Fletcher's Woman. Carol Finch

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?