Carol Finch (5 page)

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 was common knowledge that Draper had taken advantage of the law stating that any white man who married a Chickasaw woman was legally entitled to her property.

“Oliver is the prime example of a white opportunist,” Savanna agreed. “If he had set his sights on me as his next conquest, I would have run screaming in the opposite direction.”

Unfortunately, the naive Chickasaw widow who’d become Oliver’s second wife—and who owned twice as much tribal property as the first wife—ignored the danger. She’d fallen for his pretentious charm and married Oliver. He’d quickly expanded his ranch operation. He’d also set up toll roads and bridges on his property, which was in a prime location. He’d forced traders, military supply wagons and other travelers to pay up or take the long way around his sprawling ranch.

“Oliver is conniving and manipulative, and he spawned a son who was as brutal as Oliver is greedy,” Morningstar remarked.

Savanna heaved a disheartened sigh. “I’ve made a mess of my crusade. Has no one seen or heard from Willow this week?”

“No, and my daughter would not want to see you hurt in your attempt to go up against the Drapers,” 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 to reenter the station. He intended to send a telegram to Bill Solomon, announcing that he’d lost Savanna.

“Where’s the train headed?” Fletch asked the agent who was busily jotting down information.

“Over to Beaver Springs to take on fuel. The next stop is a spot in the road called Wolf Hollow for a meal. Then it makes a three-hour layover in Tishomingo.”

Suddenly, Fletch jerked to attention, remembering the wry smile he’d seen twitching on the boy passenger’s lips. Delayed recognition vibrated through his mind like a gong.

“Hell and damnation!” he roared in frustrated outrage.

The agent bolted to his feet, glancing every direction at once, expecting an attack. “What’s wrong? A holdup?”

Scowling, Fletch waved off the alarmed agent. “It’s nothing. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Swearing under his breath, Fletch stalked outside to watch the train disappear from sight. He ran lickety-split toward his horse and bounded into the saddle. Too bad he hadn’t recognized the “lad” who’d been waiting to board the train. Fletch would bet his right arm that the kid wearing the felt cap, homespun shirt and breeches wasn’t a boy a’tall. It was that infuriating Savanna Cantrell in disguise! She’d outsmarted him again!

S
avanna squirmed restlessly on the hard seat and listened to the train rumble along the tracks. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d skipped another meal.

It had been several hours since she had seen Fletcher Hawk approach the small station where she’d climbed aboard the train. She’d suffered through several anxious moments, wondering if he’d arrive before she took a seat and hunkered down. As the train pulled away, she’d stared out the window to monitor his activity. Their eyes had met for a moment and she’d allowed herself a smug little smile. The hotshot Ranger hadn’t realized she’d been right under his nose, hiding in plain sight.

The train had stopped again to take on fuel and passengers but she hadn’t seen anything of Fletch—thankfully.

As much as she hated to admit it, she was going to miss matching wits with Fletch. Clashing with his fierce will had been the only enjoyment she’d had in weeks. If they had met under different circumstances, maybe…

Her thoughts trailed off when the conductor announced that an evening meal would be served at the
upcoming stop. Savanna was relieved to have a short reprieve from the hard bench seat. She ducked her head and scuttled along behind the string of passengers who filed from the rail car.

The Indian summer moon hung in the sky like a gigantic orange ball, overshadowing the stars that had begun to put in their evening appearances. Savanna took a deep breath of fresh air and told herself to relax. No one knew who or where she was. She planned to keep it that way.

It was a tranquil evening—until she stepped off the platform and an unseen hand clamped around her elbow to jerk her sideways. Alarm roared through her when she saw Fletcher Hawk’s vivid blue eyes boring into her. If not for the witnesses milling about, she swore he would’ve strangled her—and with great relish—right on the spot.

“You’re hurting my arm, sir,” she complained in a twangy, uncultured voice that was an octave lower than normal. Her childhood friend, Taylor Benson, from Fort Smith would’ve appreciated her impersonation of him, but Fletch didn’t seem particularly impressed.

“Sorry, brat, your mother sent me to find you.” He gave her a shake that could’ve caused whiplash. “Your mamma is worried sick,” he said for the benefit of the curious onlookers.

“My mamma doesn’t have the slightest use for me. Never did, never will,” she said as he propelled her alongside him.

“Gee, can’t imagine why,” he breathed down her neck. “You, being such a gentle, dignified lady and all. By the way, who raised you? A pack of wolves?”

Although Savanna set her feet, Fletch uprooted her and shoved her around the side of the building—away from the prying eyes of bystanders.

“How’d you get here so fast?” she asked.

“On the winged feet of justice and a swift horse that can run cross-country when necessary,” he muttered in reply.

“At least let me grab a bite to eat before you put me in cuffs again,” she pleaded. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

Fletch’s ruggedly handsome features were set in an expression of refusal. To her surprise, he blew out a breath, raked his hand through his thick raven hair and said, “Fine, you can have your last supper, but if you make another run for it, I’ll shoot both legs out from under you. Do you understand me, Savvy? You’ve spoiled what was left of my good disposition.”

“Didn’t know you had one.” An impish grin twitched her lips as he spun her around then half dragged her back to the door of the train station.

“I had a reasonably good disposition before I had the misfortune of meeting you.” He gave her the evil eye. “I mean it, damn it. One false move and I’ll expose your identity. Those mercenaries will know that you’ve been disguising yourself in the various outfits that you stash in your satchels and are now traveling by train. They’ll hunt you down, guaran-damn-teed. I’ll stand aside and let it happen because I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with your antics.”

Judging by the bone-crushing grasp on her mending arm—compliments of the fiasco with Roark Draper— Savanna knew Fletch was dead serious. If she didn’t behave, he’d make an example of her.

Defeated, Savanna plunked onto the bench to slurp up the watery beans and choke down the dry corn bread the attendant placed in front of her. Quiet conversation floated around her, but Fletch said nothing. He ate his meal and
glowered at her at irregular intervals. Then he glared at her for a long, hard moment after he finished eating—just in case she might’ve thought he’d softened toward her.

A half hour later the conductor shouted, “All aboard!” The other passengers—save one—trooped back to their seats.

“I need to retrieve my bags,” Savanna insisted. “At least let me fetch them so I’ll have a change of clothes.”

“We’ll fetch them together. I’m not letting you out of my sight for any reason until I hand you over to Bill Solomon.” He glowered at her again as he whisked her toward the platform. “After that, I never want to see you again. Ever.”

“Gee, Mr. Ranger/Marshal, you sure hold a grudge,” she drawled. “I play one little trick on you and you get all spiteful and snarly.”

He scowled at her as he swooped down to snatch up the bags she’d tucked beneath the train seat. “You’re costing me time, brat. I’m clean out of patience, so don’t push it. Hear me?”

Fletch towed Savanna past the seated passengers then pulled her off the platform before she could make a break for it. She noticed that a strawberry roan mare waited beside his Appaloosa. She arched a brow as he drew her to a halt beside the horse.

“Did you steal the roan or commandeer it?” she asked flippantly.

“Bought it from a Chickasaw farmer I met while racing cross-country.”

“A gift for me? How sweet of you.”

He scowled at her again. “I’m anything but sweet. I’m being careful. I’m not taking the risk of riding double with you. You’re a skilled pickpocket. I shudder to think what else you’d swipe besides the spare key to the cuffs.” His
dark brows bunched over his squinty gaze as he thrust out his hand. “Gimme the other key.
Now.
”

She sighed dramatically as she slapped the key into the palm of his hand. “There. Happy now?”

“No, not until you’re out of my hair and out of my life for good. You’re as much trouble as you’re worth in bounty money.”

Although Savanna resisted being scooped into his arms then planted on the spare horse, she went perfectly still when he crammed a pistol barrel between her ribs.

“I mean business,” he muttered in such a vicious voice that she blanched.

When she met his glittering gaze, she decided that Fletcher Hawk had been going easy on her up to this point. She had exhausted his patience. She was witnessing, firsthand, the force and ferocity he applied when dealing with difficult outlaws. She’d developed a fond attachment for Fletch—ill advised though it was—but it wasn’t mutual. He didn’t like her one whit.

Everything inside her rebelled while he tied her wrists to the pommel and her feet to the stirrups. For insurance, he fastened a rope around her neck and secured it to his saddle horn. In silence, he followed the train tracks toward Tishomingo.

An hour later he asked, “Why did your mother disown you and give you to wolves to raise?”

“Because she regrets the day I was born,” she blurted resentfully. “She didn’t want me or my father after he accepted the army commission in the West. She thought it was beneath him, so she packed up and headed back to Georgia and its high society. To
Savannah,
to be specific. Being the wife of an army scout and Indian agent didn’t
meet her expectations. According to my mother, ‘
The
Bennetts from Georgia are much too dignified and cultured to exist on an outpost of civilization, mingling with commoners and redskin heathens.’”

Savanna snapped her mouth shut so fast she nearly clipped off her runaway tongue. She didn’t know why she had blurted all that out. No doubt, exhaustion, frustration and years of bottled resentment must’ve caught up to her.

“Feeling better now?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

“No.”

“So what about the wolf pack?”

“There was no wolf pack,” she muttered. “It was just my father and I moving from one frontier fort to the next. After my mother left, I swore I’d never be so dependent on anyone whose departure from my life could hurt so much. I learned to take care of myself early on because Papa was gone on assignment quite often.”

Fletch well remembered steeling himself against the hurt and loss in life, just as Savanna had. It explained why she could handle herself expertly in most situations. She’d made damn sure she was self-reliant and emotionally tough.

“You let your father raise you like the son he didn’t have because that’s the way you wanted it,” Fletch presumed. “Then he packed you off to live with the Chickasaw woman I met earlier. She taught you the ways of her people. Am I right?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “For a man who swore an hour ago that he was anxious to wish me good riddance you sure have a lot of nosy questions. Why do you care?”

He shrugged, pretending indifference. But he
was
curious about this woman. “I don’t care. Just killing time.”

“Then what about you? How did you get to be who you
are?” A teasing grin quirked her lips. “Of course, I’m referring to the spiteful, grudge-holding, gun-toting lawman who’d just as soon shoot me as look at me because I made him look bad.”

He cut her a glance that indicated she’d gone too far. But Savanna wouldn’t let it go. Why was he not surprised?

“Seriously, who
are
you, Fletch?” she persisted.

“My father, John Fletcher Logan, was an opportunist who married my mother so he’d have immunity with the Apache while he hunted and trapped,” Fletch explained. “Gray Hawk, my grandfather, was a healer and shaman. He thought it was good medicine to have a white man in the family. He wanted to learn to think and speak like a white man, so he offered up my mother as a means to an end. But my father came and went, collecting enough furs and tracer gold to buy himself respectable status in white society. Then he disappeared when we were marched to the reservation at Bosque Redondo.”

“That sounds like the prearranged marriage my parents found themselves thrust into,” Savanna inserted.

“Exactly. My brother and I were the byproduct of a convenient marriage. So don’t go thinking you’re the only one who was unwanted and unloved by a parent. At least you still have a caring father. Our father hightailed it out of our lives and never looked back. My mother and grandfather died of wounds after the massacre that was publicized as a
battle…
Which, of course, it wasn’t,” he added bitterly. “My brother and I were marched to the godforsaken reservation. But then, no one promised me that life would be easy. Sure ’nuff it isn’t.”

“Good thing no one offered us empty promises because that would lead to disappointment and disillusionment,”
she replied as she shifted restlessly against the restraints. “Are we stopping for the night? I’m exhausted, not that you care. But if I nod off, this noose is liable to choke me. Not that you care about that, either, but Bill Solomon won’t be pleased. Neither will my father.”

He stared at her for a long moment then said, “Your friends, the vigilantes, are convinced that you were the woman scorned. They claim you killed Roark Draper in a jealous rage before you stole his money and his horse and rode off hell-for-leather. They also think Willow is either hiding from you or that she also became a victim of your deranged wrath and her remains have yet to be located.”

Savanna swore under her breath. “I suspected Oliver Draper would put his convenient spin on the incident to make me look bad. He deserves high marks for creativity.”

“Are you denying a romantic interest in Roark?” Fletch grilled her sharply. “Were the two of you rolling around on the sheets in the hotel room before you found out that you weren’t the only woman he was sleeping with? Did he tell you that he was also having an affair with your best friend?”

His accusing tone caused outrage to splash across her cheeks and pulsate through her veins. Savanna counted to ten in an attempt to regain control of her temper. It wasn’t easy, but she managed, just as she had overcome other adversity in life. She knew he was baiting her, trying to get to the truth. She suspected he was trying to make her angry enough to blurt out a confession of guilt that coincided with his low opinion of her.

Savanna took in a steadying breath, composed herself, then said, “You are barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Ranger/Marshal. I had no respect or affection whatsoever
for Roark. If he were the last man on this earth, and life as we know it would cease to exist if we didn’t procreate, I still wouldn’t go near him. He was a brute, a drunk and a bully. His touch repulsed me.

“Furthermore, I despise men who use force to appease their animalistic desires. My only interest in Roark was a confession and information. Morningstar’s daughter, Willow, is still missing. She was—
is
—like a sister to me and I fear the worst about her welfare.”

She hauled in a fortifying breath then continued. “Although my father couldn’t legally marry Morningstar, because
The
Bennetts of Georgia won’t tolerate the scandal of divorce, we’re a family in the eyes of the Chickasaw. I am
not
jealous of Willow. But I did try to warn her away from Roark.”

“And who taught you that annoying habit of picking pockets?” He wanted to know.

She smiled, fondly picturing her dear friend from the past. She glanced at her companion, who cast an imposing silhouette in the moonlight, and wondered why she still had an ill-fated interest in him. After all, he stood directly in the path of her need for freedom and justice.

“I learned the skill from a street urchin named Taylor Benson. He was my childhood companion while Papa and I spent two years in Fort Smith. Taylor was a very resourceful lad. I begged Papa to adopt him before we moved to Indian Territory, but Taylor would have none of that. Said he was born to float the river and wander the streets. He thought Indians might take a fancy to his scalp while he still had a use for it.”