Fletcher's Woman. Carol Finch

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