Fletcher's Woman. Carol FinchЧитать онлайн книгу.
with long curly lashes, assessed him as thoroughly as he assessed her. She looked wholesome with her flawless, tanned complexion. Her bow-shaped lips were lush and tempting…
Fletch stifled that inappropriate thought. He didn’t care if she tasted as good as she looked. The only reason he found her remotely fascinating was that he hadn’t been with a woman since… Well, he couldn’t recall exactly, especially when his head was still throbbing and thinking was tedious. Regardless of being deprived of sexual pleasure for countless months, he wanted nothing to do with her. His assignment was to haul her to Tishomingo and dump her into Bill Solomon’s lap.
Fletch didn’t care if Savanna was incredibly attractive and intelligent. Furthermore, it didn’t matter that her survival skills far exceeded any woman’s he’d ever met. He refused to be impressed because she was a dangerous combination of beauty, brains and skill. But still…
My sister-in-law would love her, Fletch caught himself thinking while he munched on the tasty food. Shiloh Drummond-Hawk was an independent-minded woman who gave as good as she got. She’d definitely approve of Savanna’s survival know-how and intelligence. Fletch might have appreciated her even more if he weren’t staked out and annoyed.
“Where’s my shirt?” he demanded between bites.
“I had to remove it. Considering all the hidden hardware that fell off while you were dangling upside down, I didn’t want to overlook any weapons stuck in your sleeve.”
He smiled devilishly. “You took my shirt, but aren’t you concerned about what I might have stashed in my breeches?”
She shoved more food into his mouth to shut him up.
“I examined your lower extremities closely,” she said.
He swallowed the mouthful of food. “Too bad I wasn’t awake for that. I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed it, darlin’.”
“I am not your darlin’. I’m not your anything.” She cast him a disgruntled frown. “You should be more concerned about what’s to become of you, not what you missed during the body search. You don’t seem to be taking me seriously, Mr. Hawk—”
“Just Fletch,” he corrected again. “And believe me, I’m taking you very seriously. You need to come to Tishomingo with me. Every day you’re on the run is an admission of your guilt. You should turn yourself in.”
“Naturally you’d say that since there’s an astronomical price on my head and you want to collect it,” she scoffed. “I’m not entirely stupid, you know. I know what motivates you and the rest of the bounty hunters on my trail. It’s money.”
Cautious and mistrusting didn’t begin to describe Savanna. She wasn’t a scatterbrained twit who leaped mindlessly from one moment to the next. Which was too bad for him.
Fletch played his ace in the hole, hoping to gain her cooperation. “Bill Solomon sent me as a favor to your father.”
“Who?” she asked.
“He’s a U.S. deputy marshal who claims that he and Robert Cantrell served together in the army,” he told her.
She inched away to regard him critically. She never said she recognized Solomon’s name and that made Fletch a mite suspicious. She kept staring at him, as if she were trying to decide if he was on the level.
“I didn’t want to be bothered with this assignment, but Solomon reminded me of what might happen to a woman at the mercy of vigilantes of questionable character. So I tracked you down,” he explained. “I was on a manhunt for someone else. A fugitive—Grady Mills—left Texas to hide out in the Territory. Maybe you’ve crossed his path. He’s almost as tall as I am. Barrel-chested. Beefy fists, bushy red-blond hair and thin-lipped.”
“What’s he wanted for?”
“Murder and robbery, to mention only two offenses.” He tried to look as harmless as possible. “You can untie me now. My hands and feet are numb.”
“No, I don’t trust you.”
“I guess that makes us even, but the straps are still so tight that they are cutting off my circulation.”
Savanna sank beside him to retrieve the canteen, then offered him a drink. Her mind buzzed like a beehive. She hadn’t seen Bill Solomon in years and she couldn’t verify that Fletch knew him or if he was name-dropping to gain her confidence.
But unless she was mistaken—and she doubted she was—Fletch had described George Miller. She’d encountered the rude character who worked at a stagecoach relay station. He’d had too much to drink and made a pest of himself during the layover.
Although whiskey was outlawed in Indian Territory, bootleggers ran rampant. Liquor was as easy to obtain as food because there weren’t enough law-enforcement officers in the Territory to hunt down the suppliers and toss them in jail.
While Savanna sat there listening to Fletch gulp water she found her gaze straying—for about the forty-eleventh time—to the muscled wall of his chest and his washboard belly. She chastised herself soundly for not draping his shirt over him. All that rippling masculine flesh was a feast to her feminine senses. She was too curious for her own good.
Plus, this man was her antagonist. Her ill-advised interest in him was going nowhere fast. She needed to keep her distance from Fletcher Hawk, Texas Ranger/Deputy U.S. Marshal. He could turn out to be her Waterloo if she didn’t watch out.
Her thoughts scattered when she heard an unidentified noise in the bushes. Savanna was on her feet in a single bound, positioning herself beside the arsenal of confiscated weapons.
She’d hoped her friend Willow would suddenly appear so Savanna would know she was safe, but Morningstar was alone when she stepped from the shadows, leading her pinto pony. The attractive Indian woman, dressed similarly in fringed leather, leggings and moccasins, halted to appraise Savanna’s half-naked captive. Then she raised an amused brow. A faint smile settled on her striking features.
“I thought it was your plan to avoid all contact with the posses and vigilantes sent to apprehend you,” Morningstar said in Chickasaw. “Why did you decide to capture this particular one at our rendezvous site?”
“He’s the only one who figured out who I am, and I couldn’t shake him off my trail as easily as I did the others. He’s a lawman and I’m not sure what to do with him.” Savanna accepted the bundle of disguises—widow’s digs, boy’s clothes, a squaw dress, serape and sombrero—that she had asked Morningstar to supply. “Plus, he’s half Apache. His exceptional tracking skills make him a dangerous threat.”
Morningstar’s lips twitched and her white teeth flashed as she glanced down at Fletch. “So, of course, you decided to undress him and steal his boots. Was that really necessary?”
“He was heavily armed and I was searching for hidden weapons,” Savanna countered defensively. “You can’t be too careful when you have a high price on your head, you know.”
“How much?” Morningstar asked, her expression sobering.
“As much as the Chickasaw tribe receives collectively in a month from the sale of coal that whites mine from tribal land.”
Morningstar’s dark brows nearly rocketed off her forehead. “This situation is becoming progressively worse. It is bad enough that our land is crawling with white and Mexican treasure hunters who are looking for loot buried by outlaws. Now they will be hunting you because of the reward. You must resolve this problem before those who recognize you are tempted to disclose your whereabouts in exchange for money.”
“Speak English,” Fletch demanded, but to no avail.
Savanna sent him a silencing glance then stared intently at her mentor. “I’m trying to devise a workable solution, but it isn’t easy when I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, trying to stay one step ahead of bounty hunters and vigilantes.
“Has Willow contacted you?”