Читать книгу Fletcher's Woman - Carol Finch, Carol Finch - Страница 9

Fletch 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.

She turned her attention back to Fletch who was giving her the evil eye and straining against the leather shackles. Clearly, he wasn’t thinking kind thoughts about her. That made them even. He was definitely a complication she didn’t need.

“I think we should strike a bargain,” she said after a pensive moment of weighing her options.

“I don’t make deals with the devil or his sister,” he returned flatly. “Just untie me and let’s ride to Tishomingo so you can turn yourself in. You can tell your side of the story to a judge.”

“No. If we can’t strike a deal then we’re going nowhere together.” She spun on her heels and strode into the underbrush. “The bears, lobos and mountain cats will keep you company…or have you for supper,” she taunted. “But, being the consummate survivalist you are, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“If anything happens to me, lady, it will only make your situation that much worse,” he warned her.

“I’ve already considered that.”

“Like it or not, I’m the only friend you’ve got right now.”

“Then I am indeed in dire straits,” she called back to him while she donned the squaw dress and leggings Morningstar had brought to her.

A few minutes later Savanna returned to Fletch’s side. Since he refused to bargain with her or to give up his pursuit, she wasn’t offering information about the man he was tracking. No deals, he’d said unequivocally. Therefore, she had no choice but to clear out and avoid the small Chickasaw villages nestled in the mountains. There were isolated and rugged regions where she could hide before she doubled back to privately investigate Roark’s murder. She’d wait until the initial furor died down and the search parties gave up and went home.

She retrieved a dagger to slice the leather strip that anchored his left leg. She watched him tense, as if expecting her to bury the knife in his chest. Fear didn’t register in his ruggedly handsome features, only angry defiance.

“A pleasure meeting you, Fletch.”

“Wish I could say the same, you little termagant,” he muttered in a resentful tone.

“You’ll free yourself eventually,” she assured him. “There’s a small cave up this trail. I’ll leave your weapons inside it. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you defenseless against unfriendly beasts. The two-legged and four-legged kind. Despite what you think, I don’t make a habit of leaving a trail of dead bodies in my wake.”

“You’ll regret this!” Fletch vowed. “When I catch you—and I will catch you—I won’t be as pleasant as I am now.”

“This is pleasant?” She scoffed at the snarl in his deep voice. “I’m sorry, Fletch, but I don’t find you as charming and irresistible as you seem to think you are.”

“Damn it, woman!” He growled as she turned to retrieve his horse, thereby making it even more difficult for the mob of vigilantes and posses to accurately identify her. “If you take my horse, I’ll hang you myself!”

Fletch whistled and the Appaloosa tossed its head when Savanna tried to reach for the reins. It took a moment to control the well-trained horse, but she managed to drape her bags of supplies and disguises over the pommel then swing into the saddle. He whistled again and the horse sidestepped, but she offered it a lump of sugar as distraction. She smiled when Fletch cursed because his horse turned traitor and became putty beneath the gentle stroke of her hand.

Savanna reined Appy beside Fletch who swore ripely and strained against the remaining restraints. She tossed his Bowie knife just beyond the normal extension of his leg—the one she had cut free a few moments earlier.

“It shouldn’t take you long to get free, but I’ll be gone by then. Do yourself a favor and give up the hunt.”

“Never.” He glowered at her then bared his teeth. “I’m going to make you damn sorry when I get my hands on you.”

She chuckled, undaunted by his threat. “Then I’ll take extra precautions to ensure you never get your hands on me.”

She rode away, listening to him call her every uncomplimentary name in the book, plus a few in the Apache dialect that she was glad she couldn’t translate.

Fletch almost never lost his temper; it was counterproductive and tangled up rational thought processes. But he was well and truly furious! There was just so much humiliation a man could stand—especially when doled out by a mischievous woman—before he erupted like a geyser.

Scowling and cursing, he contorted his body every which way until he could shove the knife across the ground with his freed foot. After several frustrating attempts—that nearly wrenched his arms from their sockets—he managed to scoot the knife upward until he could grasp it in his left hand.

He poked himself in the arm twice while trying to saw the leather strap in two. A half hour after Savanna rode off on his horse, Fletch was loose.

“Ornery damn witch,” he muttered at the vision dancing in his head. “Ow, ow…ouch!” He winced as his bare feet connected with sharp pebbles and twigs.

After being tied up for so long, he’d lost circulation in his limbs. Lacking his usual coordination, he kept tripping over his own bare feet. Plus, he was unfamiliar with the area. It was dark and it took him more than an hour to find the cave where Savanna had stashed his boots and weapons.

Fletch wasn’t surprised that Savanna had helped herself to more than half of his ammunition supply. But he still spouted several more epithets to her name. There was no telling where she’d gotten off to by now. Worse, he was aware that she’d been toying with him since he’d first spotted her on the trail that morning. After three days of playing cat-and-mouse, she’d decided to lure him in. Like a fool, he’d blundered into her trap and had his male pride trampled six ways to Sunday.

Tired and annoyed, Fletch contemplated disregarding the promise he’d made to Bill Solomon. Hell, he’d only met the man once and owed him nothing. As for Savanna, he wished that maddening woman farewell and good riddance!

What did he care if Savanna led the vigilantes and bounty hunters in circles for a few weeks before they captured her—or not? She certainly could ride and bait traps as well as any man he’d ever met.

She’d be fine, he convinced himself. She was no babe in the woods, that was for sure! In fact, it’d serve her right if he left her to those money-hungry, bloodthirsty vigilantes. He had his own crusade to pursue, after all. Furthermore, she was probably as guilty as sin.

The image of midnight-colored eyes twinkling with impish delight flashed in the darkness. Begrudging respect and admiration for her unconventional skills unfurled inside him, even while he tried his damnedest to ignore it.

Fletch fumbled around like a blind man, his knife at the ready—just in case the mischievous imp had left a few other surprises for him. Like a snake or scorpion in his saddlebags or boots. Cautiously, he dragged his gear from the cavern. When he shook out his boot, he encountered a scorpion. Whether the pest had been purposely planted or had set up housekeeping on his own, Fletch didn’t know. But he kicked it aside, then donned his boots. Hurriedly he strapped his double holster around his waist and tucked his extra hardware out of sight.

Quickening his pace, he jogged back to the horse Savanna had left for him. “Argh!” he yelped when he bounded into the saddle—and realized too late that she had unfastened the cinch. Fletch clawed air as he and the saddle tumbled to the ground. He landed flat on his back and his breath burst out in a pained grunt—followed by the foulest of foul curses that he attached to Savanna Cantrell’s name. Then he cursed himself because he kept underestimating her.

Now he was spitting mad! He was seeing red! He was going after her, he decided. When he caught up with the dark-eyed, dark-haired terror, he was going to strangle her with his bare hands.

No, you won’t, the sensible voice in his head said. If you do, you’ll be no better than the cutthroats you arrest.

“Fine then, so I won’t strangle her,” he said as he scraped himself off the ground. “I’ll settle for tormenting her to no end.” He resituated the saddle on her horse—and wondered if she’d purposely stolen the horse to throw the vigilantes off track, too.

Fletch took an extra moment to check the cinch to make sure it hadn’t been cut so it would rip loose when he galloped off. He wouldn’t have put it past her, but the tack seemed to be in good working order. Relieved, he was still outraged that Savanna had made him look like an incompetent imbecile so many times in the course of one day. She’d challenged his credibility as a man, as an Apache warrior and as a Texas Ranger. If the men in his battalion got wind of this mortifying incident, they’d never let him hear the end of it.

He rode off into the darkness, mentally listing all sorts of suitable tortures that might appease his humiliation. Then he set aside his need for revenge and concentrated on figuring out where she might have gone.

“I swear, Savanna Cantrell, Holy Terror of the Arbuckles, you will be damn sorry you tangled with me!” he said to the image looming large in his mind.

Savanna sighed contentedly as she paddled across the natural pool that rippled beneath the panoramic, fifty-foot waterfall tucked in the mountains. Although there were several falls sprinkled throughout the Arbuckles, Whispering Falls always brought her a sense of peace. She definitely needed that after almost two harrowing weeks on the run. Not to mention her encounter with Fletcher Hawk two days earlier.

Something about that man made her ornery and defensive. Yet, bad as she hated to admit it, she was attracted to him against her own fierce will. What woman in her right mind would be intrigued by a man who wanted to arrest her?

A wry grin pursed her lips, remembering her confrontation with the ruggedly handsome Ranger. Getting the drop on him, and then watching him being jerked upside down to hang by his heels had provided mischievous satisfaction. But when she’d peeled off his shirt then run her hands up and down his muscled legs to check for concealed weapons, it had been much too erotic. In her twenty-five years of existence, she’d never been assailed by such wickedly pleasurable sensations. It was disturbing to fantasize about a man who was only interested in bounty money.

When the vision of bronzed flesh and power-packed muscles exploded in her mind, Savanna submerged. She was not sparing that opportunistic Ranger another thought, she vowed determinedly. She had pressing matters to resolve. She didn’t need to become sidetracked by daydreaming about a man whose sleek, muscular body filled her with wayward thoughts and dangerous sensations.

Resurfacing, Savanna wasn’t sure what sort of deal Fletch had struck with Bill Solomon, but she’d bet her right arm that it wouldn’t play out to her benefit. Why and when had her father called in Bill Solomon? Had Draper bought off Solomon so he would double-cross her father? Could these charges against her be spiteful as well as politically damaging to her father? What was really going on here? she wondered.

Wary of what was transpiring around her, Savanna decided the best thing to do was to take the long way through the mountains. There, she could infiltrate Draper’s ranch and maintain surveillance on him and his hired guns.

She even wondered if one of those mercenaries had disposed of Roark after she’d stormed off that fateful night. Several ruffians had been playing bodyguard to Roark. One of them might have turned on the obnoxious bastard. All Savanna needed was a clever disguise so she could snoop around the ranch. She might be able to pick up a few tidbits of information that pinpointed the real killer and she could find out where Willow…

Her thoughts scattered when she sighted the horse she’d left for Fletch. It stood on the ledge beside the upper tier of the waterfall. Alarm shot through her like a discharging bullet. Blast it! How had Fletch found her so quickly? She’d doubled back and left false trails everywhere.

Whirling, Savanna sidestroked toward the bushes where she’d left a set of clean clothes. She nearly suffered apoplexy when Fletcher Hawk materialized from the shadows. Her clothes were draped over his broad shoulder and a smug smile that said, “Gotcha,” was plastered on his sensuous lips.