Читать книгу Fletcher's Woman - Carol Finch, Carol Finch - Страница 11

Leaving Savanna secured in the cave, Fletch mounted Appy. He followed the narrow trail to introduce himself to the five men who had made camp in a meadow. His strategy was to play dumb. If anyone asked, he hadn’t seen Savanna, but he was looking for her, too.

When five rifles snapped into firing position, Fletch waved and smiled like a long lost friend. The rifle barrels angled downward, thank goodness. He wasn’t looking for a firefight. This was a fishing expedition.

There were hardened expressions in the eyes of the men who stared back at him. Fletch had seen those looks on killers’ faces often enough to recognize them for what they were. He had worn the same expression many times himself.

His profession wasn’t for the faint of heart. Kill or be killed was the name of the game—and there were no rules.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Fletch said without preamble.

“Ain’t we all?” This from the man Savanna had identified as Buck Patterson, the horse thief. Also, according to Bill Solomon’s warrants, this man and his friends were wanted for robbery and murder in Texas. Fletch preferred to place them under arrest, but he couldn’t drag them along while he had Savanna in custody.

Fletch appraised the wiry-looking man who was a head shorter and seventy pounds lighter. Buck Patterson had buckteeth, which was probably where he got his nickname. He also had beady eyes and bristly whiskers. He reminded Fletch of a rat, especially with his pointy nose.

Fletch swung down, but used Appy as a shield of defense—in case somebody got trigger happy. “I was hired to find a woman named Savanna Cantrell. She’s wanted for murder.” As if they didn’t know. “Have you seen a misplaced female roaming around?”

“No, but we’re looking for her, too—” The peach-fuzz-faced kid shut his trap when the burly man beside him gouged his ribs, making him grunt uncomfortably. “What was that for?”

Fletch ambled around his mount and grinned wryly. “You were being warned not to divulge more information than necessary,” he told the beanpole kid who looked to be in his early twenties. “But no harm done. I’ve heard that several posses are hunting for this woman. She has dark eyes and dark hair, I’m told.”

“A real looker, too,” the kid blurted.

Fletch decided right there and then that the peach-fuzz-faced kid—who wasn’t on Solomon’s list—would make a lousy outlaw. Every thought running through his head exited through his mouth.

“Well, she is,” the kid said when the man beside him scowled in dismay. “She might be a couple of years older than me, but I wouldn’t turn down a woman who looks as good as she does. She’s got curves in all the right places.”

Fletch didn’t know why the comments offended him quite so much. He’d heard similar remarks dozens of time. Hell, he’d made them himself a time or two. And it wasn’t as if he felt any loyalty or affection for that wily female. But still…

“Where are you men headquartered?” Fletch asked.

“We work on Oliver Draper’s ranch.” The frizzy-haired, gray-eyed older man spoke up. He thrust out his stubby hand—real friendly like—but Fletch wasn’t fooled by the pretend cordiality. “I’m Frank Holmes.” He nodded his bushy red head toward the beanpole kid. “Blabbermouth here is Willy Jefferson.”

Frank directed Fletch’s attention to the grim-faced hombre who seemed vaguely familiar. He suspected he’d seen the man’s sketch on a Wanted poster, besides reading the description from Solomon’s list. Outlaws had a habit of changing names frequently, altering appearance and hiding out in Indian Territory because there weren’t enough law-enforcement officers to go around.

“This is Gib Harper.”

Fletch met Gib’s soulless, green-eyed gaze head-on. Fletch and Gib sized each other up for a few moments then Frank introduced the other vigilante as Harvey Young. While Gib attempted to stare holes in Fletch, he nodded a silent greeting to the raw-boned, long-limbed man named Harvey.

“Did you say you worked at Draper Ranch?” Fletch said, pretending ignorance. “Didn’t the Cantrell woman supposedly kill a man named Draper?”

“Supposedly?” Buck snorted. “She did it, all right. I was with Roark Draper the night it happened.”

“Roark was Oliver Draper’s son,” Frank Holmes clarified.

“Savanna shot Roark in a hotel room in Tishomingo,” Buck went on to say. “She might be a looker, but she’s as deadly as a rattlesnake, believe you me.”

“Why do you think she shot Roark?”

“My guess is a jealous fit and robbery.” Harvey Young spoke up. “Roark’s pockets were picked cleaned.”

“Jealous of whom?” Fletch asked nonchalantly.

Although the other men shrugged evasively, Willy said, “Roark had a lot of lady friends. He also had lots of money to throw around, which makes a man real popular with women. We heard Savanna was infatuated with Roark and that she got upset because he’d taken up with her close friend. Don’t know where the other woman got off to. She might’ve run off to hide. Or could be that Savanna was in such a jealous rage that she blasted both of them and nobody has come across the other woman’s remains yet.”

The other men nodded in agreement with the speculations. Then they wandered off to gather their food supplies and refill their canteens in the stream. Fletch didn’t want to believe their side of the story, but it explained Willow’s lengthy disappearance and Roark’s death.

Fletch had dealt with a similar assignment two years ago in Fort Worth. A scorned woman had gone on a killing spree and hadn’t stopped until her unfaithful lover and his new girlfriend were full of bullets. Yet, Fletch didn’t think Savanna would— He chopped off the thought immediately. It’s not your responsibility to figure out why. Your job is to bring in fugitives and let the court system sort the truth from the lies.

Since the men had gone about their business, Fletch took his cue to leave. He rode off in the same direction the vigilantes had come and didn’t change direction until he was beyond the range of their field glasses. Then he picked his way through the tangle of underbrush and trees to scale the eastern slope of the mountain so he could return to the cavern.

The path he’d chosen took twice as long, but it allowed him time to sort through conflicting information. To hear the vigilantes tell it, Savanna was a spiteful, scorned woman who shot and robbed Roark to cover expenses while she was on the run—riding a dead man’s horse. A horse that might’ve been more accessible than her own horse since she’d fled in a flaming rush to avoid murder charges.

According to Savanna, she’d been privately investigating her friend’s disappearance and her horse had been stolen. She claimed she’d escaped disaster when Roark turned abusive. She had bruises and scrapes to lend credence to her story.

However, those scrapes and bruises might’ve come from scrabbling around in the wilderness, trying to avoid capture.

Fletch frowned speculatively, unsure what to believe. Without question, Savanna’s exceptional skills in the wilderness indicated she could defend herself adequately against a man. The drunken Roark Draper, for instance. She’d certainly outsmarted Fletch, much as it crushed his pride to admit it.

Was she guilty or innocent? Fletch didn’t know for sure. If he knew what was good for him he’d simply do his job and deliver Savanna to Bill Solomon in Tishomingo as requested.

Then he’d begin his search for Grady Mills in earnest.

A host of bad memories buffeted him when Grady’s name popped to mind. Fletch forcefully cast off the bitter thought, just as he’d done so often the past five years. Time-consuming assignments were his way of preoccupying himself so he didn’t dwell on the fateful incident continuously. Still, finding that ruthless son of a bitch was his primary mission in life.

Fletch swung down from Appy and left him to graze. An uneasy sensation prickled the hair on the back of his neck as he rounded the palisade of rocks near the cave. Savanna’s mount wasn’t where he’d tethered it. That was not a good sign.

With both guns drawn, Fletch crouched in the bushes to avoid a possible ambush. He pricked his ears, listening for sounds that might indicate trouble. He wondered if someone—like a lone bounty hunter or a small posse—might’ve stumbled on to Savanna while he’d been chitchatting with the vigilantes.

“Damn it.” Fletch scowled at himself.

He’d left her bound up, defenseless and without clothing. She wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight if someone had pounced on her.

Wheeling around, he skulked toward the cedar tree that concealed the cave entrance. Torchlight flickered over the empty space where he’d secured Savanna. His concern for her welfare evaporated in nothing flat and he swore profusely. The unlocked handcuffs lay in the dirt. The quilt was neatly folded and sitting on a rock. Her satchels were gone.

“How in the hell?” A raft of salty curses exploded from his lips and reverberated off the rock walls as he dug into the left pocket of his breeches in search of his key.

But there was no key. His thoughts whirled, trying to remember when he’d been close enough to that shrewd little pickpocket for her to lift his key. He slapped his forehead when he remembered battling the badger and how she’d huddled behind him, as if frightened and seeking his protection.

Savanna cowering and frightened? Not damn likely! She’d used the situation to her advantage, damn her hide. She’d slipped her hand into his pocket while he was preoccupied with fending off the badger.

“You are an idiot!” he chided himself. “You should’ve known that little performance was out of character for her. She’s probably laughing herself silly over this one.”

Spouting another long list of epithets to Savanna’s name—and cursing his stupidity—Fletch snatched up the cuffs and the quilt. He stalked outside, noting the sun was making its final descent on the horizon. He was hours behind that clever female. He was also hungry, but a stick of dried beef was all he’d get in the way of nourishment if he had any plans of catching up with her anytime soon.

And to think he’d been worried about Savvy when he speculated that a bounty hunter might have swooped down to snatch her up. He had to stop measuring her against the yardstick of ordinary women because she was anything but!

“That’s the last damn time I waste sympathy on you,” he vowed as he gathered up his supplies and remounted.

Fletch charged off, following the tracks she’d left behind…and then he remembered this wasn’t an ordinary criminal. He reined Appy to an abrupt halt and stared at the broken branches and hoofprints in the dirt. This wouldn’t be the first time Savanna had led him in the wrong direction.

Pensively he surveyed the landscape, ignoring the physical evidence she’d planted for a false trail. He tried to second-guess her by asking himself why she’d ride to higher elevations when vigilantes were headed in the same direction. Furthermore, she couldn’t ride downhill without encountering the five surly men. She might as well sign her own death warrant.

Fletch glanced sideways then veered over the rocky ridge that was guaranteed not to leave telltale prints. He spotted a few subtle signs of a rider before darkness settled in. Gut instinct convinced him that he was headed in the right direction.

Damn her, he thought sourly. Savanna was going to cause him to miss his rendezvous next week with Deputy U.S. Marshal Solomon in Tishomingo if he didn’t overtake her quickly. Fletch was going to be mad as hell if that happened because she was making him look bad—again.

“Next time I get my hands on you,” he said to the haunting image floating above him in the darkness, “I’ll stake you out like a human sacrifice.”

This woman had humiliated him repeatedly. Fletch was thankful his big brother wasn’t around to witness his mortification. Logan Hawk would laugh himself silly over this.

Savanna and Morningstar met at an isolated cave—their second rendezvous site—to spend the night. Savanna sipped the brewed tea she’d made from cottonwood tree and willow roots. She used the satchels she’d brought with her when she escaped Fletch to pad her shoulder against the rock wall.

“Gloating is not a flattering trait for a Chickasaw or a white woman,” Morningstar said when Savanna grinned impishly.

“I don’t know what it is about that lawman that brings out my mischievous tendencies, but I enjoy getting his goat.” She took another sip of tea. “I can just imagine the look on his face when he returned to find me gone.” Her smile turned upside down when a suspicious thought crossed her mind. “I wonder if he planned to turn me over to the vigilantes so he could strike off on the manhunt that originally brought him to the Territory.”

Morningstar folded up her pallet then met Savanna’s gaze across the small cave tucked beside one of the spectacular waterfalls nestled in the Arbuckles. “I’m grateful that you’re trying to find out what has become of Willow, but I don’t want you in danger. You and Willow are all that your father and I have left.”

Yes, and her father, Willow and Morningstar were all the family Savanna had after her natural mother, Glorianna, abandoned her years earlier to rejoin polite society.

“If Willow—” Morningstar’s voice broke. It was a moment before she composed herself and continued. “You should return to your father. He has power among the whites and he can protect you until you’re allowed to tell your side of the story in white man’s court.”

Savanna inwardly grimaced. She knew her private crusade to find out if Roark or Oliver Draper was responsible for Willow’s disappearance was causing Robert Cantrell concern and embarrassment. But she speculated that it would put him in a compromising position if she sought his protection.

“I have tainted Papa’s good name and I feel terribly guilty about it. But every law officer and vigilante in the area will expect me to take refuge with Papa,” she countered. “I’m also aware that I can’t remain in the Arbuckles indefinitely without endangering you and my friends.”

Suddenly, Savanna felt as though the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. She’d become a woman without a home. False rumors convinced white society that she had committed murder. She was compromising the safety of every Chickasaw who had tried to hide her. She’d dared to take on one of the most powerful ranchers in the region. All she had to show for her courageous efforts were a high price on her head and dozens of bloodthirsty mercenaries dogging her footsteps.

Her good deed was not without serious repercussions, she realized deflatedly.

Morningstar shifted restlessly from one moccasined foot to the other, then stared into the flickering flames of their small fire. “You took on a very treacherous man, my child. Our people were suspicious of Oliver Draper when his first Chickasaw wife died six months after the wedding ceremony.”

It was common knowledge that Draper had taken advantage of the law stating that any white man who married a Chickasaw woman was legally entitled to her property.

“Oliver is the prime example of a white opportunist,” Savanna agreed. “If he had set his sights on me as his next conquest, I would have run screaming in the opposite direction.”

Unfortunately, the naive Chickasaw widow who’d become Oliver’s second wife—and who owned twice as much tribal property as the first wife—ignored the danger. She’d fallen for his pretentious charm and married Oliver. He’d quickly expanded his ranch operation. He’d also set up toll roads and bridges on his property, which was in a prime location. He’d forced traders, military supply wagons and other travelers to pay up or take the long way around his sprawling ranch.

“Oliver is conniving and manipulative, and he spawned a son who was as brutal as Oliver is greedy,” Morningstar remarked.

Savanna heaved a disheartened sigh. “I’ve made a mess of my crusade. Has no one seen or heard from Willow this week?”

“No, and my daughter would not want to see you hurt in your attempt to go up against the Drapers,” Morningstar said brokenly. Tears flooded her onyx eyes then slid down her cheeks. “I need to know what has become of her…and yet, I’m afraid to find out. But I don’t want to sacrifice your safety, Savvy. You are like a daughter to me.”

Helpless rage coiled inside Savanna. She wanted an explanation for Willow’s disappearance. If Willow was hiding in shame or had arrived to confront Roark after Savanna left, she needed to know the whole story. If something terrible had happened to Willow, Savanna wanted to see justice served, even if white society often lacked concern and sympathy for Indians.

To her way of thinking, whites had been taking advantage of Indian tribes in a dozen different ways for decades. Their women suffered at the hands of ruthless white men. Their warriors were slaughtered or captured. Their children were made to feel less than human and they were treated disrespectfully. Their land had been stripped away and they’d been confined, monitored like prisoners and starved into submission.

Savanna had lived among the Chickasaw long enough to feel their pain, their suffering and their frustration. She’d become one of them, thanks to Willow and Morningstar’s indoctrination. She understood how they thought and she’d become an instructor at the academy so she could help Indian women become independent and acclimated to white society. She wanted to be one of the few whites—like her father—who stood up for tribal rights and made sure their collective voice was heard.

Savanna had also undertaken the unenviable task of investigating Willow’s disappearance, as well as the premature deaths of Oliver Draper’s two Chickasaw wives. When the images of Oliver and Roark sprang to mind, Savanna frowned pensively. An illusive thought niggled her, but she couldn’t figure out why instinct warned her that she’d overlooked something important about Oliver and Roark Draper. Something about them—

“I think you should appeal to the Texas Ranger for help,” Morningstar advised, breaking into Savanna’s thoughts. “He is part Indian and he is the best chance you have at protection.”

“I told him my side of the story, but he wasn’t particularly receptive. In fact, he left me tied up and he ventured down the mountain to parley with Draper’s newest brigade of hired guns. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he made arrangements that were in his best interest. Not mine.”

“I’m disappointed to hear that,” Morningstar said. “I expected more from one of my own kind. But perhaps he had another reason for approaching the vigilantes that we haven’t considered.”

“Perhaps, but this series of disasters has taught me to trust no one but you and Papa.” Savanna grabbed her tin cup then doused the fire. “I’m wasting daylight and I have crucial decisions to make.”

“Running and hiding indefinitely will not make the problem go away,” Morningstar murmured as she gathered her gear.

“No, but it’s keeping me alive,” Savanna maintained.

“Not much of a life, not with every bounty hunter, lawman and vigilante prowling our mountains in search of you.”

Savanna faced her substitute mother directly. “I need information. I can think of only one place to get it.”

“No!” Morningstar erupted in objection. “If you’re thinking of going to Draper Ranch, that is suicide!”

“Not if I’m careful.”

“Careful is not good enough,” Morningstar said fretfully. “Invisible would be best. Despite all your survivalist training, you cannot become the wind.”

Although Savanna wasn’t anxious to leave the familiar haunts in the mountains or Morningstar, who’d become her guardian angel during her life on the run, she needed a plan. Despite what Morningstar thought, Savanna was reluctant to put her faith in Fletcher Hawk…unless she ran clean out of options. Although the brawny Ranger unwillingly fascinated her, she didn’t dare listen to the foolish whispers of her heart. She had to rely on her practiced skills and intellect.

One misstep and she would be the wind… Because she’d be dead and gone.

Oliver Draper slouched at the desk in his office at his ranch house and scowled sourly.

“Natalie! Fetch me some whiskey from the wine cellar!”

The housekeeper, Natalie Chambers, poked her head around the corner. Her dark gaze was cool and remote. “Yes, sir.”

When the heavyset Indian woman strode off, Oliver swore foully. It was costing him a fortune to track down the elusive Savanna Cantrell and he had nothing to show for his investment.

“How can a dozen men have such difficulty locating that woman? Because you can’t get good help these days, not unless you pay a premium,” he admitted grudgingly.

But whatever it took, no matter what it cost, he’d have Savanna and her father right where he wanted them. The thought brought a smile to his lips. He glanced up to see the housekeeper enter with a whiskey bottle. She gave him an impersonal glance as she handed him the liquor and a note.

“I found this on the back door.”

When Natalie exited, he unfolded and read the message. A triumphant smile surfaced on his lips. “Things are looking up.”

His new colleague had promised to deliver Savanna within the week. The prospect prompted him to celebrate by pouring a healthy drink. Very soon, Roark’s murder suspect would be in custody and he could carry out the rest of his plan.

And it’s about damn time! he thought in frustration.

It had been three days since Savanna had pulled her vanishing act and left Fletch looking like an incompetent idiot—again. He was on the verge of washing his hands of the assignment, tucking his tail between his legs and riding to Tishomingo to tell Solomon that he’d failed to apprehend the fugitive. His only consolation was that none of the search parties had had any luck finding her, either. When Savanna decided she didn’t want to be found, she wouldn’t be—obviously.

Tired and cranky, Fletch trotted his Appaloosa down the slopes, leaving the mountains behind him. He stared at the railroad tracks glistening in the late-afternoon sunlight. In the distance, he saw a puff of black smoke and heard the rumble of the locomotive chugging northeast toward its destination.

Fletch swung down to give his weary mount a rest and to quench his thirst at the trickling stream. Heat had been building to the extremes for two days and it was wearing on him. Glancing south, he surveyed the water tower and rail station. Three passengers milled around the clapboard building, waiting to board the train. Two men carried their saddles and a young boy sprawled negligently on a wooden bench. Since neither of the men resembled Grady Mills, Fletch didn’t pay much attention. However, he did consider that Grady could be working at one of these whistle stops in the middle of nowhere. It was the perfect place for an outlaw to hole up.

The train came into view then groaned and hissed as it stopped to take on water and passengers. Fletch mounted his horse and rode downhill. By the time he arrived, all three passengers had boarded the train. Fletch glanced at the round-bellied conductor who hiked up his sagging breeches then stepped on to the platform to give his last boarding call.

Fletch ambled into the rail station and nodded a greeting to the agent—who wasn’t Grady Mills, either. But that would’ve been too easy, thought Fletch. Not once in five years had Grady Mills conveniently landed in his lap so he could slap on cuffs. Sure, Fletch had gotten close a few times, but the bastard bounded off like a jackrabbit, much to Fletch’s frustration.

The train whistle split the air and Fletch ambled outside to watch the engine spew steam as it rolled away. He glanced absently at the faces in the windows. His attention caught on several female passengers but none of them resembled Savanna. As the train veered right, Fletch noticed the young boy who’d climbed aboard behind the two cowboys carrying saddles. The boy had pulled his felt cap low on his forehead and had buttoned the homespun shirt up to his neck.

Their eyes met briefly before Fletch dismissed the kid then pivoted on his heels to reenter the station. He intended to send a telegram to Bill Solomon, announcing that he’d lost Savanna.

“Where’s the train headed?” Fletch asked the agent who was busily jotting down information.

“Over to Beaver Springs to take on fuel. The next stop is a spot in the road called Wolf Hollow for a meal. Then it makes a three-hour layover in Tishomingo.”

Suddenly, Fletch jerked to attention, remembering the wry smile he’d seen twitching on the boy passenger’s lips. Delayed recognition vibrated through his mind like a gong.

“Hell and damnation!” he roared in frustrated outrage.

The agent bolted to his feet, glancing every direction at once, expecting an attack. “What’s wrong? A holdup?”

Scowling, Fletch waved off the alarmed agent. “It’s nothing. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Swearing under his breath, Fletch stalked outside to watch the train disappear from sight. He ran lickety-split toward his horse and bounded into the saddle. Too bad he hadn’t recognized the “lad” who’d been waiting to board the train. Fletch would bet his right arm that the kid wearing the felt cap, homespun shirt and breeches wasn’t a boy a’tall. It was that infuriating Savanna Cantrell in disguise! She’d outsmarted him again!