, then parted as he walked toward her. Virgil continued speaking. “Vigilantes went out with—”

  “The buffalo?”

  “Single-shot pistols under Stetsons,” he went on.

  Desiree tipped her Stetson back on her head with her forefinger, gestured toward him and introduced him to the crowd. “Mr. Virgil Bodine, ladies and gentlemen—my worthy opponent for the elected position of sheriff of Tombstone.”

  “We know who he is. Welcome back, Virg. Purtycolored turista shirt you’re wearin’. Brings out them baby blues of yours.” An elderly man with a waxed white mustache snickered.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chilton.” Virgil gave the Bodines’ family friend, Catfish Chilton, also husband of Marta, the sheriff’s dispatcher, a tolerant smile. “But I’m not here to discuss wardrobe. The position of sheriff—a position I’ve held before, I might add—requires a candidate who knows and obeys the law.” He switched his attention back to Desiree. “Who will make certain to enforce the law for everyone.”

  “Too many women have reason not to trust the law, Mr. Bodine. That’s why they own knives and dogs.” She gestured toward Oscar. “Why they buy mace and carry guns. To protect themselves and their children.”

  Oh, no, you don’t. I’
m not going to be caught so easily. “So what you’re saying is, if the justice system doesn’t deliver what a citizen decides is justice, then that citizen has the right to make his own laws? Which, in effect, break existing laws?”

  “I feel every citizen, law enforcement included, must follow his or her conscience.”

  Our lawyer here is a careful one with her words. “So you’re saying anyone can be judge, jury and executioner if his or her conscience says it’s okay?”

  The crowd murmured among themselves, then waited for her answer. Let’s see you wriggle out of this one. “Yes or no, Ms. Hartlan?” Virgil prodded.

  The sun above the O.K. Corral’s entrance was hot and oppressive, the silence as tense as if this were an Old Tombstone shoot-out. When Desiree spoke, her voice was harsh.

  “Here’s my answer. I’m running for office to protect all citizens. But I’m also running as a woman, to protect women. As sheriff, I vow to handle all women’s calls—from complaints to emergencies—with the same attention paid to men’s. That includes domestic violence. Especially domestic violence. Women and children deserve protection. They also deserve preventive measures so the law doesn’t have to step in after the fact.” She paused, but because of emotion, not for effect.

  “I never want to see another clever lawyer setting a guilty man—or woman—free,” Desiree went on. “Tombstone is small, but it’s a growing arts center. A lot of tourists visit every year. We can’t afford a small-town mentality anymore. And we can’t afford small-town complacency from our law force. That’s why I’m running, Mr. Bodine. Not to promote vigilantism. This is Tombstone, not seventeenth-century Salem.”

  “Or Phoenix?” His accusation lay out in the open.

  The hand holding the dog’s leash shook, but her voice did not. The woman in black remained dry-eyed.

  “Those of you who read the newspapers know what Mr. Bodine refers to. I went out of my way to make life miserable for the man who attacked my friend. Mr. Bodine now asks a legitimate question. Would I do it again?”

  Silence from the crowd.

  She sure wants to deal with this, Virgil thought.

  “When you go to the polls to vote, ask yourself this. Who do you want as sheriff? Someone who’s seen firsthand the results of crime and violence—who’s even more motivated to prevent it? Or a man who’s spent the past ten years selling his skills to the highest bidder?”

  There wasn’t a sound as Desiree lifted the little dog and put him inside the truck through its open window.

  “Think about it.” She opened her own door, but before climbing in, Desiree Hartlan saluted the people of Tombstone.

  She touched her thumb and forefinger to her hat brim. The gesture wasn’t staged or phony. It was a mark of respect from a would-be sheriff to the town she wanted to protect, a mark that established her as one who valued justice.

  There wasn’t a man or woman in the crowd who didn’t recognize it.

  Including Virgil Earp Bodine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TOWNSPEOPLE CROWDED into Schieffelin Hall, waiting for the election results to be announced. Right now, the last of the votes were being counted. The voters had turned out in droves, as had the media from Tombstone, Tucson and even faraway Phoenix to cover the event. The hall was filled to capacity, with overflow spilling out into the parking lot.

  There hadn’t been a non-Bodine in office for decades! Nor had there ever been a female sheriff. The town was hotly divided into various factions. Men versus women. Those who favored youth versus people who preferred experience. Bodine supporters versus those who wanted new blood. Conservatives versus liberals. Even the Bodine family was divided.

  Desiree wasn’t surprised to find her sister, Caro, supporting her. But no one, not even Caro, expected Morgan Bodine to support Desiree, too.

  “I haven’t decided who I’m voting for,” Morgan had said. Desiree, however, had overheard him telling Virgil that “a little change never hurt anyone.” He’d gone on to say, “You told all of us you wanted to spend more time with Travis. Seems to me taking on the job of sheriff isn’t going to help with that.” That was what he’d said privately. Publicly, the family refused to go on record, but Desiree knew that Wyatt and Jasentha were backing Virgil.

  Even the Tombstone Epitaph, the newspaper that had chronicled the town’s history for more than a century, refused to call the election. The candidates themselves hadn’t a clue. The whole town knew the election could go either way. Now, here it was—the moment of truth.

  On the left side of the hall were Desiree’s supporters. On the right were Virgil’s. At a table in the center sat the candidates. Surprisingly—at least to the crowd—the two had no family with them. Although Caro had helped with Desiree’s campaign, the Bodine women refused to enter the media hoopla on voting day. Caro for reasons of health, and Jasentha because, pregnant or not, she wasn’t comfortable with crowds and public scrutiny. Both of them had stayed home tonight. Wyatt had campaigned for Virgil but preferred to stand at the back of the room with Morgan. “We don’t want to influence the voters in any way,” they had said.

  The only person at Virgil’s side was his opponent.

  It was time to be gracious about her upcoming defeat, Virgil decided. He pushed his water glass safely aside and leaned toward Desiree.

  “I’ll ask you to join me as deputy when the results are announced,” he said into her ear.

  Desiree, dressed once again in Tombstone’s traditional black—a direct contrast to his pale Armani suit—smiled. “What makes you think you’ll win?”

  “Be realistic, Desiree! Your own sister would’ve voted for me if she wasn’t related to you. Maybe she did anyway.”

  “You don’t know that.” Caro would never tell anyone how she voted, not even if I asked her—which I wouldn’t. We respect each other’s privacy.

  “I know she didn’t approve of how you handled the Jondell case.”

  True, Caro hadn’t condoned Desiree’s actions, even if she’d understood her motives. Caro was much like Wyatt and Virgil, deeply committed to the law. She’d insisted to Desiree that “Your work and your life would be safer if you’d followed the rules instead of playing leak-the-evidence.”

  Desiree frowned. “She approves of me running for sheriff or she wouldn’t have helped me get on the ballot. I’m looking at the big picture here, not just my sister’s vote. I suggest you do the same.”

  Virgil frowned this time. “Leave family out of this.”

  “You brought it up, Mr. Bodyguard.”

  “That’s Bodine, and I’m talking about the good of the town. Tell me you’ll accept the position of deputy if I ask.”

  Desiree found a camera trained on her and smiled. The flash went off before she answered, “I might. Will you do the same for me?”

  “You’re not going to win,” Virgil muttered. Another photographer appeared, and it was Virgil’s turn to pose, although his expression of congeniality looked rather forced to Desiree.

  “But if I do win, will you?” she pressed.

  “You want me, an experienced lawman, to take orders from you, a rookie cop?”

  Desiree deliberately echoed his earlier statement. “I’m talking about the good of the town here. Tombstone appreciates your expertise, Virgil. So do I.”

  “If that was true, you wouldn’t have opposed me for sheriff. In the rare event that you pull this off, you’re on your own. You wanted the job, you handle the job. Don’t expect me to hold your hand if you win. Which you won’t.”

  Hmm. Holding hands with Virgil—kind of a nice thought. But she’d want more than that from a man. Not this man, though. Too bad his personality wasn’t as appealing as his looks.

  Desiree lifted her chin and smiled again as more reporters came up to fire questions. She answered them with ease—as did Virgil. He had a power, a presence that she recognized, for she had it herself. You couldn’t be an effective prosecuting lawyer—or a good lawman—without it.

  But I want
the job to help the town, to make a difference, Desiree thought. Virgil wants it because of pride. He wasn’t financially forced to work. As the newspaper had reported, he’d quit a lucrative career as a bodyguard to the stars to get “back to his roots.” It was an effective campaign ploy, to be sure, but Desiree wasn’t impressed. Virgil wasn’t hungry for the job; he had it easy with a whole family of Bodine kin and money in the bank. Really, just how important was the title of sheriff?

  Not as important as winning this election is to me. I don’t know what he’s trying to prove, but ex-sheriff Virgil Earp Bodine is not doing it at my expense.

  “Your nose is shiny,” Virgil said with a wicked grin. “And those worry lines don’t make for good photos.”

  Desiree had just opened her mouth to answer when she saw the mayor of Tombstone enter the room. At the same time, the phones started ringing. That could mean only one thing.

  The results were in!

  Desiree and Virgil stood at the same time. The cameras started flashing, video cameras started taping, and the crowd’s noise level rose, then tapered off into silence. The mayor slowly climbed to the top of the steps, clearly enjoying the moment.

  “Thank you, ladies and gents. I’m pleased to be here, pleased to be with the fine people of Tombstone on this election night. I hope you all voted, for the right to vote is a valuable privilege, indeed, one that our forefathers...”

  Desiree stifled a groan. Spare me the speeches—especially politicians’ speeches.

  Ten minutes later, everyone in the hall felt as restless and impatient as she—except, apparently, Virgil. He sat in his chair, no tension evident in his posture, his expression one of triumphant anticipation.

  He thinks he’s going to win, Desiree despaired. If this really is an old boys’ club, then I’m sunk. Come on, Mr. Mayor, get this over with, already. Make it official! Who wins?

  The crowd became noisy, and someone finally yelled good-naturedly, “Quit yammering, Mayor! I gotta go to work tomorrow!” Others chimed in their agreement, and the mayor, a born politician with good timing, knew his moment in the spotlight was over.