Anne Marie Duquette Read online

  He’d seen the clear Arizona stars thousands of times. After all, he was Arizona born and raised. But he needed tonight’s peaceful twilight as much as he needed the breather before Caro Hartlan arrived at the ranch.

  Kim had called to say they’d be late; she had some unspecified business to take care of before she could lead Caro to the ranch. Meanwhile Caro had eaten dinner in Tombstone. By herself, he supposed—he felt a little guilty about that. Still, she should be on her way by now.

  Wyatt hooked a boot heel on the railing and continued to gaze over his ranch. Like the town of Tombstone, he was a blend of contradictions. Wyatt E. Bodine was the son and grandson of a cattle rancher, yet he was highly intrigued by the law. He’d received his education mostly from the outdoors, books, and the greatest teacher of all—experience.

  He had a bachelor’s degree in criminology and law enforcement, but he’d obtained it through the college’s television and correspondence courses. The thought of sitting inside for four years had been abhorrent to him, but the thought of not getting into law had been worse. Maybe his destiny was in his name….

  Wyatt had studied hard, breezing through any requirement tests demanded of him with perfect scores. That, and his sharp grasp of human nature, had earned him offers to work anywhere in the state of Arizona. But after a successful five-year stretch with the Tucson Drug Enforcement Agency, working the Arizona-Mexico border, Wyatt had chosen to pass up promotion, leave the DEA and come home.

  This ranch, just outside Tombstone, was home. It was where he and his two brothers were born, and where his parents had lived out their long, full lives. They, like Wyatt and Morgan, loved the Old West heritage of their little town, so much so that their sons were named after three of the six Earp brothers—the three lawmen.

  Morgan, Wyatt, and Virgil Bodine were brought up on horseback. They were blessed with the wide-open spaces of the Southwest. They also enjoyed the amenities of modern Tombstone. Wyatt had chosen to keep the town safe for its ranchers, miners and thriving colony of artists, while Morgan had found he was as skillful as a silversmith as he was as a rancher. If there was a sad note, it was only that Virgil had left Arizona for the bright lights back East right after Wyatt had run for election and won.

  The Silver Dollar Ranch was the one place where Wyatt always felt a sense of belonging, a sense of home. But until today, until he met Caro Hartlan, he’d never realized how lonely a big ranch run by two bachelors could be. He hadn’t noticed it during sunset, when his mind was absorbed by the sky’s beauty as orange changed to brilliant red, then streaks of pink darted in and out of the dark purple horizon. He hadn’t noticed it while he did evening chores on the ranch, either.

  But now, with the work done, and the horses seen to and night upon him, now was the time he felt lonely. The lower the desert sun had fallen, the more Wyatt’s world had seemed to shrink down to immediate sensation—until there was just the clean air of the desert in his lungs and the warm feel of the fence rails against his body. And a starry sky that belonged to lovers, not to him.

  At least he had his burning passion for the law. The only person Wyatt was harder on than lawbreakers was himself. He’d sworn a sacred oath to protect his town, to uphold the law, and today he’d almost failed in that duty. Would have failed, if a certain woman with mocha-colored hair and dark eyes hadn’t stood up to him.

  Even his own brothers had never dared cross him the way she had. But Caro Hartlan had spoken her mind, proved him wrong—and entranced him in the process. He was grateful for her offer of help. And he’d been touched by her sharing that youthful memory. If only he hadn’t looked like such a rube in front of her and Kimberly, so willing to take the situation at face value. ‘Wyatt vowed to redeem himself in Caro’s eyes.

  He surprised himself so much that his boot heel slipped off the fence rung. Caro? He’d meant to say the townspeople. And his coworker, Kimberly. But somehow Kimberly faded into the background beside the tall, determined woman he’d just met. He remembered the obstinate jut to Caro’s chin, the intelligence in her eyes, the facts she’d rattled off rapid-fire. She’d corrected him, brushed off Kimberly’s rude protests and hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  And that wasn’t counting the way her blouse and jeans had outlined a trim yet unmistakably feminine body. She didn’t have carefully coiffed hair and makeup or creamyskinned daintiness like Kimberly. But Dr. Hartlan had a strength he recognized and respected. Caro Hartlan, mind and body, was more exciting than a bag full of bobcats.

  I wonder if she has the same claws, too—out of bed or in it. Might be interesting to find out.

  Still at the fence, he noticed Kimberly’s Jeep pass the long driveway approaching the house. Finally. A second vehicle—Dr. Hartlan’s—turned into the driveway and drove slowly toward him. It would be the first time she’d seen Bodine land, the first time she’d see his horses. Wyatt wondered what she thought of his home.

  WHAT A GREAT PLACE! Caro thought as she turned her car into Bodine land. There was a sense of history, an air of authenticity about the Bodines’ Arabian-horse ranch. This was the real West with visible roots. She sighed in pleasure.

  A traditional wooden gate stood high above the driveway and main entrance to the ranch. Ancient teddy bear cacti, many of the clusters easily six feet high, formed ragged rings around the base of the gatepost. In carefully hand-carved letters stood a weathered but still serviceable sign announcing the name of the ranch. Caro read the words aloud. “The Silver Dollar.”

  Underneath and to the right of the weathered sign hung a smaller, modern one with the ranch address, phone number and the words “Arabian horses for sale. Wyatt Earp Bodine, Proprietor.”

  Caro felt an ages-old longing for her own land, her own property. Somehow her rented condo in Phoenix seemed lacking as she took in pastures full of horses on the right, huge barns on the left and the main ranch complex dead ahead in the distance. Too bad it was dark and she was driving. She’d love to stroll up the long, cultured path unevenly bordered by high saguaro and occasional cottonwoods. Maybe tomorrow, in the brilliant light of the desert day.

  This place had an easy, settled feeling that only familyowned, lovingly tended ranches possessed. Caro drank in the sights and sounds and smells of horses through her open car window, delighting in the clean desert air.

  A few youngsters, frisky in the cool evening, ran alongside her car, racing her vehicle. Long legs flashed behind the fence railings, while manes and tails streamed in youthful exuberance.

  Maybe postponing my vacation isn’t such a terrible thing, after all, Caro told herself. Maybe I’ll get some riding in. Like many Phoenix residents who didn’t own horses, she’d still done a lot of riding, mostly as a child; in the desert horses were plentiful and hourly rates cheap. She had little time for riding now, but suddenly the longing for those open, carefree rides hit her hard.

  That, and the longing to settle down with a man in a home of her own. A longing she only occasionally admitted. Then she noticed the sheriff leaning against a pasture fence.

  He was still. Quiet. She knew he’d heard her car—knew he’d seen the two vehicles, hers and Kimberly’s, drive up. But he didn’t wave or make any other acknowledgment of her arrival. She watched him continue to stare out at the horses in the distance.

  I wonder what he’s thinking, she mused, driving past him toward the circular driveway.

  I’ve got a lousy feeling about this case, Wyatt thought. Despite his long-sleeved shirt, he felt a strange chill as the moon appeared from behind the mountains. As a keen observer of the human condition and a brutally honest man, he suspected Dr. Caro Hartlan had discovered more than just some old bones.

  And for the life of him, he didn’t know whether that was good…or bad.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thursday, early morning

  SUNRISE WAS STILL a half hour off, but in the coolness of the predawn air at The Silver Dollar Ranch, Wyatt and Morgan were just finishing their morning chores at the s
tables. Wyatt was hurrying because he hadn’t had much time to talk to Caro last night. He’d seen her pass him in the driveway, then his beeper had gone off. Five minutes later he’d headed out to take care of a rowdy drunk at one of the local campgrounds.

  Morgan had shown Caro Hartlan to her room last night. Wyatt wasn’t happy about that. He wanted to find out what made the lady tick. But last night the law had come first; this morning, feeding the horses did.

  “I’ve given the ranch hands their assignments for the day,” Wyatt informed Morgan. “And I’ll be off the ranch, so if there’re any problems with the horses—”

  “I’ll be in my workshop,” Morgan interjected. “Luciano knows where to find me.”

  “So does half this town. You and your jewelry.”

  “Hey, if silversmithing is good enough for all those Native American men, it’s good enough for me. Besides, the ladies love it.”

  Wyatt grinned as he walked the last of the brood mares out of the stable and toward the desert pastures. Morgan was right. Many women did love dating a man who owned and operated a trendy jewelry establishment. In addition to creating his own work, Morgan cultivated talented local artists, many of them Native American, to stock his store.

  Which was a good thing, as Morgan’s own work hadn’t really caught on with either the locals or the tourists. Wyatt thought it nice enough; he proudly wore a turquoise-and-silver belt buckle of Morgan’s creation. But then, jewelry wasn’t his specialty, although it was fast becoming Morgan’s.

  Women did enjoy his big glass showcases. But it was Morgan’s ready smile, easy laugh and ability to charm the rattle off a rattler that made him one of Tombstone’s most popular bachelors.

  Wyatt, on the other hand, was much more serious, less approachable, and unlike his brother, didn’t indulge in light flirtations. He was an all-or-nothing kind of man, and not just with women, either. When he did something, he either gave it one hundred percent or he didn’t do it at all. Period. And the law came first.

  Which meant he’d have to solve this case fast if he wanted a chance to learn about this woman.

  Who, he noticed with surprise, was up, dressed and unloading her car trunk. He’d expected her to be a city nine-to-fiver, not an up-with-the-chickens type like him.

  Wyatt opened the gate to the pasture, unfastened the mare’s lead and gave her a pat on the rump. It was all she needed to canter away toward the herd. She certainly was graceful, Wyatt thought fondly as he secured the pasture gate. And so was the woman.

  He watched Caro for a few seconds unobserved. She moved lithely and with a lovely efficiency of motion. Such gracefulness was something you either had or you didn’t. It couldn’t be taught.

  She didn’t look as if she needed any help at all unloading her equipment. Of course, that wasn’t going to stop him from going over and offering, and maybe getting to know her better. He told himself it was because he didn’t like working with strangers, and last night’s effort at conversation had been cut short.

  Now’s the time, he thought. His long strides took him swiftly to where she was parked on the circular gravel driveway in front of the ranch house.

  “Good morning,” he said. Automatically his hand reached for the brim of his hat—which, however, he wasn’t wearing in the predawn darkness. He stopped himself, but not quickly enough, judging by the woman’s amused expression.

  “Let me guess. You’re General Patton, and I’m the troops,” she said with a saucy curve of her lips. “Sorry, but I’m not into saluting. If I was, I would’ve joined the military.”

  Wyatt hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Caro reminded him of a green-broke horse. He couldn’t tell exactly where he stood with her.

  “Can I give you a hand, ma’am?” he asked politely, testing the waters.

  Caro stopped what she was doing. “First of all, you can stop calling me ma’am,” she said with a smile. “My name’s Caro if you’re feeling friendly. Dr. Hartlan if you’re a wait-and-see kind of guy. As for your offer, thanks but I’m all set.”

  “You have three pieces, but only two hands. Let me help you.”

  “Thanks again, but no.” She turned away from him and went back to her task. “I already took my clothes up to my room last night,” she explained. “These pieces aren’t luggage. They’re a state-of-the-art microscope with interface and the computer that goes with it.”

  “They must’ve cost a small fortune.”

  “You’d better believe it. I’m still learning all the software.”

  “Well, if you want, I can take your kit there, instead.” He gestured toward a large toolbox arrangement with wheels at the base and a carrying handle on top.

  “I’d rather do that myself. It contains my field tools and chemicals.”

  Caro removed the last of her pieces from the trunk and slammed it closed. Wyatt’s long-ingrained Western sense of chivalry was definitely affronted now.

  “I doubt you’ll be able to get everything in the house in one trip,” he argued.

  “I’ll manage just fine.”

  “They look awfully heavy.”

  “They are, but I’m used to it. See?” Caro hefted the computer under one arm, grabbed the microscope case with that same hand, then lifted the toolbox with her opposite hand.

  Wyatt wasn’t ready to give up, especially with the ranch help watching her load up like a pack mule while he stood there gawking. Men were solicitous of women in the Southwest. That was one convention that hadn’t changed over the years. “Don’t be ridiculous, Doctor. Let me.” He started to relieve her of the toolbox, but she yanked it away from him. Suddenly her eyes sparked fire.

  “I don’t appreciate being called ridiculous for any reason, let alone carrying my own possessions. I can look after myself. And for your information, I don’t like other people messing with my tools.”

  “I was just trying to help. A logical person would’ve accepted my offer. Even appreciated it,” he said stiffly.

  “Really? Let me ask you something. Do you let total strangers ride your horses? Or clean your gun?”

  Wyatt froze. She had him there, and they both knew it. At least she didn’t belabor the point.

  “I see we understand one another,” she said quietly. “Let me put these away, grab what I need, then meet you out here again. It shouldn’t take me longer than ten minutes. I want to get to work removing the skeleton.” She started toward the house, but not without a final polite smile. “I hate unsolved murders—no matter how old they are. And my time is valuable.”

  “That ten minutes would be five if you got off that high horse of yours,” he said with a smile as polite as hers.

  “Don’t worry. I can make it in five all by myself. Just for you.” Her eyes twinkled.

  Wyatt was speechless. Was she teasing him? Flirting with him? What? After Kimberly’s forthright attentions, Caro’s subtlety was hard to read. It was irritating, infuriating—and downright exciting.

  He gazed after her as she headed toward the screen doors at the main entrance. Ordinarily he would have hurried ahead of her to open the door, but the lady had made it quite clear she could take care of herself. I won’t open the door unless she asks me.

  She didn’t. Caro reached the screen door, angled around to pop open the latch with one graceful swing of her hip, then quickly caught the door with the toe of her boot. Another swish of her hip and she was inside, equipment and all. Well, she was right about taking care of herself, Wyatt thought with grudging admiration.

  Admiration for her spirit, not those shapely hips, he told himself firmly. Well, maybe those, too. He continued to study the house even after the door banged shut. It wasn’t until his foreman, Luciano, passed him and spoke that Wyatt was startled out of his thrall.

  “You know, boss, you could’ve given the a hand.”

  “I tried!” Wyatt immediately said, uncharacteristically on the defensive with the man who’d served both his father and him. “She wouldn’t have any of it.”

&
nbsp; Luciano’s wise old eyes reproached him. He was more family than employee, and Wyatt correctly suspected that Luciano was about to speak his mind.

  “Maybe you should’ve asked more friendlylike. She’s a guest. And she looks like a nice lady.”

  “I’ve met nicer,” he couldn’t help adding, his ego piqued.

  “Then why are you staring at her window?”

  Wyatt whirled around, annoyed to be caught searching for a glimpse of the woman. “I wasn’t staring.”

  Luciano lifted one heavy shoulder in a shrug and deliberately reverted back to employee behavior. “If you say so, boss. But you know, things aren’t always what they seem.”

  As Wyatt watched him walk away, he couldn’t help thinking, You’re telling me.

  THE SUNRISE WAS a beautiful sight to behold, Caro decided as she sat next to Wyatt in one of his ranch trucks. She’d had a good night’s sleep and a cup of strong coffee at The Silver Dollar Ranch and felt fresh and alert, alert enough to enjoy what she usually took for granted. Somehow the blazing sun seemed more primitive, more glorious, framed by desert mountains, instead of Phoenix high rises.

  She rolled down her window, letting in the fleeting freshness of cool morning air, and inhaled deeply. It was moments like this she’d learned to savor, moments like this she locked away in her memory like gold in a safe. But these moments were more valuable to her than mere gold, for she could withdraw them when the terrible realities of her job threatened to drag her into depression.

  They made the drive in silence, with Caro reflecting on the oddness of the situation. They were about to visit a nameless, guarded skeleton in a cemetery—Boothill, no less. She made no attempt to initiate conversation; neither did Wyatt. Not that she found the silence a hardship. It was companionable, relaxed, a fair trade for talk.

  Caro took in another deep breath and sighed with pleasure. So far, she couldn’t really complain. The skeleton was old, the crime scene untouched. No sobbing families were present, anxiously waiting for her to end their tortured suspense. Better yet, the victim was an adult, not a child. Child-murder cases were the hardest on Caro. Only someone in her line of work could really understand how sick, how depraved, how monstrous, some people could be.