Читать книгу Fletcher's Woman - Carol Finch, Carol Finch - Страница 12

Savanna squirmed restlessly on the hard seat and listened to the train rumble along the tracks. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d skipped another meal.

It had been several hours since she had seen Fletcher Hawk approach the small station where she’d climbed aboard the train. She’d suffered through several anxious moments, wondering if he’d arrive before she took a seat and hunkered down. As the train pulled away, she’d stared out the window to monitor his activity. Their eyes had met for a moment and she’d allowed herself a smug little smile. The hotshot Ranger hadn’t realized she’d been right under his nose, hiding in plain sight.

The train had stopped again to take on fuel and passengers but she hadn’t seen anything of Fletch—thankfully.

As much as she hated to admit it, she was going to miss matching wits with Fletch. Clashing with his fierce will had been the only enjoyment she’d had in weeks. If they had met under different circumstances, maybe…

Her thoughts trailed off when the conductor announced that an evening meal would be served at the upcoming stop. Savanna was relieved to have a short reprieve from the hard bench seat. She ducked her head and scuttled along behind the string of passengers who filed from the rail car.

The Indian summer moon hung in the sky like a gigantic orange ball, overshadowing the stars that had begun to put in their evening appearances. Savanna took a deep breath of fresh air and told herself to relax. No one knew who or where she was. She planned to keep it that way.

It was a tranquil evening—until she stepped off the platform and an unseen hand clamped around her elbow to jerk her sideways. Alarm roared through her when she saw Fletcher Hawk’s vivid blue eyes boring into her. If not for the witnesses milling about, she swore he would’ve strangled her—and with great relish—right on the spot.

“You’re hurting my arm, sir,” she complained in a twangy, uncultured voice that was an octave lower than normal. Her childhood friend, Taylor Benson, from Fort Smith would’ve appreciated her impersonation of him, but Fletch didn’t seem particularly impressed.

“Sorry, brat, your mother sent me to find you.” He gave her a shake that could’ve caused whiplash. “Your mamma is worried sick,” he said for the benefit of the curious onlookers.

“My mamma doesn’t have the slightest use for me. Never did, never will,” she said as he propelled her alongside him.

“Gee, can’t imagine why,” he breathed down her neck. “You, being such a gentle, dignified lady and all. By the way, who raised you? A pack of wolves?”

Although Savanna set her feet, Fletch uprooted her and shoved her around the side of the building—away from the prying eyes of bystanders.

“How’d you get here so fast?” she asked.

“On the winged feet of justice and a swift horse that can run cross-country when necessary,” he muttered in reply.

“At least let me grab a bite to eat before you put me in cuffs again,” she pleaded. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

Fletch’s ruggedly handsome features were set in an expression of refusal. To her surprise, he blew out a breath, raked his hand through his thick raven hair and said, “Fine, you can have your last supper, but if you make another run for it, I’ll shoot both legs out from under you. Do you understand me, Savvy? You’ve spoiled what was left of my good disposition.”