Fletcher's Woman. Carol Finch
arms from their sockets—he managed to scoot the knife upward until he could grasp it in his left hand.
He poked himself in the arm twice while trying to saw the leather strap in two. A half hour after Savanna rode off on his horse, Fletch was loose.
“Ornery damn witch,” he muttered at the vision dancing in his head. “Ow, ow…ouch!” He winced as his bare feet connected with sharp pebbles and twigs.
After being tied up for so long, he’d lost circulation in his limbs. Lacking his usual coordination, he kept tripping over his own bare feet. Plus, he was unfamiliar with the area. It was dark and it took him more than an hour to find the cave where Savanna had stashed his boots and weapons.
Fletch wasn’t surprised that Savanna had helped herself to more than half of his ammunition supply. But he still spouted several more epithets to her name. There was no telling where she’d gotten off to by now. Worse, he was aware that she’d been toying with him since he’d first spotted her on the trail that morning. After three days of playing cat-and-mouse, she’d decided to lure him in. Like a fool, he’d blundered into her trap and had his male pride trampled six ways to Sunday.
Tired and annoyed, Fletch contemplated disregarding the promise he’d made to Bill Solomon. Hell, he’d only met the man once and owed him nothing. As for Savanna, he wished that maddening woman farewell and good riddance!
What did he care if Savanna led the vigilantes and bounty hunters in circles for a few weeks before they captured her—or not? She certainly could ride and bait traps as well as any man he’d ever met.
She’d be fine, he convinced himself. She was no babe in the woods, that was for sure! In fact, it’d serve her right if he left her to those money-hungry, bloodthirsty vigilantes. He had his own crusade to pursue, after all. Furthermore, she was probably as guilty as sin.
The image of midnight-colored eyes twinkling with impish delight flashed in the darkness. Begrudging respect and admiration for her unconventional skills unfurled inside him, even while he tried his damnedest to ignore it.
Fletch fumbled around like a blind man, his knife at the ready—just in case the mischievous imp had left a few other surprises for him. Like a snake or scorpion in his saddlebags or boots. Cautiously, he dragged his gear from the cavern. When he shook out his boot, he encountered a scorpion. Whether the pest had been purposely planted or had set up housekeeping on his own, Fletch didn’t know. But he kicked it aside, then donned his boots. Hurriedly he strapped his double holster around his waist and tucked his extra hardware out of sight.
Quickening his pace, he jogged back to the horse Savanna had left for him. “Argh!” he yelped when he bounded into the saddle—and realized too late that she had unfastened the cinch. Fletch clawed air as he and the saddle tumbled to the ground. He landed flat on his back and his breath burst out in a pained grunt—followed by the foulest of foul curses that he attached to Savanna Cantrell’s name. Then he cursed himself because he kept underestimating her.
Now he was spitting mad! He was seeing red! He was going after her, he decided. When he caught up with the dark-eyed, dark-haired terror, he was going to strangle her with his bare hands.
No, you won’t, the sensible voice in his head said. If you do, you’ll be no better than the cutthroats you arrest.
“Fine then, so I won’t strangle her,” he said as he scraped himself off the ground. “I’ll settle for tormenting her to no end.” He resituated the saddle on her horse—and wondered if she’d purposely stolen the horse to throw the vigilantes off track, too.
Fletch took an extra moment to check the cinch to make sure it hadn’t been cut so it would rip loose when he galloped off. He wouldn’t have put it past her, but the tack seemed to be in good working order. Relieved, he was still outraged that Savanna had made him look like an incompetent imbecile so many times in the course of one day. She’d challenged his credibility as a man, as an Apache warrior and as a Texas Ranger. If the men in his battalion got wind of this mortifying incident, they’d never let him hear the end of it.
He rode off into the darkness, mentally listing all sorts of suitable tortures that might appease his humiliation. Then he set aside his need for revenge and concentrated on figuring out where she might have gone.
“I swear, Savanna Cantrell, Holy Terror of the Arbuckles, you will be damn sorry you tangled with me!” he said to the image looming large in his mind.
Savanna sighed contentedly as she paddled across the natural pool that rippled beneath the panoramic, fifty-foot waterfall tucked in the mountains. Although there were several falls sprinkled throughout the Arbuckles, Whispering Falls always brought her a sense of peace. She definitely needed that after almost two harrowing weeks on the run. Not to mention her encounter with Fletcher Hawk two days earlier.
Something about that man made her ornery and defensive. Yet, bad as she hated to admit it, she was attracted to him against her own fierce will. What woman in her right mind would be intrigued by a man who wanted to arrest her?
A wry grin pursed her lips, remembering her confrontation with the ruggedly handsome Ranger. Getting the drop on him, and then watching him being jerked upside down to hang by his heels had provided mischievous satisfaction. But when she’d peeled off his shirt then run her hands up and down his muscled legs to check for concealed weapons, it had been much too erotic. In her twenty-five years of existence, she’d never been assailed by such wickedly pleasurable sensations. It was disturbing to fantasize about a man who was only interested in bounty money.
When the vision of bronzed flesh and power-packed muscles exploded in her mind, Savanna submerged. She was not sparing that opportunistic Ranger another thought, she vowed determinedly. She had pressing matters to resolve. She didn’t need to become sidetracked by daydreaming about a man whose sleek, muscular body filled her with wayward thoughts and dangerous sensations.
Resurfacing, Savanna wasn’t sure what sort of deal Fletch had struck with Bill Solomon, but she’d bet her right arm that it wouldn’t play out to her benefit. Why and when had her father called in Bill Solomon? Had Draper bought off Solomon so he would double-cross her father? Could these charges against her be spiteful as well as politically damaging to her father? What was really going on here? she wondered.
Wary of what was transpiring around her, Savanna decided the best thing to do was to take the long way through the mountains. There, she could infiltrate Draper’s ranch and maintain surveillance on him and his hired guns.
She even wondered if one of those mercenaries had disposed of Roark after she’d stormed off that fateful night. Several ruffians had been playing bodyguard to Roark. One of them might have turned on the obnoxious bastard. All Savanna needed was a clever disguise so she could snoop around the ranch. She might be able to pick up a few tidbits of information that pinpointed the real killer and she could find out where Willow…
Her thoughts scattered when she sighted the horse she’d left for Fletch. It stood on the ledge beside the upper tier of the waterfall. Alarm shot through her like a discharging bullet. Blast it! How had Fletch found her so quickly? She’d doubled back and left false trails everywhere.
Whirling, Savanna sidestroked toward the bushes where she’d left a set of clean clothes. 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