Fletcher's Woman

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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