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Fletcher's Woman
Carol Finch
HOT ON THE TRAIL…Fletcher Hawk has only one thing on his mind–bounty! The Texas Ranger is in hot pursuit of a woman accused of murder. He'll track her down and claim his reward.But when he finds Savanna Cantrell, something makes him change his goal. Maybe it's her beauty, maybe it's because she is the cleverest woman he's ever met, maybe it's her innocence–but now he needs to convince her that she needs his help. With dangerous men on their trail, these two fiercely proud and independent people must learn to trust…and to love!



“I assume this is your
way of getting even.”
Fletch squatted on his haunches to pull the cap from Savanna’s head. He raked his fingers through the curly tangles of hair that tumbled over her shoulders. Her heart thudded against her ribs when he broke into a full-fledged smile that would’ve knocked her to her knees had she been standing.
Never could a man have been more wrong for her, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. Unfortunately she was drawn to Fletch against her fierce will. She hungered for a sampling of his lips.
The erotic thought sent desire trickling through her body. She chastised herself for being a foolish romantic. She and Fletch meant nothing to each other. She was just another job to him.
It wasn’t flattering, but it was the truth.
Fletch didn’t trust her and Savanna didn’t trust him. He was her enemy, her antagonist, who stood like an insurmountable mountain that prevented her from getting what she wanted—the opportunity to clear her name.

Praise for Carol Finch
“Carol Finch is known for her lightning-fast,
roller-coaster-ride adventure romances that are
brimming over with a large cast of characters
and dozens of perilous escapades.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Ranger’s Woman
“Finch delivers her signature humor, along with a big dose
of colorful Texas history, in a love and laughter romp.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Lone Wolf’s Woman
“As always, Finch provides frying-pan-into-the-fire action
that keeps the pages flying, then spices up her story with
not one, but two romances, sensuality and strong emotions.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Fletcher’s Woman
Carol Finch

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to my husband, Ed,
and our children Jill, Jon, Christie, Kurt and Shawnna.
And to our grandchildren Kennedy, Blake, Brooklynn
and Livia with much love

Acknowledgment
A very special thank-you to all the readers
who urged me to write the sequel to The Ranger.
I hope you enjoy Fletcher’s story.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One
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.

Chapter Two
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.

Chapter Three
“Looking for these, Paleface?” he teased, his gaze roaming unhindered over her exposed flesh.
Savanna shielded herself as best she could while she treaded water. She’d love to slap that smirk off his lips, but she’d enjoy outsmarting him almost as much. Morningstar and her father, the ex-army scout extraordinaire, had cautioned her never to leave all her belongings in one place. Sort of like never stashing all your eggs in one basket. She had learned to plan an alternate escape route for emergencies such as this.
“If you expect me to come out of the water, then I will need my clothes,” she called deceptively.
“Come and get ’em,” he challenged, his sky-blue eyes gleaming with devilish delight.
While he stood waiting, Savanna dived beneath the surface, reversed direction and headed for the opposite bank as fast as she could. She’d stashed an extra set of clothes and her rifle in the bushes. When she resurfaced, she was dismayed to discover that Fletch had vanished into thin air. Decidedly uneasy, she hurriedly swam toward the underbrush.
And, damn it, suddenly there he was, appearing like a phantom from the shadows of the trees, blocking her path so she couldn’t emerge from the water.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, lady. You have a whole bag of clever tricks at your disposal. Someone trained you so expertly that you do think and react like an Indian. Was it the woman who showed up to see you two days ago?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation,” she muttered, her gaze darting anxiously from side to side, her mind working furiously in attempt to outsmart him.
She sank beneath the surface and headed for the falls, in the hope of climbing up the narrow ledge behind the misty curtain of water. Modesty be damned, she decided as she inhaled a galvanizing breath and prepared to make a run for it.
She dashed from behind the falls to retrieve the Appaloosa she had “borrowed” from Fletch.
To her chagrin, the horse wasn’t where she’d left it. But Fletch was. Damnation, he’d second-guessed her again.
Embarrassed, her face blazing with color, she ducked into the underbrush. When he headed directly toward her, she dashed, buck-naked, toward the waterfall. But Fletch pounced on her before she could dive into the pool.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” he rumbled as he hooked his arm around her waist then dropped a quilt over her head.
Savanna yelped and fought futilely for freedom as he rolled her up like a mummy. Her breath came out in jarring spurts when he jogged off, carrying her jackknifed over his shoulder. Only God knew what he planned to do with her, she thought, panicked. She wormed and squirmed and kicked, hoping he’d drop her so she could dash to safety.
She grunted painfully when he flung her over a horse then tied her wrists to one stirrup and her ankles to the other.
“If you’re planning to molest me, you can expect to have a fight on your hands,” she felt compelled to tell him. “The last man who tried ended up dead.” She didn’t mention that she wasn’t the one who ensured her assailant wound up dead. Let Fletch think she’d follow through with that threat. After all, scare tactics weren’t effective if you didn’t sound convincing.
“In my book, that’s as good as a confession,” he declared as he led her and the horse away. “You’re referring to your encounter with Roark Draper, aren’t you? Guilty as charged, just as I thought.” His voice sounded like a pounding gavel.
Savanna cursed herself mightily for trying to bluff the Ranger/Deputy Marshal. She should have kept her mouth shut. The inability to do so was one of her worst faults.
“I didn’t do it,” she insisted.
“Of course not,” he said caustically.
Fletch gritted his teeth and tried to shake off the vivid picture of Savanna Cantrell stark-bone naked. But it was no use. The images of tanned skin, lush curves and swells, full, rose-tipped breasts and well-shaped legs—that went on forever—were burned on to his eyeballs.
It was a wonder he’d managed to circle the pool in time to cut her off at the pass. Then, wham! There she was, naked, and he’d stood there soaking up the exquisite sight of her. He’d been stunned and too mesmerized to react. Fortunately she’d been stunned, too. Her delayed reaction had been a half second behind his, which had given him the edge to capture her.
Now that he had her trussed up, he wasn’t going to let his guard down again. If he did, she’d find a way to elude him. His new motto was to never underestimate this wily woman. She was as cunning as a fox and he better not let himself forget that.
“I know you don’t believe me, but I really didn’t kill Roark Draper,” she mumbled from beneath the quilt. “I swear it!”
“Right. Of course I believe you,” he said mockingly. “Not a doubt in my mind, Paleface.”
“I was only trying to frighten you,” she insisted.
“Didn’t work. You don’t scare me—”
His voice dried up when he heard the clatter of hooves on the rocky path below. Fletch pulled the Appaloosa toward the cover of the trees then watched five rough-looking riders trot toward the inviting pool he had vacated earlier.
Hell of an incredible place, he mused as he surveyed the plunging falls nestled in a remote valley. It was like a little piece of heaven on earth. The Chickasaw tribe had received a spectacular site for their reservation. This must be compensation for being one of the five “civilized” tribes whose members had intermarried colonists and adapted white practices generations earlier. Still, they’d been dragged across the Trail of Tears and thousands had died along the way.
As for the Plains Indians like the Apache, they had been stuck with sand, cactus and rattlers. They had been poisoned, purposely infected with deadly diseases and slaughtered in massacres that the army chose to refer to as battles.
Come to think of it, none of the Indian tribes had fared well in their dealings with the invading white hordes. Those greedy, land-grubbing, fork-tongued bastards…
Fletch shook off the resentful thoughts and focused on the problem at hand. He wasn’t about to turn this naked firebrand over to the vigilantes, even if he was aggravated with her for being such a royal pain in the ass. Even if she had stung his male pride to the extreme, he wasn’t so cruel and spiteful as to feed her to a wolf pack and let her be molested. His conscience wouldn’t tolerate that.
“What’s going on?” she murmured curiously.
“Vigilantes. I’m going to climb aboard my horse with you, so don’t raise a ruckus that draws attention to us.”
He swung into the saddle, squirming for position behind the quilted bundle of naked female he’d captured. He was anxious to pick his way up the trail to retrieve the other horse and hide in the trees before the riders noticed them.
Fletch grabbed the spare horse’s reins and led it into the trees. He wasn’t sure where he was going to hide out, but he was going to tuck Savanna away from the heavily armed vigilantes.
“How many are there?” she asked a few minutes later.
“Five scraggly-looking riders.”
“I spotted them four days ago,” she reported. “There’s another search party of three men lurking about, too.”
Fletch wondered if they were the same three men who’d taken potshots at Bill and him after they’d disembarked from the ferry.
“If you aren’t heading northwest, then you’re making a gigantic mistake,” Savanna told him. “And could you let me up? Blood is rushing to my head. I’m about to pass out.”
“Now that’d be a shame,” he said, and smirked. “It must be as uncomfortable as having the circulation cut off to your hands and feet or being jerked upside down and clubbed on the back of the skull. Sorry, Paleface, but these are the only accommodations you’re getting right now.”
“You are a mean, horrible man, Fletcher Hawk,” she mumbled. “This is no way to treat a lady. My father is the Chickasaw agent and he’ll be outraged by this treatment!”
“There you go with those empty threats again.”
“I mean it! Papa isn’t going to be pleased when I tell him how you’ve mistreated me.”
“Like I said…”
“When he finds out that you held me captive, naked, he will have your head!”
Fletch couldn’t help but grin at her useless attempt to persuade him to unleash her. She was the mistress of threats—empty or not. He’d say one thing for her, though, she put up a tough facade. It was admirable really. Useless on him, but impressive nonetheless.
“I’ll tell your daddy how you stripped me down, tied me up and tried to have your wicked way with me,” he teased.
“I did no such thing!” she erupted in offended dignity.
“Keep your voice down, banshee,” he snapped. “This place is jumping alive with bounty hunters and vigilantes.”
She sagged against the saddle and kept her mouth shut for a good half hour. He wondered if that was some sort of record because she said, “I’ve kept quiet long enough. You should head toward the limestone peak where the rock formations look like cathedral spires. There are caves nearby that are difficult to spot unless you know exactly where to look. If we rely on your knowledge of the area, we’ll be in serious trouble.”
“Thank you so much for your invaluable guidance,” he muttered sarcastically.
But he still headed in the direction she suggested.
Fletch’s traitorous gaze strayed to the curve of Savanna’s rump draped over the saddle. He forced himself to look the other way while he followed the winding trail. He reminded himself that it was his policy to never get personally involved during an assignment. He was especially not going to get emotionally attached to this fire-breathing female who was ten times more trouble than she possibly could be worth…
Well, except for the exorbitant price on her head, he amended. Sharing her company and putting up with her sassy mouth indefinitely would require compensation. If he got Savanna to Tishomingo—without one or the other of them killing each other—he’d have earned every damned penny of the $20,000 reward!

An hour later Fletch halted in a thick grove of cottonwoods then rolled back the quilt to expose Savanna’s head so she could get her bearings. When she bowed her neck to look around, a cloud of curly auburn hair framed her flushed face. A very bewitching face, he couldn’t help but notice. Not to mention that she had a luscious body that had given him a severe case of lust.
Fletch blew out an exasperated breath and glanced the other way. This is strictly business, he told himself resolutely. It didn’t matter that Savanna was the most intriguing and attractive female he’d ever seen or met. He wanted no complications in his life. No fond attachments, either. Savanna was only a passing acquaintance. End of story.
His older brother had stumbled on to an unforgettable female while on assignment and he’d eventually married her. Fletch, however, intended to remain unattached and uninvolved. He had a long-standing debt to repay and his conscience wouldn’t allow him to shirk his duty. A pretty face and a gorgeous body—even one that inspired erotic thoughts and made his mouth water—wouldn’t sidetrack him. He had willpower and self-control that wouldn’t quit—or so he told himself.
Except that he was drooling over Savanna like some moonstruck schoolboy. Damn it, if she noticed his preoccupation, he predicted she’d use his ill-fated attraction against him. Whoever or whatever Savanna Cantrell was, she was nobody’s fool. His previous dealings with her testified that her quick mind was always at work, devising ways to outsmart her antagonists.
“See that midnight-colored gelding with two white stockings one of the vigilantes is riding?” she said, breaking into his wandering thoughts.
Fletch fished his spyglass from the saddlebag to take a closer look at the five riders who’d made camp in the clearing. Four of the men met the descriptions Bill Solomon had given him. The fifth man hadn’t been on the Wanted list.
He gave a low whistle as he appraised the sleek, muscular horse. “He’s a beauty. Long and leggy and built for speed. You planning to steal him the first chance you get?”
“No, that’s my horse. He was a gift from a close friend.”
“How close?”
“That’s none of your business, but you might be interested to know that Parmicho, or Mick, as I fondly refer to him, is the police chief of the Chickasaw Nation.”
Fletch told himself that he didn’t care if the police chief was sweet on Savanna—and vice versa. He could see why men might find her appealing. He just didn’t want to be one of them.
“That’s Buck Patterson who’s riding my horse,” she continued. “Buck stole Rambler the night Roark Draper pounced on me during one of his whiskey-fueled binges. That’s why I’m riding Roark’s horse instead of my own.”
When Fletch lowered his spyglass to stare skeptically at her, Savanna thrust out her chin. “That’s the truth. The whole truth and nothing but.”
“So you’re claiming that you killed Roark Draper in self-defense then stole his horse because Patterson stole yours?”
“I did not kill Roark,” she corrected. “I incapacitated him with a well-aimed kick to his groin. I’ll be all too happy to demonstrate the maneuver if you don’t believe me.”
Fletch grimaced. “No thanks. I can’t say that I’m surprised you’re the type who hits a man where he can be hurt the worst.”
“I was defending my virtue,” she snapped righteously.
“Right. Then what happened?”
“Then I picked up a chair and slammed it upside his head. When he collapsed, I rushed down the back steps of the hotel. My horse was nowhere to be found so I climbed aboard Roark’s.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Stop looking at me like I’m lying. It’s the truth.”
“Sorry, but the jury is still out.” Fletch reached over to untie her feet. “Besides, it’s not my place to pass judgment. I’m in law enforcement not sentencing.”
Having learned his lesson about dealing with this cunning woman, Fletch hooked his arm around her waist and got a good grip on her before he cut her wrists loose from the stirrup. He quickly replaced the rope with metal shackles.
Muttering, she grabbed modestly at the quilt to cover herself while he glanced around, trying to spot the cave she claimed was in the vicinity.
“I want my clothes,” she demanded.
“No. Where the hell is the cave?”
She glared flaming arrows at him.
He ignored her.
When she refused to reply, he said, “We can stand here all day. Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me, Paleface. But then, I’m not the one who’s stark-bone naked and has an astronomical price on my head. If you want to risk being seen and getting shot by vigilantes, that’s your business.” He stared her down. “The warrant reads ‘dead or alive,’ you know.”
Their gazes locked and they engaged in visual battle. He refused to be the one to back down first.
Eventually she said, “You don’t have a heart, do you, Fletch? Just a chunk of rock rattling around in your chest.”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s not a requirement for this job.” His voice was laced with cool detachment. He glanced downhill at the group of men milling around camp. “It’s them or me. Decide who you want to spend the evening with.”
Her dark eyes flashed fire and brimstone. “The devil or one of his brothers? That’s some choice you’ve given me.”
She lurched around, gathered the quilt tightly around her and led the way through the trees. Fletch held on to the trailing hem of the blanket—just in case. He almost wished she’d make another run for it so he could feast his eyes on—
No, you don’t! the sensible voice in his head shouted. Don’t go looking for more trouble. Savanna Cantrell is a barrel load, so don’t push your luck.
The moment Savanna ducked inside the cavern concealed by a cedar tree, a low warning growl erupted. She instinctively grabbed for a weapon. The only one within reach was the dagger strapped to Fletch’s thigh. She lunged for his knife, but, hampered by the darkness, was slightly off the mark.
Her fingers inadvertently clenched in his crotch. Fletch sucked in his breath then shoved her hand away to retrieve the knife himself.
Another growl echoed around the stone walls. Thankfully, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. She noticed movement off to her left. “There,” she whispered.
“Probably a badger,” he whispered back. “Vicious little beasts.” He held his pistol—backward—in his left hand like a makeshift club. He clamped the knife in his right fist.
When the varmint snarled and charged, Fletch struck out with his boot, sending it rolling across the floor. Savanna ducked behind him and curled her bound hands against his hip, giving the impression that she was cowardly seeking his protection.
Let him think what he wants, she mused.
Fletch growled as ferociously as the badger, then gave it another kick when it attacked. The beast came back for more and Savanna decided this was the prime opportunity to escape. She wheeled around and took off barefooted, making a beeline toward the Appaloosa. And freedom. She hoped.
Savanna made it twenty feet before Fletch knocked her off balance and left her sprawled facedown in the grass. He landed on top of her. She gasped for breath—after he’d knocked the wind clean out of her.
“Damn it, stop trying to escape,” he muttered at the back of her head, after he’d tired of cursing her. “You’re really starting to tick me off. And thank you so much for the help back there.”
“You were managing fine without me,” she panted. “I thought I’d grab a breath of fresh air while you finished the fight.”
“Right.” He bounded agilely to his feet, then hauled her up beside him. “So much for your respect for the honor system. Here’s yet another example of why I don’t trust you.”
To her dismay, Fletch marched her back into the cave and forcefully sat her in the corner. He attached the shackles to a rope that he secured to an oversize boulder that blocked a narrow tunnel leading into the bowels of the earth.
“These manacles are too tight,” she complained.
“And you’re a lot of trouble,” he retaliated. “Since you won’t behave, I’m forced to treat you like the criminal you are.”
She could hear the annoyance in his voice. But she was annoyed, too. He’d thwarted her escape attempt then anchored the cuffs to stone, so his remarks had little effect on her.
“I guess I should be grateful that you didn’t grab my pistol and shoot me while I was doing hand-to-hand combat with the badger.”
“Damn, I had my chance and I didn’t take it,” she muttered caustically. “What could I have been thinking?”
“I’m sure you’ll have another opportunity. We’re a long way from Tishomingo, after all. Better luck next time, Paleface.”
“Thanks for the encouragement. I’ll try not to botch up my next attempt.” She nodded her tousled head toward the right. “There’s a stack of logs and some torches in the corner. Old Chickasaw motto—Always Be Prepared.”
“The Apache have the same motto.” He struck a match. When the small torch flared to life, he propped it against the rock wall. “My brother and I stockpile a similar stronghold for emergencies, beneath Ghost Ridge in Sundance Canyon in Texas.”
The light flickered over his high cheekbones and emphasized his muscular physique. Entranced, Savanna watched the play of light and shadows. He was six feet four inches of powerful masculinity and it nearly took her breath away just staring at him. His vivid blue eyes seemed out of place on his bronzed face. Their piercing intensity always caused her thoughts to detour into the wrong direction when she peered into them for too long at a time. They were so striking, so mesmerizing that a woman could get lost in them if she didn’t watch out.
A wave of fierce sexual attraction washed over her, even while she acknowledged the absurdity of it.
Dear God, Savanna, snap out of it! This man has no interest whatsoever in you as a woman. He wants to turn you over to the authorities so he can collect his reward. Of all the men on earth, this is the last one you should be attracted to. He will betray you in the blink of those incredible blue eyes. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t forget it.
She glanced toward the motionless carcass that he scooted from the cave with his booted foot. Then she peered up at him again, realizing this man was the epitome of what she had spent the past eight years trying to become. He was the personification of independence and self-reliance—completely competent in the wilds, utterly fearless and undaunted.
Fletcher Hawk possessed the skills and characteristics she strived to attain. Except that he had a heart of granite. She preferred not to become that callous and unfeeling.
When she noticed that he was gathering logs to build a fire, she gestured toward the mouth of the cave. “There’s a way to build a small fire so the vigilantes—”
“I told you that I’m half Apache,” he cut in, then sent her an exasperated look. “I know how to build an inconspicuous campfire. Hell, I was doing it while I was still in diapers, living a hand-to-mouth existence with my clan.” He stared at her darkly. “Then the army massacred men, women and children in our village. My mother and grandfather died from their wounds. Your people stole our land, our freedom and made life hell for my people.”
“I don’t think it’s fair to hold me personally accountable for those cruel practices,” she countered. “And it’s not as if your kind didn’t retaliate just as cruelly against my kind…”
Her voice fizzled out when she realized she was waving her bound arms in expansive gestures instead of clamping her elbows against the quilt to hold it in place. Fletch’s gaze dropped to the cleavage she had unintentionally exposed before he surveyed the scrapes and faded bruises on her forearms.
“Compliments of Roark Draper,” she said bitterly. “You’re lucky you never knew him. Believe me, he deserves to be as deep in hell as a buzzard can fly in a month.”
When she noticed his dubious expression, she huffed out a frustrated breath. Her comments might be falling on deaf ears, but that didn’t stop her from trying to drive home her point. “It could have been self-defense,” she insisted. “I was fighting for my virtue and my life. I’m not the first woman Roark terrorized, either. My best friend, Willow, caught his fancy last month. Then she suddenly disappeared. I feel responsible for whatever has happened because I convinced her to come to town for a visit before we returned to the Chickasaw girl’s academy to begin our fall teaching session. Now she’s missing.”
Savanna frowned worriedly. “I wondered if perhaps she was pregnant and too ashamed to rejoin Morningstar if Roark refused to marry her. Either that or Willow was injured during one of Roark’s drunken binges. Oliver Draper might’ve ordered his hired guns to clean up after his son,” she muttered bitterly.
“You think there’s a possibility that Willow is dead?”
Savanna nodded bleakly. “I’m hoping for the best, but I fear the worst. She could be hiding to protect herself and her unborn baby, if there is one. But if Roark became angry, she could have come to harm. His father always bailed him out and covered for him when he got into trouble.
“I also think Buck Patterson doubted I’d need my horse after Roark finished with me. Roark kept threatening bodily harm and certain death to keep me quiet. Believe me, I made plenty of racket about Willow’s disappearance and his possible involvement to counter his accusations. Buck simply jumped the gun to edge out competition for ownership of my horse.”
“You do have an amazing way of spinning a tale to your advantage,” Fletch remarked as he stoked the fire he’d built by the cave entrance. “Coffee?”
“I’d rather have my clothes back.”
He shook his raven head. “Not unless your friends get so close that we have to make a run for it.”
“They are not my friends,” she insisted resentfully. “They are my would-be executioners. If they dispose of me, Oliver can dole out the reward money as salary to his hired guns. But I’m absolutely certain that I won’t be allowed to have my day in court.”
“I’ll see that you have your day,” he promised.
“Sure you will,” she scoffed. “I trust your honorable intentions as much as I trust the intentions of the vigilantes who are breathing down my neck.”

Chapter Four
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!

Chapter Five
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.”

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