Carol Finch (16 page)

“That woman murdered your half brother and she deserves to be punished,” Oliver snapped. “You are every kind of fool if you allow yourself to be swayed by her lying lips and pretty face.”

Because of Oliver’s adamant comments, Hawk glanced at Fletch, as if to ask if perhaps he might be mistaken about Savanna’s innocence.

“I’d stake my reputation on her,” Fletch replied to the silent question.

That seemed to satisfy Hawk. “We think you killed Roark,” he accused Oliver. “And why shouldn’t we believe it? You sure as hell turned tail and left us to die in an army massacre. We have seen no evidence whatsoever of family loyalty from you.”

“I didn’t kill Roark!” Oliver bellowed. “My men claimed he died at the hotel. They saw Savanna ride off on his horse.”

Fletch scoffed caustically. “And you took the word of hired gunslingers who are wanted in Texas for robbery and murder? What kind of fool does that make you? I have warrants in my saddlebags to serve to several of your men. They have as much integrity as you do, which is none at all,
Oliver.
”

Never again was Fletch going to refer to this cunning bastard as his father. It was simply Oliver Draper, suspected murderer, swindler and liar. Not John Fletcher Logan.

“All I know is what I was told,” Oliver said defensively as he massaged his injured hand. “Savanna was alone in
the hotel room with Roark. She was in love with him and suddenly he was dead and she rode off hell-for-leather.”

“Whose idea was it for Roark to court Willow?” Hawk questioned sharply. “Was it yours?”

“It was my idea for Roark to court Willow, even if he wasn’t too enthused about it,” Oliver admitted. “Her mother owns valuable property in the Arbuckles. I was interested in Morningstar for myself, but Cantrell beat me to a courtship. For the same reasons, I suspect.”

“Doubt it,” Fletch countered. “Cantrell seems a helluva lot more sincere in his interest in Morningstar than you are.”

Oliver shrugged, seemingly undaunted by Fletch’s harsh assessment. No surprise there. This man looked after himself and to hell with everyone else. Including his half-Apache sons and his troublemaking white son.

“Willow was flattered by Roark’s pretended interest,” Oliver reported. “Things were going fine until that Cantrell bitch stuck her nose in their business.”

Fletch gnashed his teeth. He took offense to Oliver—who had no room to talk—calling Savanna disrespectful names. But Fletch kept his trap shut because he was on a quest for vital information.

“I did let it be known that Savanna was sweet on Roark because he told me she was.”

“Wishful thinking on his part,” Fletch muttered.

“No matter what her feelings, she was trying to intervene in the arrangements Roark and I were making. But Roark, fool that he was, had some ridiculous fascination for Savanna and her sassy disposition. He delighted in the challenge of trying to tame her.”

Fletch could understand that. A womanizer like Roark would see Savanna as a personal conquest.

“You are wrong about Savanna’s involvement,” Fletch insisted. “She didn’t kill your son. If you didn’t, one of your men did. Then he tried to blame it on her to protect himself.”

“That is not possible,” Oliver protested. “I pay my men too damn much money for them to attempt to double-cross me.”

“But nonetheless, one of them did,” Hawk insisted. “According to the tribal police chief, Willow had been starved and abused during the month she was missing. No doubt, she had been a hostage. If you didn’t give the order to detain her then one of your men did.”

Fletch glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t imagine what was taking Savanna so long to release the housekeeper and return to the study. He knew she was champing at the bit to take her turn with Oliver.

“What really happened to your Chickasaw wives?” Fletch demanded, casting another speculative glance at the empty doorway. If Savanna didn’t show up in the next five minutes, Fletch was going to look for her.

Oliver avoided Fletch’s probing gaze. “Accidents.”

Hawk scoffed. “I doubt that. You might as well come clean, Oliver. There will be an investigation, at our insistence. By the time it’s over, your reputation will be in shreds. You’ll be in jail, awaiting trial for the attempted assassination of the tribal police chief, for kidnapping, murder and whatever else we can pin on you.”

Oliver huffed out his breath. “It was Roark’s doing.”

“How convenient,” Fletch snorted sarcastically. “Your word against a dead man’s. To save your own worthless hide you’d even stoop to blame your son. You don’t have one ounce of loyalty or decency, do you?”

“It was Roark, I tell you!” Oliver shouted, as if the louder he spoke the more he’d be believed. “He was racist,
which is one reason he balked at trying to charm Willow into marrying him. I was on hand the night my first Chickasaw wife went riding toward her family’s home on the south side of our property. Roark followed her. He shoved her off the cliff into the river. He was my son, so I kept silent to protect him.”

“No doubt, he repeated the crime and you let him,” Fletch muttered. “There’s a serious penalty for contracting murders and withholding information. You can blame Roark to spare yourself, but you won’t walk away scot-free. I guaran-damn-tee it—”

His voice evaporated abruptly when he heard the creak of floorboards and caught sight of movement by the study door. While Hawk kept his weapon trained on Oliver, Fletch wheeled to confront the new arrival. He had hoped to see Savanna. To his wary astonishment Deputy U.S. Marshal Bill Solomon’s broad form filled the doorway. He had a rifle draped over his forearm—and his right hand hovered on the trigger.

Another round of suspicion bombarded Fletch as his attention bounced back and forth between Oliver and Bill Solomon. Having Bill show up here was not a good sign. Not having Savanna return from the cellar was even worse. Damn it, he mused in frustration. Bill’s unexpected arrival better not be connected to Savanna’s unexplained disappearance.

Something was wrong. Fletch could feel it, and he had the suspicious feeling that Bill might have a hand in it.

“L
ogan Hawk, I presume.” Bill Solomon inclined his head slightly in greeting. “I’ve heard of you.” He turned his attention to Oliver. “Hello, Draper. Looks like you injured yourself.”

Fletch could not think of one good reason why Solomon should be here, except that he was in cahoots with Draper. While Hawk held Draper at gunpoint, Fletch kept his pistol trained on Solomon, just in case his seemingly cordial demeanor turned vicious.

“You want to explain why you just happened to show up here, Solomon,” Fletch demanded accusingly.

Bill’s brows rocketed to the brim of his ten-gallon hat—that sported three bullet holes. Then his hazel eyes narrowed warily. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Fletch glanced pointedly at Oliver. “I don’t have to remind either of you that bribing a U.S. deputy marshal is a federal offense.”

“How convenient,” Hawk said as he sized up Solomon. “According to Fletch, you pretended to be Cantrell’s friend,
but you are in a perfect position to further Draper’s cause by setting up Savanna for the recent murders.”

“Are you
loco?
” Bill hooted in offended dignity.

“Why didn’t you help Parmicho break up that lynch mob earlier?” Fletch questioned harshly.

“I couldn’t get there in time because I was working behind the scenes,” Bill defended.

“I’ll bet you were.” Fletch smirked as he stared directly at the rifle.

“I’ll have you know that I’m the one who made sure Parmicho got to a doctor after he was shot!”

“And I won’t be surprised to learn that you’re the one who shot him at Draper’s request,” Fletch replied.

“That’s exactly what happened,” Draper declared.

Bill Solomon’s jaw nearly dropped off its hinges. “That’s a damn lie! I’ve never had a private conversation with this scoundrel before.”

“And I suppose you’re going to deny that you sent me a telegram, insisting that I come here to provide reinforcements for Fletch,” Hawk inserted.

“Hell, no. Why would I do that? Damn it, my time has been occupied posing questions around town, trying to connect Draper to this setup against Savanna. I’ve been documenting information and conducting interviews for the trial.” His agitated gaze swung to Fletch. “I’m on your side, damn it.”

Fletch stared pensively at Draper who was smiling devilishly. The man was a bastard through and through. He had a history of twisting situations to his advantage. Fletch turned his attention to the deputy marshal who bristled with indignation. Instinct told Fletch that he was still missing some vital facts and that Solomon might not be the cul
prit after all. But the jury was still out and Fletch preferred to err on the side of caution.

Besides, Savanna had yet to show up. With each passing moment, the alarms clanging in his head kept getting louder.

“Take a seat, Solomon,” Fletch demanded abruptly.

Before the deputy marshal could voice an objection—and he looked as if he planned to—Fletch pounced to confiscate the rifle.

“Some friend you turned out to be,” Solomon muttered as Fletch quick-marched him to a chair and stuffed him into it.

“I was thinking the same thing about you. Nothing worse than a corrupt lawman.” Fletch tossed the rifle to Hawk. “If either man makes a move, shoot him. Hell, shoot them both and save the court system time and trouble.”

“Where are you going?” Hawk questioned when Fletch lurched around and stalked off.

“To find Savanna. I have a bad feeling that something is wrong. I want to come back and take out my anger on Draper and Solomon, if my instincts turn out to be right.”

Fletch darted down the hall and took the steps two at a time to reach the pantry. The twitchy feeling that had been tormenting him became more intense as he scurried through the dark tunnel. The feeling of impending doom intensified as Fletch approached the cellar. It was too quiet. Natalie and Savanna should’ve been chatting, at the very least. At best, Fletch should’ve encountered one or both of them in the tunnel.

Fletch’s fears descended like a swarm of hornets when he burst into the dimly lit chamber to find Natalie sitting exactly where they’d left her. If Solomon had overtaken Savanna and had stashed her away as a hostage, Fletch was
going to stake out that double-crossing bastard on an ant den—for starters. And from there he’d get really creative!

Natalie bucked and strained against the ropes, as if impatient for release. Fletch untied the gag first, hoping to receive assurances that would ease the apprehension that was eating him alive.

“Where is she?” Fletch asked as he unfastened ropes that bound Natalie’s wrists and ankles.

“I don’t know. The same man who came here to speak to Oliver this morning showed up,” Natalie reported.

Fletch’s senses shot to a higher level of alert as he scooped up the discarded dagger he’d handed to Savanna earlier. He remembered seeing the lone tracks coming toward the back of the house and then to the barn this morning. Obviously, Solomon had come to make more arrangements with Draper.

“The man drugged Savanna and dragged her off to who knows where!” Natalie’s voice rose to near hysterics and ricocheted off the walls.

Damn that Solomon, thought Fletch. “Did he have a handlebar mustache? Was he wearing a ten-gallon hat? A big man with thick shoulders and a potbelly?”

To his surprise, Natalie shook her head. “No, he was a burly, thick-chested man,” she described. “Bushy red hair, fists like hams. Tall like you, but coarse and raw-boned. He was wearing dark clothing.”

Fletch felt the color drain from his face, felt his heart cease beating and hang lifelessly in his chest for several frantic moments. Then fury pulsed through him, putting him in motion. “Damn that son of a bitch,” he roared.

Fletch raced off, leaving Natalie to make her own way back to the house. A barrage of questions bombarded his mind and failed to attach themselves to logical answers.
This was not supposed to be happening, he thought frantically. He’d played out this long awaited confrontation with Grady Mills in his mind a thousand times. He had even rehearsed what he intended to say to that murdering bastard. Now everything had changed because Grady obviously planned to use Savanna as bait to lure him in. Hell and damnation, this was to have been a head-on clash between ex-partners—like two enemy warriors on a battlefield.

Huffing and puffing for breath, Fletch bounded up the staircase. He burst into the study and he must have looked like a wild man because his brother gaped at him and said, “What the hell’s wrong?”

“Grady Mills is what’s wrong,” Fletch panted. “He’s the one who drugged Savanna with chloroform. I think it’s become his trademark. He found a way to set up Savanna to take the blame for her best friend’s death and is using it to his advantage.”

Fletch’s ominous glower settled on Oliver. “Grady Mills, alias George Miller, is your accomplice, isn’t he?”

Oliver’s blue eyes widened before he could conceal the emotion behind a carefully blank stare. “Never heard of him.”

“Grady Mills?” Bill Solomon frowned thoughtfully. “Ain’t that the fugitive you tracked into Indian Territory?”

“The one and only,” Fletch confirmed. “He’s using an alias and my guess is that he hired on to do Draper’s dirty work.”

Wouldn’t you know that the two men Fletch disliked above all others were presently making his life miserable? His father and his ex-partner—backstabbing liars and cheats that they were.

“I guess I owe you an apology, Bill,” Fletch murmured.

The older man’s square chin elevated as he surged to his feet. “Damn right you do. You thought I betrayed an old
friend and his only child for money.” He snorted loudly as he thumped himself on the chest. “I got honor and integrity. I oughta rake you over live coals for doubting me. I’ll have you know that I interviewed plenty of people to get the lowdown on Roark, on his daddy and their hired guns. I ain’t been standing around twiddling my thumbs!”

Hawk tossed Bill the rifle. “Very well then, Deputy U.S. Marshal, haul this bastard to jail while we track down Grady Mills. I’m sure that whatever crimes one of them didn’t think to commit, the other one did.”

“Be careful that you don’t run headlong into Draper’s vigilantes,” Fletch cautioned. “Most of them have their sketches on Wanted posters, so watch your step.”

Bill nodded as he ambled over to hoist Oliver to his feet.

Fletch and Hawk paused long enough to toss their father one last glance. Neither of them wasted one ounce of emotion on the man who had sired then abandoned them.

Fletch was grateful to have his brother following closely on his heels as he raced down the stairs, leaped over Desmond Sharp, then burst out the front door.

“Any idea where Mills might’ve taken Savanna?” Hawk asked as they sprinted downhill to fetch the horses they had tethered near the cellar entrance.

“Not a clue.” Fletch grumbled in frustration. “I only hope that he was in too much of a rush to cover his tracks after he left Natalie to identify him to me.”

“So he
wants
us to follow him,” Hawk commented.

Fletch nodded as he untied the reins then bounded onto the pinto. “He’s always up to something,” he said as he reined west, following the two sets of hoofprints.

“Of course he is,” Hawk agreed as he trotted along on the roan. “He has a hostage and he plans to make use of her.”

Anger coiled in Fletch’s gut. The tormenting fear that Savanna was going to end up in the same condition as Elaina was killing him, bit by excruciating bit.

The incident in Colorado had been his greatest failure. He didn’t want to outdo himself when it came to Savanna’s abduction. Fletch shuddered to think how he’d react to having a second death weighing down his conscience. One had been more than plenty, but Savanna—

“Don’t worry, Fletch,” Hawk said cutting through his troubled thoughts. “We’ll find Savanna.”

“And it better be in time,” Fletch muttered. “Grady Mills is nobody’s fool.”

“Why’s that?” Hawk questioned.

“Because I taught him everything he knows about tracking and outsmarting fugitives.”

“Oh, hell,” Hawk said sourly. “Another complication we don’t need.”

That was Fletch’s sentiment exactly.

Savanna woke with a churning stomach, a bitter taste in her mouth and a desperate craving for a drink of water. She had no idea where she was, but she was aware that she’d been tied to a chair in a rundown shack that looked as if it hadn’t been inhabited in years.

Her satchels had been tossed carelessly in the corner. Tin cans, empty whiskey bottles and glass jars were strewn around the planked floor. Boards covered the windows. She didn’t know how many hours had passed since she’d been captured, but she presumed it must be evening because no light seeped through the knotholes. The temperature had dropped noticeably.

Savanna wondered if her abductor had dumped her off
and left her to die of thirst and starvation. Certainly, she would slow him down if he tried to keep her drugged, while carting her along with him on horseback.

Curse it, she really wanted to know who had sedated her.

She squirmed on the chair, trying to wrest free of the ropes. After several unsuccessful attempts to pull her hands loose, she stood. By bending at the waist, she was able to hop forward—the chair still strapped to her back like a turtle shell.

Savanna sat—hard—shattering the glass jar beneath one of the chair legs. Contorting her body, she tumbled to the floor then scooted toward the broken jar. She groped to grab a wedge of broken glass, hoping to use it to saw through the ropes on her wrists. She struggled for several minutes before she was able to slice the strands of hemp and free her hands—at the expense of a few cuts.

Casting a cautious glance toward the door at irregular intervals, unsure if her captor would return, she untied her ankles. She surged to her feet then swayed dizzily. Savanna thrust out a bleeding hand to brace her arm against the rough-hewn wall for support.

When the unpleasant side effects of chloroform ebbed, she pushed away from the wall. Inhaling a cleansing breath, she scooped up her satchels then headed toward the door—only to find it secured from the outside. Muttering at another delay that hampered her escape, she snatched up the chair. Using it alternately as a pry bar and then battering ram, she loosened one of the boards that covered a window.

She straddled the sill, relieved to note that it was dark outside. Her chances of fleeing undetected were far better than in broad daylight. Now, if she could escape without
crossing paths with her unidentified abductor or the vigilantes, she’d be lucky indeed.

She wondered how Fletch had reacted to her sudden disappearance. Had he felt anything besides dutiful obligation to locate her when she’d gone missing? He was probably annoyed with her for landing knee-deep in trouble and causing a delay in wrapping up this case so he could hunt down Grady Mills.

She smiled ruefully, wishing Fletch felt even half the affection for her that she did for him. But she knew she was just part of his job, even though it had become personal and intimate—temporarily. Savanna held no false hope. She knew she had no place in Fletch’s life, even if she somehow survived this disaster—and the chances didn’t look all that good.

Tossing aside her wandering thoughts, Savanna rounded the corner of the shack. She heard the intimidating click of a trigger somewhere off to her left. She reversed direction, hoping she could slip around the opposite side of the cabin. A shot rang out, splintering the wood directly above her head.

“Stop or I’ll shoot to kill,” the male voice shouted.

Savanna mentally thumbed her nose at the command. She figured her chances of survival weren’t all that good anyway. She wasn’t going down without a fight. Besides, it was dark and she might be able to escape by blending into the shadows.

She sprinted around the side of the house, relieved to see her horse tethered to a tree. She was on it in a single bound. Frantic, she tried to untie the reins, but her captor appeared beside her. Savanna yelped in pain when he slammed the rifle barrel against her shoulder blades. She kicked at him, catching him in the chin, causing him to stumble sideways. He cursed the air blue as he uprighted himself.