Carol Finch (2 page)

After Fletch helped Bill onto his horse again, the older man removed his hat and poked his finger through the new hole he’d acquired during the shootout. “Better to give an
outlaw a tall hat as a target, I always say. Better to have a hole in your hat than one in your head.”

“Yeah. Getting shot at isn’t one of my favorite things.”

Bill stared after the fleeing bushwhackers. “Sometimes I wonder if this job is worth the hell ya gotta put up with.” He shook off the thought then motioned Fletch on his way. “You go on ahead. I’ll make my way to the trading post.”

When Fletch reined north, Bill called after him. “I’m counting on you to find Savanna. My guess is that the reward on her head is luring in all sorts of no-account hooligans, like the ones who took potshots at us. They’re probably trying to dispose of competition for that bounty money.”

“Either that or our three friends already have a reward on their heads and they wanted to take us down when the opportunity presented itself,” Fletch called back.

“Could be. But I want your promise as a Texas Ranger that you’ll do your damnedest to find that gal and deliver her to me within two weeks. She’s a woman, Fletch. She’s my old friend’s only child, too. I don’t have to remind you of what she can expect if some money-grubbing ruffian apprehends her first.”

Fletch had encountered several women who had suffered abuse at outlaws’ hands. Not to mention the abuse of soldiers who preyed on defenseless Indian women on the reservation where he’d been confined—and physically restrained when he tried to intervene on a woman’s behalf.

“Promise me,”
Bill demanded insistently.

Fletch sighed in exasperation. “You’re a pushy bastard, you know that, Solomon?”

“Part of my charm.” His handlebar mustache elevated a notch when he grinned unrepentantly. “I’m as pushy as
you are relentless. We all have our admirable traits, don’cha know.”

“Don’t know what’s so damn admirable about being pushy. It leans more toward annoying,” Fletch said before he trotted off.

Savanna Cantrell muttered under her breath when she spotted the same lone rider who’d been dogging her heels for the past three days. He kept vanishing and reappearing from the pockets of shade cast by the trees covering the sloping hills of the Arbuckle Mountains. Her pursuer rode a muscular Appaloosa and he dressed in black. He was like a shadow within the shadows that never went away.

She was surprised that he’d picked up her trail in the first place because she periodically crossed the limestone and granite peaks that left only discreet signs of travel. She’d even disposed of horse droppings and circled back a time or two, but the living shadow remained steadfast. Damn him.

Savanna had been on the run for ten days and so far had managed to elude Oliver Draper’s parties of hired gunmen sent to capture her. She was traveling in the guise of an Indian woman and she knew the rugged terrain—every cavern, nook and cranny of this mountain range. She’d frequented the area hundreds of times during her father’s employ as the Chickasaw agent.

Savanna’s mentor, friend and substitute mother had seen to it that her survival skills were wide-ranging and always at the ready. Morningstar had taken Savanna under her wing like a Chickasaw maiden, even if Indian blood didn’t flow through her veins. In turn, Savanna had helped Morningstar and her daughter, Willow, understand white tradi
tions, and she’d become a champion for the tribe her father protected and defended.

Savanna glanced over her shoulder as she led the rider—a relentless bounty hunter, no doubt—up the winding path to one of the rendezvous points where she met with Morningstar. Savanna had set a trap—as a last resort—several days earlier. Since she couldn’t shake this man, she would detain him. Then she’d take refuge in another section of the tree-choked mountains and V-shaped valleys.

She urged her mount around an exposed curve on the trail to keep her tracker moving in the direction she wanted him to go. Dismounting, she scurried around the snare she’d camouflaged in the thick grass and waited for the man to appear.

Fifteen minutes later the rider halted twenty yards from the trap that separated them. Savanna made certain she didn’t glance down at the trap because whoever this man was, he was an expert in the wilderness. He’d know she was baiting him if she wasn’t careful. While the rider swung effortlessly from his mount, his gaze constantly swept the area. His long, shiny black hair swung against his broad shoulders as he trained his pearl-handled pistol on her to counter the pistol she aimed directly at him.

Although Savanna thought she was doing an excellent job of keeping her attention trained on the man—so he wouldn’t get the drop on her—her gaze locked with the most intense blue eyes she’d ever seen. There was no question that Indian blood ran through his veins, but those thick-lashed blue eyes and lighter shade of skin coloring indicated white ancestry.

The man, dressed in black breeches and shirt, stood six foot four in his scuffed boots and he must’ve weighed at least two hundred and thirty pounds. He was big and bronzed and
brawny. Savanna knew that if push came to shove, her self-defense skills wouldn’t be enough to counter his masculine strength. He would make a formidable enemy, she decided.

Something about the man fascinated her, but she couldn’t pinpoint the reason for her unexpected reaction. First off, he probably didn’t care if he captured her, dead or alive. As long as he collected the price on her head.

“Savanna Cantrell?”

His deep resonant voice rolled toward her, sending a wave of unfamiliar sensations down her spine. “Who wants to know?” she questioned his question.

“Fletcher Hawk.” His pistol was still trained on her. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Despite the several days’ growth of beard that covered his face, she unwillingly responded when he smiled. Immediately she redoubled her defenses and took a step backward. He was trying to be pleasant so he could get the drop on her. But she wasn’t falling into his trap. He was going to fall into hers.

“I’m not Savanna. I’m her decoy,” she lied through her teeth. “I know where my friend is, though. Savvy is paying me to lead mercenaries like you on a merry chase.”

He took what might’ve been mistaken as a casual step forward to counter each step she retreated, but she knew what he was doing. Savanna made double damn certain that she didn’t glance down to gauge his distance from her concealed trap. If he continued on his present path, she’d have him snared.

“Liar,” he said almost pleasantly. “I was given a description of the fugitive. You fit the bill,
Savanna.
Your Indian buckskin dress, moccasins and long dark braids are a nice touch, though. But you’re white, even if you have a deep
tan and you’re trying to disguise your features by smearing mud and soot on your hands and face.”

“You’re mistaken, Mr. Hawk.”

“No, I’m not. You don’t move like an Indian. I should know. I’m half Apache, Paleface.”

“Oh? Which half?” Impudently she looked him up and down.

“The half that counts,” he replied, easing a step closer. “I’m Apache at heart.”

“With a devil’s soul?” she inquired.

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Whatever it takes to get the job done.” He flashed another disarming smile. “But ordinarily I’m one of the nicest men you’ll ever meet.”

Savanna smirked at that. She was offended by his remark that she couldn’t pass herself off as an Indian maiden as easily as she thought she could. She’d been told that with her dark complexion, Indian-style clothing and mannerisms that she excelled at looking, thinking and behaving like a Chickasaw. She’d become very good at it…

When it dawned on her that this Hawk character was purposely baiting her as a means of distraction, she relaxed her stance and smiled nonchalantly. After all, she could be as deceptive as he could if she tried.

“So…Mr. Hawk, what’s the price on my friend’s head now?” She guessed five thousand. If she eluded captivity for a month, she predicted Oliver Draper would hike it up.

“Twenty thousand.”

Her eyes popped and she had to remind herself not to become sidetracked because she wasn’t dealing with the village idiot here. This man had proved himself exceptionally skilled at finding someone who worked hard at not being found.

When he inched a step closer, she lifted her pistol another notch. “Stay where you are, Mr. Hawk. You’re wasting your time here, but I’ll tell Savvy that she’s worth a lot of money.”

“Twenty thousand will buy a lot of trinkets. You’d also be set for life.” He tried to tempt her.

Naturally, Fletcher Hawk ignored her command to stay put—which she’d counted on. Men never gave women credit for ingenuity. It was their Achilles’ heel and she took advantage.

She cocked her head, as if pondering his offer. “I am getting tired of this cat-and-mouse game of leading you and the other men in circles. Maybe I’ll take you to Savvy’s hiding place and let you capture her. Will you split the reward with me?”

“Done.” He took that one last reckless step forward.

When she kicked aside the stake near her foot, Fletcher Hawk yelped in surprise. The camouflaged rope she’d secured to an overhanging tree limb clamped around his ankle like a steel beaver trap. She watched with wicked satisfaction as he flipped upside down and hung suspended in the air. She chuckled triumphantly while he cursed a blue streak.

Savanna was ready and waiting when he twisted sideways in an attempt to shoot the rope that held him suspended like a side of cured beef. She scooped up a makeshift club and whacked him on the head. Her shoulders sagged in relief when a dull groan tumbled from Fletcher Hawk’s lips and he sagged motionlessly.

Thunk.
She watched the pearl-handled pistol drop from his fingertips.
Clank.
The second pistol slid from the holster and dropped beside the first. She arched an amused brow when the Bowie knife that had been strapped to his thigh joined the two Colt pistols. A smaller dagger slid
from his left shirtsleeve and thudded to the ground. A boot pistol popped free and smacked him on the forehead before coming to rest atop the impressive arsenal of weapons.

She was pleased with the tack of hardware she’d confiscated, along with the ammunition on his belt. But she almost stopped breathing when two shiny badges dropped from the concealed pocket of his black leather vest.

“Oh, damn…” She plucked up the Texas Ranger star and the Deputy U.S. Marshal badge. It was bad enough that she’d been wrongfully accused of murder and had a $20,000 bounty on her head. Now she had added resisting arrest and assault on a doubly authorized officer of the law.

“I wonder if a woman can hang twice if she’s convicted of murder
and
assaulting a Deputy Marshal/Texas Ranger?” she said to herself. “Damn opportunistic Ranger anyway.”

No doubt, he planned to reap the benefits of the bounty. He had all the authorization and jurisdiction needed to haul her to Oliver Draper so he could string her up.

Savanna sighed in exasperation. Her life expectancy was getting shorter by the day.

F
letch awoke with a hellish headache—and a barrel load of embarrassment. He’d fallen for the oldest trick in the Apache handbook. Worse, it had been a
woman
who’d suckered him in. Never once during their encounter or conversation had she glanced down to gauge how close he stood to the trap.

She was one hell of an actress and she’d caught him completely off guard. He shouldn’t have underestimated Savanna Cantrell, Fletch told himself as he discreetly pried one eye open to survey his surroundings.

It was dark and the cool mountain air settled over him. When he tried to shift position, he realized he’d been staked out spread-eagle on the ground. His wrists were lashed to the tree behind his head and his bare feet were anchored to a tree three feet beyond his legs. His shirt and vest were gone, along with all his hardware.

Fletch bit back an enraged growl and reminded himself that he was supposed to be playing possum so his captor wouldn’t know that he’d regained consciousness. Didn’t matter how cautious he was, he realized fifteen minutes
later. That wily witch didn’t seem to be nearby—and, damn it, neither was his horse!

“Son of a bitch!” Fletch hissed. He’d been outraged when a gang of outlaws had ambushed him and stole Appy five years earlier. He hadn’t liked it then, but this was ten times worse. This time a pint-size female posing as an Indian maiden had bested him, not four hardened criminals. He had a scar on his thigh to remind him of the ambush, but he’d never forget how foolish he felt after dealing with the crafty Savanna Cantrell.

Fletch swore loudly and colorfully as he strained against the leather strips that held him fast. And to think Bill Solomon had pleaded with him to put his personal crusade on hold to locate Savanna.
Innocent?
He doubted it.
Frightened and out of her element in the wilds?
Not hardly!

“Good, you’re finally awake.” Savanna stepped into view to tower over him. “I wondered how long you were going to waste my time playing possum.”

His reply was a scowl and a snarl.

Undaunted, she asked, “Would you like a bite to eat, Mr. Hawk? Or should I call you
Texas Ranger
and
Deputy U.S. Marshal?
You lied to me by omission, Fletcher.”

“It’s just
Fletch
and you just plain lied about who you are,
Savanna,
” he retorted.

She shrugged off his accusing stare as she squatted beside him to hand-feed him some sort of cornmeal and dried meat concoction that made his growling stomach applaud and his taste buds riot. His trail rations were nothing compared to hers and he gobbled up the offering. He definitely needed his strength and nourishment if he had to match wits with this clever female.

“How did you find me when the other men thought I was
Chickasaw and ventured off?” she inquired as she offered him another bite of food.

“I followed the vigilantes and bounty hunters until they took the wrong turn you purposely planted for them.”

She smiled impishly. “And yet here you are, all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Fletch muttered at her taunt then appraised her oval face, which was now devoid of sooty smudges. Twinkling ebony eyes, rimmed with long curly lashes, assessed him as thoroughly as he assessed her. She looked wholesome with her flawless, tanned complexion. Her bow-shaped lips were lush and tempting…

Fletch stifled that inappropriate thought. He didn’t care if she tasted as good as she looked. The only reason he found her remotely fascinating was that he hadn’t been with a woman since… Well, he couldn’t recall exactly, especially when his head was still throbbing and thinking was tedious. Regardless of being deprived of sexual pleasure for countless months, he wanted nothing to do with her. His assignment was to haul her to Tishomingo and dump her into Bill Solomon’s lap.

Fletch didn’t care if Savanna was incredibly attractive and intelligent. Furthermore, it didn’t matter that her survival skills far exceeded any woman’s he’d ever met. He refused to be impressed because she was a dangerous combination of beauty, brains and skill. But still…

My sister-in-law would love her,
Fletch caught himself thinking while he munched on the tasty food. Shiloh Drummond-Hawk was an independent-minded woman who gave as good as she got. She’d definitely approve of Savanna’s survival know-how and intelligence. Fletch might have appreciated her even more if he weren’t staked out and annoyed.

“Where’s my shirt?” he demanded between bites.

“I had to remove it. Considering all the hidden hardware that fell off while you were dangling upside down, I didn’t want to overlook any weapons stuck in your sleeve.”

He smiled devilishly. “You took my shirt, but aren’t you concerned about what I might have stashed in my breeches?”

She shoved more food into his mouth to shut him up.

“I examined your lower extremities closely,” she said.

He swallowed the mouthful of food. “Too bad I wasn’t awake for that. I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed it, darlin’.”

“I am not your darlin’. I’m not your anything.” She cast him a disgruntled frown. “You should be more concerned about what’s to become of you, not what you missed during the body search. You don’t seem to be taking me seriously, Mr. Hawk—”

“Just
Fletch,
” he corrected again. “And believe me, I’m taking you very seriously. You need to come to Tishomingo with me. Every day you’re on the run is an admission of your guilt. You should turn yourself in.”

“Naturally you’d say that since there’s an astronomical price on my head and you want to collect it,” she scoffed. “I’m not entirely stupid, you know. I know what motivates you and the rest of the bounty hunters on my trail. It’s
money.
”

Cautious and mistrusting didn’t begin to describe Savanna. She wasn’t a scatterbrained twit who leaped mindlessly from one moment to the next. Which was too bad for him.

Fletch played his ace in the hole, hoping to gain her cooperation. “Bill Solomon sent me as a favor to your father.”

“Who?” she asked.

“He’s a U.S. deputy marshal who claims that he and Robert Cantrell served together in the army,” he told her.

She inched away to regard him critically. She never said
she recognized Solomon’s name and that made Fletch a mite suspicious. She kept staring at him, as if she were trying to decide if he was on the level.

“I didn’t want to be bothered with this assignment, but Solomon reminded me of what might happen to a woman at the mercy of vigilantes of questionable character. So I tracked you down,” he explained. “I was on a manhunt for someone else. A fugitive—Grady Mills—left Texas to hide out in the Territory. Maybe you’ve crossed his path. He’s almost as tall as I am. Barrel-chested. Beefy fists, bushy red-blond hair and thin-lipped.”

“What’s he wanted for?”

“Murder and robbery, to mention only two offenses.” He tried to look as harmless as possible. “You can untie me now. My hands and feet are numb.”

“No, I don’t trust you.”

“I guess that makes us even, but the straps are still so tight that they are cutting off my circulation.”

Savanna sank beside him to retrieve the canteen, then offered him a drink. Her mind buzzed like a beehive. She hadn’t seen Bill Solomon in years and she couldn’t verify that Fletch knew him or if he was name-dropping to gain her confidence.

But unless she was mistaken—and she doubted she was—Fletch had described George Miller. She’d encountered the rude character who worked at a stagecoach relay station. He’d had too much to drink and made a pest of himself during the layover.

Although whiskey was outlawed in Indian Territory, bootleggers ran rampant. Liquor was as easy to obtain as food because there weren’t enough law-enforcement officers in the Territory to hunt down the suppliers and toss them in jail.

While Savanna sat there listening to Fletch gulp water she found her gaze straying—for about the forty-eleventh time—to the muscled wall of his chest and his washboard belly. She chastised herself soundly for not draping his shirt over him. All that rippling masculine flesh was a feast to her feminine senses. She was too curious for her own good.

Plus, this man was her antagonist. Her ill-advised interest in him was going nowhere fast. She needed to keep her distance from Fletcher Hawk, Texas Ranger/Deputy U.S. Marshal. He could turn out to be her Waterloo if she didn’t watch out.

Her thoughts scattered when she heard an unidentified noise in the bushes. Savanna was on her feet in a single bound, positioning herself beside the arsenal of confiscated weapons.

She’d hoped her friend Willow would suddenly appear so Savanna would know she was safe, but Morningstar was alone when she stepped from the shadows, leading her pinto pony. The attractive Indian woman, dressed similarly in fringed leather, leggings and moccasins, halted to appraise Savanna’s half-naked captive. Then she raised an amused brow. A faint smile settled on her striking features.

“I thought it was your plan to avoid all contact with the posses and vigilantes sent to apprehend you,” Morningstar said in Chickasaw. “Why did you decide to capture this particular one at our rendezvous site?”

“He’s the only one who figured out who I am, and I couldn’t shake him off my trail as easily as I did the others. He’s a lawman and I’m not sure what to do with him.” Savanna accepted the bundle of disguises—widow’s digs, boy’s clothes, a squaw dress, serape and sombrero—that she had asked Morningstar to supply. “Plus, he’s half
Apache. His exceptional tracking skills make him a dangerous threat.”

Morningstar’s lips twitched and her white teeth flashed as she glanced down at Fletch. “So, of course, you decided to undress him and steal his boots. Was that really necessary?”

“He was heavily armed and I was searching for hidden weapons,” Savanna countered defensively. “You can’t be too careful when you have a high price on your head, you know.”

“How much?” Morningstar asked, her expression sobering.

“As much as the Chickasaw tribe receives collectively in a month from the sale of coal that whites mine from tribal land.”

Morningstar’s dark brows nearly rocketed off her forehead. “This situation is becoming progressively worse. It is bad enough that our land is crawling with white and Mexican treasure hunters who are looking for loot buried by outlaws. Now they will be hunting you because of the reward. You must resolve this problem before those who recognize you are tempted to disclose your whereabouts in exchange for money.”

“Speak English,” Fletch demanded, but to no avail.

Savanna sent him a silencing glance then stared intently at her mentor. “I’m trying to devise a workable solution, but it isn’t easy when I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, trying to stay one step ahead of bounty hunters and vigilantes.

“Has Willow contacted you?” Savanna asked anxiously. “Has anyone spotted her hiding out in the mountains?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Morningstar replied fretfully. “To make matters worse, you have captured a law officer, and I doubt your father would approve. Robert cannot
come here, for fear that he might lead mercenaries to you. He cannot risk trying to contact me for the same reasons.” She stared pensively at Fletch. “Maybe you should take this lawman into your confidence and let him become your protector. Do you think he is trustworthy enough to help you?”

Savanna laughed humorously. “No. Right now I can’t trust anyone not to betray me except you.” She stared down into Fletch’s intense blue eyes. “This man is both a Ranger and deputy federal marshal. He
claims
to know Papa’s longtime friend from the army, but I’m not taking any chances of being deceived. I’m better off on my own.”

Morningstar retrieved the bandoleer of ammunition and a package she had tucked beneath the saddle blanket. “Your friends in our mountain village took up a collection of supplies to sustain you. They wish you well, my child. I do not advise that you linger too long in one place. I saw several campfires glowing in the valleys. There are too many men searching for you.” She stared solemnly at Savanna. “These ruthless bands of white men are putting Chickasaw families at risk and could be driving Willow deeper into hiding, too.”

Savanna mulled over Morningstar’s words long after the older woman retreated into the darkness. The very last thing she wanted—aside from swinging from the gallows and having her neck stretched out like taffy—was to endanger those she considered extended family, those who offered her aid and comfort while she dodged the posses. Willow might even think they were chasing her and refuse to show her face or make contact.

“Who the hell was that woman?” Fletch demanded, breaking into her troubled thoughts.

“None of your business.”

She stood directly over the brawny lawman sprawled helplessly at her feet. When it came to men, Savanna wondered if this wasn’t the best way to deal with the troublesome gender. For sure and certain, the safest way to deal with this particular man was to leave him shackled. If wild animals or ruthless scallywags attacked him while he was restrained, she’d be responsible for his demise. The last thing she wanted was a Deputy U.S. Marshal’s death on her conscience. It would also make her look guiltier than she did now.

Savanna needed to make a decision and she needed to make it fast so no one else would be hurt. Vigilantes and search parties were breathing down her neck. Considering the astronomical bounty, mercenaries would undoubtedly try to wrest information from innocent victims. Savanna couldn’t live with herself if her friends suffered because of the calamity that had befallen her.

And she had Roark Draper to thank for this, she thought bitterly. Damn him and his disgusting hide. Maybe it was unkind to speak ill of the dead, but Oliver Draper’s spoiled, abusive, disrespectful son had received exactly what he’d deserved.

Unfortunately, Savanna hadn’t had the pleasure of meting out his well-earned punishment.

Instead she’d been
blamed
for it.

She’d dearly love to know who had falsely accused her of the crime that had brought Oliver Draper’s wrath down on her. Was it Oliver himself? Or had one of his henchmen worked independently behind the scenes? Or perhaps one of the opposing factions who disagreed with her father’s policies had decided to use her to make him look bad so he’d be replaced. She didn’t know exactly what was going
on and it was difficult to find out while spending her time avoiding capture.