Читать книгу Fletcher's Woman - Carol Finch, Carol Finch - Страница 8

1880s

The hot summer sun gleamed off the Red River that separated Texas from Indian Territory. Fletcher Hawk patted his Appaloosa gelding consolingly as the ferry teetered and bumped over the swift-moving channel. Being a half Apache who had been forcefully retained on a desolate reservation in New Mexico, for more months than he cared to count, Fletch got to feeling twitchy as the ferry headed toward the distant dock. He’d been a Texas Ranger for five years, but he’d never had cause to enter the reservations in Indian Territory.

Now he had cause. The murdering son of a bitch that he’d been hunting for five years was reported to have robbed a stagecoach near Fort Worth several months earlier, then headed north. No matter what assignments Fletch had taken, he’d always been on the lookout for Grady Mills. Unfortunately, the slippery bastard had managed to remain one step ahead. But if Grady thought hunkering down in Indian Territory would keep Fletch off his trail then he thought wrong. Fletch had a personal and professional vendetta to settle with that heartless bastard.

A painful memory speared through Fletch’s mind. Rage and guilt battled for supremacy, but he squelched the turbulent emotions and turned his attention to the other passengers. Three rough-looking men leaned negligently against the railing. They met his stare briefly then looked away without offering a nod of greeting. But then, neither did Fletch. He was simply surveying his companions.

Fletch’s gaze settled on the crusty, bowlegged man who looked to be in his mid-forties. He wore a ten-gallon hat with two bullet holes in the crown. The hat made him look about six and a half feet tall. His mouth thinned out beneath his handlebar mustache as he propped himself against a bay gelding. Obviously the man’s left foot was paining him something fierce because he was one boot short of a pair. His well-worn shirt and trousers indicated a hardscrabble lifestyle. Fletch could certainly identify with that. He’d been all over creation for fifteen years, never having a place to call home.

When the older man laid an arm over his horse, Fletch noticed the flash of a tarnished badge beneath the edge of his faded leather vest. Fletch had the alarming premonition that he was looking at his own image ten years down the road. The speculation made him wince inwardly.

His older brother, Logan, wouldn’t have to fret about growing old before his time, he mused. Logan had given up his Ranger badge and nomadic lifestyle. He’d settled down with his spirited wife and he was the proud father of two energetic boys.

Fletch had nothing but his Appy pony, calluses, battle scars and dozens of unpleasant memories to keep him company.

His gloomy thoughts scattered when the older man put weight on his injured foot then groaned in pain. Leaving Appy tethered to the railing, Fletch ambled over to lend a hand.

“Problem?” Fletch asked as the man dragged in several panting breaths.

“Damn gout. Picked a fine time to flare up,” he said raggedly. “Got a saddlebag full of warrants and a favor to do for an old friend.” He looked Fletch over intently. “You’re a lawman, aren’t ya? You look familiar.”

“Texas Ranger,” Fletch murmured, inconspicuously pulling the silver star from his vest pocket. “Don’t like to bandy it about. Makes some folks nervous, especially when you add my mixed heritage.”

The older man smiled crookedly and his hazel eyes gleamed as he thrust out his hand. “Deputy U.S. Marshal Bill Solomon. I remember you now. I saw you in action near Fort Griffin, Texas, two years back. You had a Mexican bandito cornered outside town after he blasted an army convoy to steal supplies for his gang.” He nodded approvingly. “Mighty slick apprehension maneuver. Me and a few of the boys borrowed that tactic of here-one-minute-gone-the-next with satisfying success.”

Fletch smiled wryly. “Old Apache trick.”

The smile faded from Bill’s weather-beaten features. “Fought the Apache while I was in the army. Lost a few friends, too.”

“I lost most of my family during an army massacre,” Fletch said grimly. “Let’s not talk about old times, Deputy Marshal Solomon. I’ve spent years trying to put it behind me.”

“Fair enough.” Bill stared at him with eyes that had seen countless unforgettable sights. Fletch could identify with that, too.

When the ferry lurched abruptly in a fierce undertow, Fletch steadied Bill, who muffled a pained curse.

“I got a proposition for you,” Bill said, levering his weight off his tender foot. “Fletcher Hawk, ain’t it?”

He nodded. “Just Fletch.”

“You’ve got a brother who used to be a Ranger, as I recall. Same impressive legendary instincts and reputation, too. He goes by just Hawk, don’t he?”

Fletch nodded again then glanced discreetly at the three shaggy-haired cowboys who stood on the far side of the ferry. He made a point not to convey too much information about his brother and family. Ruthless outlaws had a nasty habit of preying on a man’s vulnerability for leverage or revenge. The less anyone knew about Logan and Shiloh Hawk, and their two young boys, the safer they would be.

When the ferry pulled up to the dock, Bill braced himself on the railing. “I’d be much obliged if you’d help me off this damn ferry.” He handed off the bay’s reins. “If you can take my horse ashore, I’ll hobble behind you.”

Fletch took quick inventory of the three men who had been watching them cautiously the past fifteen minutes. One wore fringed buckskin and had long, stringy blond hair. The tallest one was scarecrow-thin and walked with a decisive limp. The third man was built like a bull. His shoulders were excessively wide and his neck was short and thick. Heavy beards and mustaches concealed all three leathery faces. Double holsters—like the ones Fletch wore—hung low on their hips.

If Fletch were guessing, he’d say these hombres had something to hide and he wouldn’t be surprised to learn there were outstanding warrants for their arrest.

The moment the ferry docked, the three men mounted their horses and thundered off.

“Guilty consciences,” Fletch speculated as he watched their hasty departure over the tree-choked hill.

“You’ve got good instincts.” Bill limped toward a tree stump that would allow him to take a load off. He stretched out his bootless foot and expelled a long-suffering sigh. “I’m doomed to spend the next week convalescing at Porter’s Trading Post, which is about ten miles north of the Red River. I’m swearing you in as a deputy U.S. marshal so you can—”

Fletch thrust up a hand to cut in before Bill railroaded him into another job that might waylay him from his primary purpose. “I’m already a Ranger and I’m on a manhunt.”

“Being a deputy marshal will give you rightful authority in Indian Territory.” Bill gestured toward his saddlebag. “Hand me one of them extra badges. And grab a fistful of them ‘John Doe’ warrants, too. You never know when you might need ’em. The Territory is a hideout for more outlaws than you can shake a stick at. Each tribal police force handles conflicts between Indians, but you need federal jurisdiction to corral vicious whites, Mexicans and blacks that raise hell in the Territory.”

Fletch blew out a resigned breath as he fished into the pouch. He found four badges and retrieved one for himself, along with several warrants. There was also a pint of whiskey tucked in the saddlebag.

Bill waved his thick arms in expansive gestures. “By the powers vested in me, I hereby appoint you a deputy U.S. marshal. The Federal Court in Paris, Texas, pays the rewards for outlaws apprehended in the Territory.” He elevated his throbbing foot and reached into his shirt pocket for the paper with four names written on it. “If you happen across any of these hombres who are wanted for robbery and murder in Texas, then take ’em into custody. Haul their sorry asses to the Chickasaw Nation’s capital at Tishomingo. When I’m back on my feet, I’ll take ’em to Paris so you can get on with your manhunt.”

Fletch memorized the names and the brief descriptions on the list. Some he’d heard of; some he hadn’t. But it didn’t matter. Grady Mills was the top priority on Fletch’s personal list. “I’ve got the first productive lead on this fugitive—”

“But more importantly, I’ve gotta do a favor for my old friend and I need your help,” Bill interrupted. “Robert Cantrell, the Chickasaw Indian agent, has a serious problem.”

“I don’t have time for favors,” Fletch rumbled.

Bill clutched Fletch’s arm, demanding his full attention. “You’ve got time for this one. Make time. Rob’s daughter, Savanna Cantrell, is wanted for murder. There’s a $20,000 bounty, compliments of Oliver Draper, the rancher whose son she supposedly shot.”

Fletch arched a dubious brow. “Supposedly?”

“I don’t have all the details, just a warrant the judge issued and a brief note from Cantrell, asking for my help. You find the girl and bring her to Rob’s cabin near Tishomingo. Don’t let nobody know you got her in custody, hear me? Draper hired mercenary vigilantes to track her down. None of your caliber, mind you, but still tough as nails. With that kind of price on her head she’ll never make it to the courtroom to tell her side of the story.”

“Folks don’t usually take off running if they aren’t guilty,” Fletch remarked.

Bill shrugged his thick shoulders. “I ain’t sayin’ it might be self-defense or something else entirely. But you don’t put that kind of bounty on someone’s head and hire a private army of vigilantes unless you want to take the law into your own hands…or you don’t want the real facts to go public. Sounds fishy to me.”

“Sounds like an old friend defending someone’s daughter out of loyalty,” Fletch said candidly. “I can name at least three dozen convicts locked in Texas penitentiaries who swore to me they were innocent. The judge didn’t see it that way and neither did I. You can’t trust criminals to tell the truth.”

“So young to be so cynical,” Bill said, and snorted.

“I have thirty-three years of hard lessons to my credit,” Fletch said. “If you believe everything people tell you, then you’ll wind up dead… With a surprised look on your face. I hate surprises.” He frowned pensively then added, “Take these back. I’m otherwise occupied.”

When Fletch tried to return the badge and the bench warrants, Bill shook his head and thrust out his stubbled chin. “You keep ’em. If you bring in that gal, the bounty is all yours. Just make sure you deliver her to me at Tishomingo, not to Draper and his vigilantes.”

“I don’t give a damn about the money,” Fletch insisted. “I want Grady Mills and this is the first promising lead I’ve had in over a year. I’ve got my own fish to fry.”

“But the question is, can you go off to fry your fish and live with a woman’s senseless death on your conscience?” Bill asked somberly. “You took a vow as a Ranger and you’re honor-bound to uphold it. Now you’re a U.S. deputy marshal, too.”

Can you live with a woman’s senseless death on your conscience? Nothing else Bill Solomon could’ve said would give Fletch pause…except that. The crusty old lawman was unaware of the impact of his comment. But it struck hard and deep and reopened the unhealed memory that had haunted Fletch for five years.

Fletch muttered begrudgingly as he stuffed the warrants into his saddlebag then tucked the badge in the concealed pocket of his vest. “Can you make it to Porter’s Trading Post to rent a room on your own or do I need to make a travois to drag you there?”

Bill chuckled at Fletch’s sour scowl. “I can make the ten-mile ride if I have that pint of whiskey to numb the pain.”

“I thought it was against the law to have whiskey here.”

“It’s against the law to sell it, but this is for medicinal purposes,” Bill insisted.

Fletch hoisted Bill onto the bay gelding, then handed him the pint. They rode off, following the trail through the thicket of trees. Fletch swore he wasn’t going so much as a mile out of his way to track a female who probably deserved to have vigilantes chasing her.

Savanna Cantrell probably thought she could get away with murder, just because her father was the Chickasaw agent. If Fletch crossed paths with the woman, he’d do what he could to appease the older deputy marshal. However, he was not going to waste precious time when he had a solid lead on Grady Mills. Fletch had a long-standing debt to repay. He also had a score to settle and he’d been trying to do it for five long years…

His thoughts scattered when an eerie sensation trickled down his spine, putting his seasoned reflexes on instant alert.

“What the—?” Bill croaked when Fletch abruptly shoved him flat against his horse’s neck.

Three bullets simultaneously whistled over Fletch’s head. He bounded to the ground to pull Bill from the saddle. Bill growled in pain and grabbed at his tender leg. Fletch paid no mind to the agonized deputy marshal. He pulled both Colt pistols and blasted away at the puffs of smoke drifting from the underbrush.

“I bet it’s those scraggly buzzards from the ferry.” Bill grabbed his rifle and joined in the shootout.

“Let’s find out for sure. Cover me.” Fletch bounded on to Appy’s back and raced off.

Refusing to become an easy target, Fletch sprawled atop his horse then made a beeline toward the bushes where gunfire erupted. With both barrels blazing, he guided his steed with the pressure from his knees and heels, plunging headlong into the underbrush. Surprised yelps competed with the sounds of discharging bullets. Fletch swooped down like the angel of doom and the bushwhackers beat a hasty retreat.

Although they took off hell-for-leather, Fletch winged two in the arm. He was about to take a shot at the third when Bill bellowed, “Never mind about them sidewinders! We got more important business to attend. I’ll add their descriptions to these bench warrants. If you see ’em again, then arrest ’em. But first things first!”

It wasn’t Fletch’s nature to abandon a pursuit in progress. He’d earned the reputation with his Ranger unit as being relentless. Reluctantly he reined in his horse and retraced his steps to find Bill swearing and struggling to his feet.

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 traditions, 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.