Fletcher's Woman. Carol FinchЧитать онлайн книгу.
unexpected reaction. First off, he probably didn’t care if he captured her, dead or alive. As long as he collected the price on her head.
“Savanna Cantrell?”
His deep resonant voice rolled toward her, sending a wave of unfamiliar sensations down her spine. “Who wants to know?” she questioned his question.
“Fletcher Hawk.” His pistol was still trained on her. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Despite the several days’ growth of beard that covered his face, she unwillingly responded when he smiled. Immediately she redoubled her defenses and took a step backward. He was trying to be pleasant so he could get the drop on her. But she wasn’t falling into his trap. He was going to fall into hers.
“I’m not Savanna. I’m her decoy,” she lied through her teeth. “I know where my friend is, though. Savvy is paying me to lead mercenaries like you on a merry chase.”
He took what might’ve been mistaken as a casual step forward to counter each step she retreated, but she knew what he was doing. Savanna made double damn certain that she didn’t glance down to gauge his distance from her concealed trap. If he continued on his present path, she’d have him snared.
“Liar,” he said almost pleasantly. “I was given a description of the fugitive. You fit the bill, Savanna. Your Indian buckskin dress, moccasins and long dark braids are a nice touch, though. But you’re white, even if you have a deep tan and you’re trying to disguise your features by smearing mud and soot on your hands and face.”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Hawk.”
“No, I’m not. You don’t move like an Indian. I should know. I’m half Apache, Paleface.”
“Oh? Which half?” Impudently she looked him up and down.
“The half that counts,” he replied, easing a step closer. “I’m Apache at heart.”
“With a devil’s soul?” she inquired.
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Whatever it takes to get the job done.” He flashed another disarming smile. “But ordinarily I’m one of the nicest men you’ll ever meet.”
Savanna smirked at that. She was offended by his remark that she couldn’t pass herself off as an Indian maiden as easily as she thought she could. She’d been told that with her dark complexion, Indian-style clothing and mannerisms that she excelled at looking, thinking and behaving like a Chickasaw. She’d become very good at it…
When it dawned on her that this Hawk character was purposely baiting her as a means of distraction, she relaxed her stance and smiled nonchalantly. After all, she could be as deceptive as he could if she tried.
“So…Mr. Hawk, what’s the price on my friend’s head now?” She guessed five thousand. If she eluded captivity for a month, she predicted Oliver Draper would hike it up.
“Twenty thousand.”
Her eyes popped and she had to remind herself not to become sidetracked because she wasn’t dealing with the village idiot here. This man had proved himself exceptionally skilled at finding someone who worked hard at not being found.
When he inched a step closer, she lifted her pistol another notch. “Stay where you are, Mr. Hawk. You’re wasting your time here, but I’ll tell Savvy that she’s worth a lot of money.”
“Twenty thousand will buy a lot of trinkets. You’d also be set for life.” He tried to tempt her.
Naturally, Fletcher Hawk ignored her command to stay put—which she’d counted on. Men never gave women credit for ingenuity. It was their Achilles’ heel and she took advantage.
She cocked her head, as if pondering his offer. “I am getting tired of this cat-and-mouse game of leading you and the other men in circles. Maybe I’ll take you to Savvy’s hiding place and let you capture her. Will you split the reward with me?”
“Done.” He took that one last reckless step forward.
When she kicked aside the stake near her foot, Fletcher Hawk yelped in surprise. The camouflaged rope she’d secured to an overhanging tree limb clamped around his ankle like a steel beaver trap. She watched with wicked satisfaction as he flipped upside down and hung suspended in the air. She chuckled triumphantly while he cursed a blue streak.
Savanna was ready and waiting when he twisted sideways in an attempt to shoot the rope that held him suspended like a side of cured beef. She scooped up a makeshift club and whacked him on the head. Her shoulders sagged in relief when a dull groan tumbled from Fletcher Hawk’s lips and he sagged motionlessly.
Thunk. She watched the pearl-handled pistol drop from his fingertips. Clank. The second pistol slid from the holster and dropped beside the first. She arched an amused brow when the Bowie knife that had been strapped to his thigh joined the two Colt pistols. A smaller dagger slid from his left shirtsleeve and thudded to the ground. A boot pistol popped free and smacked him on the forehead before coming to rest atop the impressive arsenal of weapons.
She was pleased with the tack of hardware she’d confiscated, along with the ammunition on his belt. But she almost stopped breathing when two shiny badges dropped from the concealed pocket of his black leather vest.
“Oh, damn…” She plucked up the Texas Ranger star and the Deputy U.S. Marshal badge. It was bad enough that she’d been wrongfully accused of murder and had a $20,000 bounty on her head. Now she had added resisting arrest and assault on a doubly authorized officer of the law.
“I wonder if a woman can hang twice if she’s convicted of murder and assaulting a Deputy Marshal/Texas Ranger?” she said to herself. “Damn opportunistic Ranger anyway.”
No doubt, he planned to reap the benefits of the bounty. He had all the authorization and jurisdiction needed to haul her to Oliver Draper so he could string her up.
Savanna sighed in exasperation. Her life expectancy was getting shorter by the day.
Chapter Two
Fletch awoke with a hellish headache—and a barrel load of embarrassment. He’d fallen for the oldest trick in the Apache handbook. Worse, it had been a woman who’d suckered him in. Never once during their encounter or conversation had she glanced down to gauge how close he stood to the trap.
She was one hell of an actress and she’d caught him completely off guard. He shouldn’t have underestimated Savanna Cantrell, Fletch told himself as he discreetly pried one eye open to survey his surroundings.
It was dark and the cool mountain air settled over him. When he tried to shift position, he realized he’d been staked out spread-eagle on the ground. His wrists were lashed to the tree behind his head and his bare feet were anchored to a tree three feet beyond his legs. His shirt and vest were gone, along with all his hardware.
Fletch bit back an enraged growl and reminded himself that he was supposed to be playing possum so his captor wouldn’t know that he’d regained consciousness. Didn’t matter how cautious he was, he realized fifteen minutes later. That wily witch didn’t seem to be nearby—and, damn it, neither was his horse!
“Son of a bitch!” Fletch hissed. He’d been outraged when a gang of outlaws had ambushed him and stole Appy five years earlier. He hadn’t liked it then, but this was ten times worse. This time a pint-size female posing as an Indian maiden had bested him, not four hardened criminals. He had a scar on his thigh to remind him of the ambush, but he’d never forget how foolish he felt after dealing with the crafty Savanna Cantrell.
Fletch swore loudly and colorfully as he strained against the leather strips that held him fast. And to think Bill Solomon had pleaded with him to put his personal crusade on hold to locate Savanna. Innocent? He doubted it. Frightened and out of her element in the wilds? Not hardly!
“Good, you’re finally awake.” Savanna stepped into view to tower over him. “I wondered how long you were going to waste my time playing