In The Arms Of The Law

By Anne Marie Duquette

Home on the Ranch

By the author of She Caught the Sheriff

The Silver Dollar Ranch, near Tombstone, Arizona

Morgan Bodine takes pride in two things: being a rancher and being a lawman. He's part owner of the Silver Dollar Ranch; he's also Tombstone's acting sheriff.

Jasentha Cliffwalker is proud of her Apache heritage. And she's proud of her work as a biologist. Jaz is living on Bodine land; in fact, she grew up on the Bodine ranch, where her father still works. Jasentha, who's become something of a recluse for reasons she won't discuss, has devoted her life to studying and protecting the bats that live in the Silver Dollar's caves.

Years ago Morgan and Jasentha were in love but it was a love they weren't ready for. Are they ready now?

They'll find out when a stranger comes to Tombstone, threatening everything they value most .

"Anne Marie Duquette's romantic thrillers are truly thrilling, full of exciting action and suspense."
Tess Gerritsen, author of Harvest

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460872932

Anne Marie Duquette

Anne Marie, daughter of a native Colorado wilderness expert, granddaughter of a Rocky Mountain miner, wife of a man with Native American blood, and a silversmith who works with turquoise and jade, has always been in love with the great Southwest. Having shared the same home as the Anasazi, Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, the "unsinkable" Molly Brown, "Doc" Holliday, and Geronimo, Anne Marie feels preserving the Southwest's history is just as important as preserving the land and its wildlife. She started her writing career with her first sale to Harlequin in 1988, and is now a regular Superromance writer. A member of the local San Diego, California, chapter of Romance Writers of America and founding/past president and member of Florida's First Coast Romance Writers, Anne Marie also belongs to the Science Fiction Writers of America. Anne Marie is also a proud union member of the Writers Guild of America because of her sale of a Star Trek story to Paramount TV Studios. At home and hearth in Southern California, Anne Marie enjoys deep-sea boating and fishing with her retired U.S. Navy husband, being a Disneyland junkie with her high-school-student daughter and college-age son, and keeping her daughter's cat away from her four dogs - three of which have appeared in her books. (See her web site for a list of her novels that feature her pets!) Presently she continues work on her jewelry art degree, her science fiction, and screenplays. But Harlequin romance novels and her readership will always remain her first priority. She hopes you enjoy reading her stories as much as she loves writing them, and invites visitors to her web site at www.annemarieduq.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

TOMBSTONE'S JULY WIND blew blistering hot and desert-dry through the rugged mountains above the Silver Dollar Ranch, but the heat was the last thing on Jasentha Cliffwalker's mind. The injured bat in her hand, a juvenile with a bleeding wing, squirmed in her gloved palm.

Hey, baby, calm down! she urged in a quiet voice. I know it hurts, but let's see what we have here.

The little brown bat, its size and color giving the mammal its name, squirmed again. The poor creature was obviously in pain and—just as obviously—frightened.

There's nothing to be afraid of, she told it. Unless my dog's making you nervous. Jasentha looked up and saw her companion, a pitch-black German shepherd, suddenly appear from behind the desert rocks. He was poised to attack.

Striker! You're scaring my patient! Jasentha told him in Nidé. She spoke English and Spanish, as well, but Nidé—her native Athabaskan, the ancient Apache tongue—was the language the animal responded to best.

Down, boy! Jasentha commanded.

The young male, an abandoned ranch dog Jasentha had found half-starved a few years ago, didn't obey.

She was instantly on the alert. Who's out there, Striker? she whispered. Her brown eyes narrowed as she studied the landscape. Some animal—either two- or four-legged—was stalking them.

Jasentha shaded her eyes with one hand and peered beyond the roomy tent that was her year-round bedroom, office and pantry. She gazed past the simple cookstove outside, the line for drying laundry and the old wooden bench that functioned as chair or table, surveying the rocky shades of beige that surrounded her.

Where are you, stranger? And what are you doing here?

The desert was home to the desert bats—and the setting for her life's work as an ecologist. But danger could and did threaten. Like now.

Because of Striker, she rarely had trespassers. He guarded her and the campsite with intense devotion. Jasentha craved his company and valued his loyalty but also needed Striker for her work. Canines had fantastic hearing and were the only mammals capable of hearing most of the radar sounds bats made. Thanks to his intelligence and her training, Striker could easily locate single bats for study. And he could shred to bits anything that threatened her.

Striker?

The dog advanced protectively to her side, legs stiff. Jasentha rose to her feet, the bat still cradled in her hands. Who's there? Come out into the open! she demanded in fluent Spanish.

No answer. This was Tombstone, home of the Old West, where even now strangers were considered threats until proved otherwise.

She repeated her demand in English. Identify yourself or I won't heel the dog!

Jasentha slipped the bat upside down into one of her shirt pockets, making certain the clawed feet had secured themselves to the pocket top, then reached for the long knife inside her boot. Desert-raised Jasentha Cliffwalker was an expert in survival—especially her own.

She crouched, ready to defend, but the hair on the back of Striker's neck didn't bristle. Instead, his tail wagged, his nostrils wide open and scenting. Jasentha relaxed a little, but kept the knife in her hand. A few minutes later Striker launched himself through the air. His pounce deliberately landed short of his target; the deadly white teeth disappeared under the wildly licking tongue. Jasentha watched as her fiercelooking dog frolicked joyously around their visitor.

The man laughed, a sound that was both amused and triumphant. Down, you moose! And you, moose owner… He tipped back his Stetson with a callused forefinger. His gaze traveled from Jasentha's long black shining hair, cascading over her Western shirt, down to her jeans, boots, then to the knife in her hand.

You're slipping, Jasentha, he said in Apache. When we were kids you could hear me sneaking up at twice this distance—and without any dog to warn you, either.

Liar! Jasentha's welcoming smile took the sting from her words. She quickly checked to make sure the bat was still attached to her pocket, then slid her knife back into her boot. Morgan, you probably scared my patient to death!

But not you?

Never! Striker, you traitor, you could have told me earlier.

Striker whined his apology while the only other human whose familiarity he tolerated scratched his ears. But Jasentha's attention wasn't on her dog. It was on the lawman before her—Tombstone's acting sheriff, Morgan Earp Bodine.

Hello, Morg, she said in English, switching to his native language—not because he couldn't understand Spanish or Nidé, but out of habit. They'd been friends and classmates since childhood, and English was the language they'd grown up with in school.

Jasentha. Morgan touched his thumb and forefinger to the brim of his hat, the traditional mark of courtesy and respect from a man to a woman in the Southwest. It's a been a long time, he said with a smile.

Too long, Jasentha replied with a smile of her own.

Sorry I missed your last trip into town for supplies. He dropped his hand from his brim to scratch Striker's ears again. What's it been? Weeks? A month?

I don't know, but it's great to see you again. So, what's up?

Is this visit business or pleasure? He was wearing his uniform shirt with the sheriffs star and carrying his pearl-handled revolver, a Colt .45. This gun was an official law-enforcement firearm, a reminder of the Old West and the hard-edged men and women who'd survived in it.

I was in the area. Thought I'd stop by, say a quick hello. Can't stay long but— he shrugged and Jasentha felt a twinge of disappointment —duty calls.

Uh-oh. Does that mean something's wrong? Still, it couldn't be too serious. If any danger was pressing, Morgan would have said so.

Thanks for coming by, anyway. A real affection for Morgan and his family prompted her to ask, How's your sister-in-law doing?

Caro's hanging in there, I'm happy to say. But Wyatt's a nervous wreck. Morgan removed his hat by the crown—a true Westerner never used the brim—and dropped it onto her bench.

It's understandable, what with Caro's prenatal complications. Ever since that first hemorrhaging episode… Jasentha's voice trailed off, for Morgan himself had told her how Sheriff Wyatt Bodine had nearly lost both his wife and his child. And Tombstone, with its mere 1200 residents, had no major hospital.

Wyatt hasn't left his wife's side since. I don't know when he's coming back to work. He's been driving her back and forth to her specialist in Phoenix.

Why not Tucson? It's so much closer!

Caro's from Phoenix, remember? She wants her own doctor.

Well, you can't blame her for that.

No, but it seems they're up there more often than they're here. It's got to be hard—that long drive there and back.

It's worth it if Caro's complications are kept under control. She's only a month away from delivering. She'll end up with a healthy baby in her arms yet. Mother and child will be fine. You'll see.

If Wyatt doesn't drive the rest of us crazy before then. They both sat down on her bench, Morgan watching as she examined the bat. I understand his being worried about Caro. But he's worried about me taking over his job, and there's no reason for it.

Jasentha hid her grin at the pique in her friend's pride. Of course there isn't. Virgil and Wyatt were training you for chief deputy while you were practically still in grade school. If it was legal, you would've been doing the job years ago.

Try telling Wyatt that. He still thinks of me as the little brother.

At twenty-five, Morgan was the youngest of the three Bodine brothers who owned and ran the Silver Dollar Arabian horse ranch. But Morgan certainly wasn't inexperienced. Virgil, Wyatt and Morgan had all gone into some form of law enforcement. Virgil, the oldest, was a private bodyguard in Hollywood, while Wyatt was Tombstone's sheriff.

Morgan Earp Bodine had been Tombstone's head deputy, first to Virgil, then to Wyatt until Wyatt had temporarily stepped down from his lawman's duties to spend more time with his wife, forensic scientist Dr. Caro Hartlan. She'd contentedly settled into life on the Silver Dollar Ranch. Wyatt insisted on remaining close to Caro and had taken over Morgan's share of the ranching so that Morgan could take over the bulk of Tombstone law-enforcement duties.

Maybe he's afraid you want to keep his job, Sheriff, Jasentha teased.

Morgan groaned. Heaven forbid. And please, skip the ‘Sheriff’ bit. It's always been Morg to you.

That it had, Jasentha remembered. Even when we were children and I lived on your ranch as the daughter of your master-of-horse. Her gaze swept appreciatively over him.

Like his brothers, Morgan was over six feet tall and had the light brown hair, blue eyes and lean wiry build of all the Bodine men. But there the resemblance ended. Virgil moved as fast as a mountain cougar, while Wyatt was a bundle of blatantly coiled strength. Morgan, however, moved with a slow masculine grace that was both deceptive and, at times, deadly. Like his brothers, he could instantly change into a formidable enemy—or a powerful ally.

Like what you see? he asked suddenly.

Jasentha started. Maybe she'd been a little too appreciative. What kind of question is that?

I've seen that look from women before, but not from you. Not in years, anyway.

What look?

The last time I saw you look at me that way was in high school.

That was more than ten years ago, Morgan!

Which makes it even more of a shock. You took me by surprise there.

That makes two of us. "Guess I have been up here by myself for a long time," she managed to say lightly.

"A little too long," he murmured.

Maybe, but I haven't forgotten my manners. A quick change of subject was in order. Let me get you a drink, she offered, the centuries-old rule of civility for any desert dweller. Not to ask would signal the end of a friendship—and in the old days it could mean the end of a life. She gestured to her fifty-gallon water drum before heading toward her tent.

He patted his canteen. I'm all set, thanks.

I need to get my first-aid kit, she said. Striker watched her alertly, ears and tail perked, not wanting to leave Morgan, but ready to follow her at her command. With the experience of long familiarity Jasentha read the dog's body language. It's okay, Striker. I'm not offended. I know we don't get much company. Stay, boy. Make yourself comfortable, Morgan. I'll be right back.

She gestured to her pocket, then hurried to retrieve the kit and return to the bench. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Jasentha sat down again and withdrew her winged patient. She was careful to let the claws attach to her still-gloved finger. She knew that any bat, even an injured one, was more comfortable hanging when it wasn't flying.

So…I'm still puzzled by that, uh, speculative look you gave me, Jasentha. What was it about? Morgan studied her as she inspected the bat's damaged wing.

"The membrane's been torn. It should heal. And that look wasn't about anything."

Come on, Jasentha. It was the way you looked at me when we dated in high school—until our parents put an end to it.

"Come on yourself, Morgan. I already told you— that was a long time ago. We were different people then. Kids. Anyway, Morg, give me some credit. The woman you wanted to marry died less than a year ago. Even if I was interested, I'd like to think I'm sensitive enough not to make a conscious play for a grieving man."

You are, but who says I'm still grieving?

Aren't you?

Not anymore. He hovered close by, ready to help if she needed it. Is the wing broken?

No. I'll clean it up, dust it with antibiotics if there's any infection, then hang him in my bat box. The box, a sheltered area with perches, allowed the bat to eat and drink safely while healing. Don't worry, she murmured, unable to resist a little sarcasm. There won't be any more come-hither looks, I promise.

I was surprised, not worried. After all, you were my first big romance.

Jasentha glanced up, startled. I'd hardly call a few dates a big romance.

I thought it was at the time. Didn't you?

Jasentha shifted uneasily. Like I said, we were kids. We grew out of it.

So I thought. Until a few moments ago.

You're an attractive man, Morgan. I was just… noticing.

And you're an attractive woman who hasn't dated since high school. Since me.

Grab me my kit, would you, please? I like to work with it up on the bench. Jasentha gestured toward her feet, where she'd left her first-aid kit. The bat squirmed, and Jasentha gentled him under Morgan's gaze. Is there a point to all this?

The point is, I'm worried about you up here all alone. Is it because of my father? I know he forbade me to date a Nidé woman, but—

"Morgan, don't be ridiculous! My parents didn't want me dating someone who wasn't Apache. Your father and my father—they both wanted us to be with people of our own kind."

All that business about ‘similar backgrounds.’ Which really meant that the help's daughter couldn't mix with the boss's son. Oh, yeah, our fathers had it all figured out.

Jasentha was surprised to hear the trace of bitterness in his voice. True, her father, Rogelio, had worked even then as the Silver Dollar's master-ofhorse, and Morgan's parents had both been alive.

Those were…different times, Morgan. Anyway, it's in the past. We're still friends, despite them all. Why bring it up now?

I don't know. Sometimes I think about those old days, don't you?

Yes, I do, she found herself admitting. She quickly recovered. But now you have a career and a ranch to run, and I have my bats. Thanks to you.

Bodine mountains. Bodine caves. Bodine bats. All Silver Dollar property now. The Bodine home had once been a stronghold of the Nidé—The People. Her ancestors were also known by their Zuni name, apachu—the others, the enemy, or the conquistador's mangled Spanish version, Apache. History had many names for her people. Jasentha had her own name for herself—a woman without land.

That was where Morgan came in. To him she was simply Jasentha. To her alone he had generously extended the unrestricted use of his land—a privilege that had been offered to no other person not related by marriage or birth in the hundred-plus years of the Bodine family.

This was no small favor. In fact, it was a great honor. Like their ancestors, the Bodines were generous with their time, money and charity, but firmly drew the line at some things. They never ever shared their land with outsiders—save for Jasentha, the solitary exception to the rule. That left Tombstone's small-town grapevine to wonder exactly what kind of relationship she and Morgan shared.

The answer was a close but platonic one, cemented by a particular bond—an intimate knowledge of and intense love for the land. Every generation of Bodines had been deeply committed to the Silver Dollar Ranch; the current generation was no different. Of the three brothers, though, Morgan felt the greatest passion for the desert itself. The desert was no barren savage land to him or Jasentha. It was a land full of life, beauty and history, with wide-open skies of brilliant turquoise, flamed to warmth by a brilliant sun shining through the pure wilderness air. The desert was their paradise.

And their friendship had remained as sturdy, unshaken and comfortably predictable, as their love for the land—until now.

Morgan, can we please forget the romance analysis? she asked. I do have a patient to tend. She was proud of the control that allowed her voice to remain as calm as her fingers. She gently began to clean the damaged wing.

The bat reacted instantly, and Morgan commented, Nice set of teeth. You sure it's a good idea to spend so much time here?

I have to. You know that. Because of my research and rescue work with bats.

Is it just because of the bats? Or is it the solitude?

Are you back in the marriage market? she asked with the blunt familiarity of close friends. Because if you are, take me out of the lineup. I have no intention of being anyone's rebound choice.

Morgan's eyes narrowed at her response. "Wanting to know why you're spending your whole life in these caves doesn't mean I have ulterior motives. I'd like to think I'm sensitive enough never to treat you as…as leftovers."

Jasentha flushed. Then it's my turn to apologize. But why the sudden interest?

Because I think there's more to your job than just an interest in bats or ecology. Is there something here that I don't know about?

Jasentha hid her surprise. Morgan had her dead to rights. There is. But it's a secret.

As a child she'd discovered three sets of petroglyphs deep inside Bodine caves—petroglyphs that had been left for The People's eyes only. She'd told her father and brother about them, but not Morgan. The land might be his, but the heritage was hers. Until recently, bat guano—excrement—had kept the petroglyphs mostly buried and safe from Morgan's eyes. Safe from anyone's eyes. She'd often thought about telling him, wanted to tell him, but the right moment had never come. Anyway, it wasn't as if he spent much time in the caves. Morgan had deserted their childhood playground years ago. There's a lot more in these caves than you know, Morgan. But now is not the time.

Let me guess. You aren't going to tell me.

I have too many secrets in my life, she thought sadly. Secrets I can't share, even with my closest friend. Even with Morgan.

The bat nipped her hard, teeth sharp against the protective glove.

Hey, watch out there! Morgan warned.

Jasentha put her mind back on her work. It's okay. He's scared. And hurt.

I know they're usually quite docile.

Yep. Although most people don't believe it. My poor bats have a bad reputation. Entirely undeserved, I might add. Open that wet swab for me, will you?

Morgan obliged. Carefully Jasentha cleaned the bleeding edge of membrane—torn, she suspected, by either a hawk or an owl.

Here you go. Their eyes met as he passed her the swab. I worry about you, Jasentha. Even bats go home to sleep with their families. But for you to spend your life alone seems like such a… His voice trailed off and he shook his head.

Strange choice? I'll match my bats against your horses for intelligence any time, Jasentha replied tartly, well aware that her response was irrelevant, that it had nothing to do with the concern he was expressing.

"I wasn't going to say strange, Jasentha. I was going to say such a waste. Your life's too solitary. He looked at her closely. Don't forget you have an open invitation to stay at the ranch, either in your father's cabin or in one of your own. There's no reason for you to camp up in the mountains during winter or to run off to Texas."

Yes, there is, Morgan. Hibernation studies are extremely important for species preservation—I'm sure I've told you that before. Besides, my presence helps protect them from intruders. As for Texas, you know that's where Bat Conservation International headquarters are. Winter's the only free time I have to catch up on the latest research. Anyway, I've only been doing this for four years.

You could do all that research here—if you really wanted to.

Thanks, Morgan, but no. I can't.

That's what you always say. Don't you get lonely?

Doesn't everyone? Jasentha threw the soiled swab onto the cold fire pit; she tried to leave as little trash to carry out as possible.

Sometimes. But I have family and friends—a whole town full of people to keep me company. You never seek out people, not even your father, nor do they seek you. As far as I know, I'm the only one who does.

My work's important! she said more fiercely than she'd intended. "Without bats to pollinate the blossom, the saguaro