Fletcher's Woman. Carol Finch
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