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Fletcher's Woman. Carol Finch
Читать онлайн.Название Fletcher's Woman
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Автор произведения Carol Finch
Издательство HarperCollins
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.