Carol Finch (13 page)

When the rancher spotted Fletch, he snatched up the rifle leaning against the fence then snapped it into firing position. Fletch raised both arms over his head, then nudged Appy with his knees.

“Texas Ranger and Deputy U.S. Marshal,” Fletch called. “My badges are in my vest pocket.”

The rancher didn’t lower his weapon until Fletch produced the two badges. Even then, the stocky, dark-haired man remained on alert.

“I need a favor before I ride off in pursuit of a fugitive,” Fletch requested as he stared down at the rancher whose mixed heritage was as obvious as Fletch’s. But then, he knew that many Chickasaw tribe members were of mixed ancestry. Generations earlier, they had married French, Scottish and English colonists and adapted many elements of the white man’s lifestyles.

Fletch almost felt at home in the area. Here, he didn’t seem to be an outcast of white society because whites were a minority. There were as many folks with mixed heritage as not.

“What tribe do you hail from?” the rancher asked.

“Apache. Mind if I climb down?”

“Yes, I mind. I don’t like Apaches. They’d rather steal your horse as look at you.”

Fletch barked a laugh—and was relieved to note that the rancher’s lips twitched in devilish amusement. “Then you’ll enjoy the trade I have in mind. I’m riding the best mount a man could ever own. I’ll trade him straight up for one of those mulish, flea-bitten animals you’re trying to pass off as quality horseflesh.”

The rancher tossed back his head and chuckled good-naturedly. Then he motioned for Fletch to dismount. “My
name is Gordon Hill.” He extended his hand. “You on the Cantrell case?”

Fletch shook hands. “Is my answer going to affect our trade one way or another?”

Gordon shrugged a thick-bladed shoulder then glanced toward the house where a woman with a shotgun watched and waited. “My wife, Minna, studied at the academy with Savvy Cantrell. We have known her for years and we have great respect for her father. Savvy didn’t kill that worthless son of a bitch, as rumors claim. But I figure Roark Draper had it coming. His bad behavior was bound to catch up with him sooner or later.”

Fletch arched a dark brow as he glanced at the woman in the window. “You knew Roark?” he asked, refocusing on Gordon.

“Knew him and hated him,” Gordon said frankly. “He was a bully and womanizer who thought he was too good to answer for the cruel things he did to others.” He glanced back at his wife, gesturing for her to lower the rifle. “Roark got hold of Minna one evening while we were in town re-stocking supplies. He was drunk and she ended up with a black eye and split lip. Roark’s daddy paid us off to keep quiet. Like fools, we took the money and left town, especially since Oliver had three heavily armed henchman to back up his order to keep silent…or else.”

Fletch watched a petite woman, also of mixed heritage, stride outside to join her husband. He nodded a greeting when Gordon formally introduced Minna.

“My name is Fletch and I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Willow was killed a few days ago. Draper is trying to pin her death on Savanna Cantrell.”

Gordon and Minna nodded grimly and he realized they had
heard the news already. He looked around, wondering if Savanna was hiding out or had been here ahead of him. When he spotted the roan grazing in the pasture he figured Gordon had given her another horse to throw her pursuers off track.

“Willow never hurt a living soul,” Minna murmured. “She had the sweetest, gentlest disposition you can imagine. She and Savanna saw something in each other that was missing in themselves. One is vibrant and spirited, the other was quiet and reserved. Savanna would never have harmed her friend. Those of us who know them refuse to believe that nonsense. This has to be more of Draper’s manipulative scheming.”

“What would Draper have to gain by putting Savanna away?” Fletch asked as Gordon motioned him toward the house.

“Can’t say, but that conniving bastard always has something up his sleeve. He’s never satisfied unless he owns the best horseflesh, the best cattle herd, the largest ranch and the finest clothes.”

The scent of homemade bread met Fletch at the door. His stomach growled appreciatively. His gracious hosts offered him two slices of warm bread and cool spring water, which he eagerly accepted and gobbled up.

“So what is it that you want with one of my prize horses?” Gordon asked, his dark eyes twinkling.

“I need to become less visible when I reconnoiter Draper Ranch or ride into Tishomingo to investigate,” Fletch explained. “But I want Appy back later. He’s the best friend I’ve got.”

“You need a wife, not a sentimental attachment to a horse,” Gordon teased, snickering. “Minna has a sister who is marrying age. She might be persuaded to take on an Apache.”

Fletch smiled, wondering why the thought of any other woman didn’t interest him. May the Great Spirit help him if he got too involved with that dark-eyed holy terror who was only God knew where right now, trying to serve justice single-handedly.

“Thanks, but I’m not in the market for a bride.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, the horse trade will be enough for one day. And by the way, I know Savanna has been here.”

Gordon grinned wryly. “You’re pretty smart for an Apache.”

Fletch chuckled then said, “Tell me everything you know about Oliver Draper and his army of hired guns.”

After picking up several interesting facts about Draper’s reign as land baron and cattle king of the Chickasaw Nation, Fletch selected a nondescript brown gelding and rode south. The heat from the day still hung in the air and gray clouds piled up on the northern horizon, indicating an approaching storm. Fletch hoped he could locate Savanna before she hunkered down to let the storm blow over…or a lynch mob caught up with her.

Savanna allowed herself to be pulled from her horse and marched down the dark alley. The streets of Tishomingo were deserted at this hour and she was eternally grateful for that. Maybe a lynch mob wouldn’t congregate until tomorrow. That gave her one night to figure out how to escape.

As thunder rolled overhead Savanna glanced at the police chief, who’d accurately predicted where to find her and had taken her into custody. “Tell me the truth, Mick. Do you honestly believe I killed Roark in a jealous rage and then turned my wrath on my best friend?”

Parmicho escorted her around the corner of the building to the boardwalk. “No, but the eye witnesses I interviewed claim they saw you sneak into the hotel before they heard a gunshot.”

“At Oliver Draper’s prompting, no doubt,” she murmured as they bypassed a streetlamp to avoid detection.

“I suspect so,” Mick agreed. “But it’s better if you are in custody, awaiting transport to the federal courthouse in Paris, Texas. I’ll claim that you gave yourself up voluntarily and that will help your cause.”

Savanna ducked into the office a moment before streak lightning lit up the sky. Thunder boomed the same instant that Mick shut and locked the door. He led her to the back room where three jail cells stood empty.

She wrinkled her nose at the offensive stench.

“Sorry,” he murmured as he opened the door to the center cell. He checked her satchels for weapons then tossed them on the cot. “Not the best accommodations, but you’ll be safe.”

“I could tolerate captivity better if Oliver Draper was locked up beside me. But I’m sure he has a host of acquaintances who can corroborate his claim that he was nowhere near the hotel the night Willow—” Her voice wobbled and she wheeled around to stare out the barred window at the approaching storm.

“Willow had been starved,” Mick reported. “Whether voluntarily or into submission I don’t know. My guess is that someone had been holding her in captivity until you were located so you could take the blame for disposing of her.”

Savanna lurched around. Her eyes flooded with tears instantly. “Dear God, the scenario just keeps getting worse. Was she tortured, too?”

When Mick held out his arms, offering consolation, Savanna went straight to him. His arms folded around her and his familiar scent countered the foul odors of the jail. However, being with Mick wasn’t the same as seeking solace with Fletch. Savanna knew that would be the case. Yet, Mick was trying to help, misdirected though his actions were.

He thought this jail was indestructible. She thought his high expectations for truth and justice were going to be the death of her.

“I’m sorry, Savvy,” Mick murmured against her ear as he gave her a comforting squeeze. “The doctor noted signs of abuse. To what extent he hadn’t determined before I rode out, hoping to find you before vigilantes did.”

“I
might
be guilty of murder, when all is said and done. I’d like to kill Oliver for making my life hell. If this goes on much longer I’m liable to snap,” she muttered as she clung to her longtime friend for moral support.

Mick had always wanted more than she could give, but she still had fond feelings for him. Ah, she wished he stirred the same fierce longings that Fletch did. How much simpler her life would be if he did.

Well, except for these two murder charges hanging over her head. And who knew what else Oliver Draper planned to dream up to make her look like a heartless outlaw. If it was his intention to spread vicious gossip to ruin the Cantrell name, he was certainly covering all the bases.

“According to Oliver, Willow was Roark’s fiancée.”

“What!” Savanna reared back to gape at Mick.

He nodded his dark head. “Supposedly, you were so outraged by the news that Roark imparted that night at the hotel that you shot him. Then you
supposedly
tracked Willow to the same hotel and had your revenge on her, too. That’s
the story being circulated to turn both white and Indian against you.”

Savanna was furious with Oliver Draper. Had he concocted all these lies by himself? Or was someone else feeding him this nonsense. If so, who?

“Oh, and by the way, Oliver increased the reward on your head after we found Willow,” Mick reported grimly.

“Dear God,” she groaned.

“Don’t worry, Savvy. We’ll get this straightened out,” Mick encouraged. “You know I’ll be on hand to testify when your case comes to trial. Even if you don’t return my affection, I will still be there for you.”

Savanna stepped from his circling arms, her eyes wide with alarm. “You can’t do that! Any affiliation or support puts you in grave danger. It’s bad enough that I feel responsible for allowing Willow anywhere near Roark to begin with. I can’t bear to have you struck down, too. Draper will twist the truth to make me responsible for what might happen to you.” She shook her head adamantly. “I don’t want to be the curse of your life, Mick. Please let me go. I can’t bear to see you hurt.”

Mick nudged her back into the cell. Then he patted his pocket and smiled in tolerant amusement. “Okay, give ’em back.”

She stared at him in mock confusion. “Give what back?”

He held out his hand, palm up. “My jail keys. And don’t give me that wide-eyed innocent stare. We grew up together, remember? I know your friend Taylor taught you to pick pockets. It’s not the first time you picked mine for the challenge of it.”

She sighed melodramatically then handed over the keys she’d lifted while he’d hugged her.

Mick curled his forefinger beneath her chin to lift her annoyed gaze to his. “You’ll be safe here, Savvy. I promise.”

“Forever the optimist,” she mumbled, wishing she had snatched up his pistol when she had the chance. “You probably believe there’s a pot of gold at both ends of the rainbow and silver linings in every cyclone, don’t you?”

He chuckled as he locked the cell. “Of course, I do. And never fear that I’ll be here to protect you…or die trying.”

She frowned at him darkly. “You try to be that noble and I’ll shoot you myself.”

Mick shook his head and grinned. “That’s one of the things I love about you. That sassy spirit. Why aren’t there more women like you in the world?”

“There used to be.” She uplifted her arm in an expansive gesture. “But most of my breed rotted away in jails like this one.”

O
liver Draper heaved a frustrated sigh as he flounced on the sofa at his palatial home. Although he’d made money by constructing and operating a hotel in Tishomingo after his initial arrival in Indian Territory, and had acquired land by marrying into the Chickasaw tribe, his latest endeavor wasn’t going well. And even though he’d turned a profit and provided a comfortable living for himself and his son, he hadn’t planned to actually
live
in the Territory. He’d expected to be enjoying the luxuries of proper society in Saint Louis.

Oliver gave his white wife, Francine, a fleeting thought as he poured himself a drink. She was supposed to have provided him with all the right connections in Saint Louis for years to come. Unfortunately she’d done him the disservice of dying while he was on one of his lengthy business trips in Texas.

Francine’s father, Will Harmon—the snobbish son of a bitch—had turned out Oliver and Roark in the time it took to blink. He claimed they lacked blue blood and he hadn’t wanted Francine to marry Oliver in the first place. After
his daughter’s death, Will proceeded to write off his son-in-law. After all, Will’s blue-blooded son, heir to the family fortune, had a blue-blooded son, so Oliver and Roark were out of luck.

“Take a good look at me now, Will Harmon, you condescending old bastard,” he muttered to what he hoped was a man long gone.

Raising a toast to prime property, livestock and lavish furnishings in his sprawling home, Oliver took another swallow. “I showed them all. Almost.”

His lips curled and he swore mightily when thoughts of Robert and Savanna Cantrell popped to mind. Oliver had set his sights on becoming the Indian agent and taking advantage of financial opportunity. But the Cantrells had gained enough popularity that only disgrace and gossip that swayed public opinion would ensure their fall from favor.

“Damn it, I rule this section of the Territory. I have dozens of men at my beck and call and yet I can’t find that sassy bitch who tangled up my plans!”

The thought of his departed son caused him to swear sourly, repeatedly. Roark had been a wild-hearted teenager and uncontrollable adult. But Oliver had his ways of handling the boy. But it was Robert Cantrell and his daughter who’d been confounding Oliver’s well-designed plans the past few years.

“Mr. Draper, there’s someone here to see you.”

He looked up to see Natalie Chambers, the stout Indian housekeeper, hovering beside the parlor door. “Who is it?”

“He didn’t say. Just that he’d be waiting at the back door. He clung to the shadows of the trees so I couldn’t see him clearly.”

His insolent colleague, no doubt. Oliver set aside his glass then surged to his feet. “Tell him to meet me in the barn.”

Her expression suggested she wanted him to tell the mysterious visitor himself, but she clamped her lips together then turned away.

“Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes,” he ordered.

Striding into the tiled hall, Oliver snatched up his gun belt and fastened it around his hips. He tucked a derringer in his vest—just in case the conversation went to hell. And it very well could, he mused in annoyance. He had more than a few words—and none of them kind words—to spout at his cohort. The man had made promises he hadn’t delivered.

Oliver had a low tolerance for inefficiency.

As an afterthought, Oliver grabbed his dagger and stuck it up his sleeve. You never could be too careful, he reminded himself. Plus, his bodyguard and several hired men were within shouting distance, in case he had trouble.

Pulling his hat low on his forehead, he walked outside. When rain splattered around him, he hurried to the barn.

“Did you finally apprehend Savanna?” Oliver demanded without preamble.

“Even better, the police chief brought her in.”

Oliver snorted disdainfully. “How is that better? I’m paying you a helluva lot of money to make certain things happen. Now I have to hand the reward money over to Parmicho.”

His cohort smiled devilishly. “Not if he doesn’t survive to collect. A lynch mob can get out of hand when a lawman tries to stop them from hanging a killer. Savanna is in jail and now’s the time to act, Draper. As soon as this storm blows over, you and your men will ride into town. I’ll be in place already.”

When Oliver tried to walk away, his associate snagged
his arm. “You missed a payment, Draper. Gimme what cash you have on you and bring the rest into town. Otherwise, I might miss when I aim at Parmicho. I might hit
you
by mistake.”

Grudgingly, Oliver retrieved all the money he had on him, and then slapped it into his cohort’s hand.

“That’s a start. See you in town later. I’ll be in the alley beside the telegraph office.”

Oliver gnashed his teeth as his colleague ambled down the breezeway to exit the back of the barn. “Cocky son of a bitch,” he mumbled as he wheeled around and strode off.

His mood lightened when he reminded himself that within a few hours he’d conclude his business with his overbearing associate. By then, Savanna would be out of the way and he’d concentrate on his next mission—getting rid of Robert Cantrell.

Fletch stared through his spyglass, watching a dozen men lead their horses from Draper’s oversize barn. He’d hoped to overtake Savanna. He’d expected her to be lurking around somewhere. However, the only tracks of a single rider led to the back of the house, to the barn and then toward town.

Then the rain had poured down for two hours and Fletch had been forced to tuck himself beneath the blackjack trees. He had fashioned a blanket from weeds and tall grass. The old Apache technique had kept him reasonably dry.

His attention settled on the riders who grabbed torches to light their way after the rain let up. Fletch’s sixth sense buzzed like a beehive. Something significant was about to happen. The fact that he didn’t have Savanna tucked safely beside him made him twitchy. Where the hell was she?

The instant he realized the vigilantes were heading to
town, Fletch bounded onto his borrowed horse and raced off. The horse couldn’t match Appy’s speed and endurance, but he blended into the darkness. That was the only good thing Fletch had to say about Gordon Hill’s horse.

Fletch rode hard, intent on staying ahead of the vigilantes. Unless he missed his guess—and he doubted that he had—Draper had received word of Savanna’s whereabouts. Someone had obviously given her up—for the exorbitant price Draper put on her head. Fletch’s mind raced, trying to predict where she might be. Was she questioning witnesses at the hotel? Was she talking to local citizens—who had betrayed her for the reward?

When the train whistle broke the silence, Fletch glanced toward the tracks. The predawn arrival of the train would provide cover so Draper’s men couldn’t spot Fletch. He slowed his horse to cross the tracks ahead of the train. Then he kept pace with the locomotive, using it as his shield.

Fletch drew the winded steed to a halt when the train rolled into the station. He dismounted, and nearly fell off his boot heels when a tall, familiar figure appeared beside two other male passengers. Goggle-eyed, Fletch watched the conductor appear on the elevated platform, holding a lantern over the steps to light the way so the men could exit the train.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Fletch chirped in stunned amazement.

His older brother stared at him for a long moment before fixing his attention on the lathered horse. “Where’s Appy? Did someone steal him again?”

Fletch snapped to attention then grabbed Hawk’s arm to tow him around the corner of the station and out of sight. “Appy is tucked away so I can keep a low profile… Why are you here?”

“You tell me,” Hawk insisted. “I received an anonymous telegram that urged me to come here immediately because you’d crossed over the line from lawman to outlaw.”

Fletch frowned, bemused. “I wonder who sent that? I didn’t tell anyone about you or mention where you live.”

“Obviously someone around here knows more than he’s telling.” Hawk slung his satchel over his shoulder. “I need a horse. On the way to the livery, you can brief me on what’s going on. And by the way, Shiloh is at home worrying about you.”

Fletch smiled. “Nice to know my sister-in-law cares about me.” His mind raced, trying to figure out who had contacted Hawk. Bill Solomon? Rob Cantrell? They had the connections to find out where Hawk lived. After all, Hawk was a legend among the Rangers before he resigned then married Shiloh. He still took special assignments when desperadoes threatened his part of Texas.

“Give me the details,” Hawk requested as they dodged water puddles to reach the stable.

Fletch glanced over his shoulder to check for the vigilantes. He estimated they were a quarter of an hour behind him. “Savanna Cantrell is accused of two murders.”

“She’s a she?” Hawk tweeted.

“Yes and she’s been set up.”

“Set up for two murders?”

Fletch stared disapprovingly at his brother. “You may be a Hawk but you sound like a parrot.”

“What proof do you have that she’s telling the truth?”

“I have her word,” Fletch replied.

Hawk snorted. “No wonder the anonymous messenger indicated you were in serious trouble. You’re personally involved with this woman, aren’t you?”

Fletch avoided Hawk’s probing gaze. “Sort of.”

“Oh, hell, you are,” Hawk groaned. His dark eyes riveted on Fletch. “How many laws have you bent or broken for her?”

“Only a couple. Just aiding and abetting. Oh, and I almost forgot, accomplice to—”

Hawk interrupted with a long string of expletives. Finally he asked, “Where is she now?”

“I’m not sure, but there’s a pack of vigilantes headed this way from Draper Ranch. Savanna is being blamed for killing Oliver Draper’s son and then for gunning down her best friend.”

Hawk frowned warily.

“Long story.”

“Catch me up later.” Hawk barreled into the livery stable to rouse the attendant. Within minutes he had rented a horse that Fletch swore came from Gordon Hill’s mediocre stock. Gordon must have convinced the stable owner that his horses were sturdy and reliable. Either that or the attendant was related to Gordon and was keeping the business in the family.

Fletch, however, would take Appy any day. That horse could flat-out run and he was surefooted in rugged terrain.

Once outside, Fletch scanned the empty streets. He heard the sound of approaching riders and watched the sun peek from the low-hanging clouds, signaling the dawn of a new day. The police chief exited the restaurant and walked across the muddy street, carrying a breakfast tray with two cups and plates.

Fletch remembered Savanna telling him that she and the police chief had known each other since childhood. A sinking feeling landed like a rock in the pit of Fletch’s belly.

“Oh, damn.”

Hawk jerked up his head and frowned. “Now what?”

“I think I know where to find Savanna. C’mon, big brother, we don’t have much time to spare.”

“I hope you’ve taken into account that this woman might actually be guilty, even if she swears up and down that she’s not,” Hawk said helpfully.

Fletch rolled his eyes at his brother then veered off into the alley. Hawk followed closely behind him. The rattle of keys against metal bars and the quiet murmur of voices caught Fletch’s attention. He halted beside the barred windows of the jail then mounted his horse so he could look inside.

Hawk followed suit, shaking his head in dismay all the while. Clearly, he thought Fletch had taken leave of his senses when he got mixed up with Savanna. That much was true, but Fletch still refused to let her hang unfairly.

As expected, Fletch saw Savanna—dressed in a squaw dress and moccasins, her long hair in braids—locked behind bars. Her satchels were on the edge of the cot. She was conversing with the handsome police chief who set aside the tray of food.

“She’s Indian?” Hawk whispered beside him.

“Impersonating a Chickasaw. She’s the Indian agent’s daughter,” Fletch explained quietly.

He frowned when the police chief eased close to pat Savanna’s shoulder. The look on the man’s face—what was his name? Mick?—spoke of affection. So why had he brought her in? Or had Savanna given herself up? And why the hell would she have changed her mind and decided to do that?

“Hmm, looks like you’ve got competition, little brother,” Hawk noted wryly.

“Shut up, big brother.” Fletch’s curt reply earned him a quiet chuckle. He could’ve kicked himself for being obvious. Hawk was astute, no doubt about it. Very little got past him. Hawk already suspected this case had become personal, although Fletch had preferred that it didn’t.

Too damned late for that, he mused in frustration.

Hawk’s expression turned serious when he, like Fletch, heard the clatter of approaching horses. No doubt, Oliver Draper and his henchmen had arrived to incite a lynch mob into action. Fletch glowered at Mick, wondering if the police chief was
pretending
affection before he betrayed Savanna for the reward.

“Hawk, go find a couple of ropes,” Fletch murmured as he watched Mick trail his forefinger over Savanna’s creamy cheek. Either the man had it bad or he was setting Savanna up for another fall. “If we don’t break Savanna out of here within the next few minutes she’ll be on her way to a lynching.”

Hawk bounded from his horse then darted off. Fletch watched Mick slide the breakfast tray through the opening in the bars. Then he leaned in to brush a kiss over Savanna’s cheek. The look in Mick’s eyes didn’t look feigned. The man was crazy about Savanna, he realized.

Possessive jealousy nipped at Fletch, even while he told himself that Savanna could kiss whomever she pleased, whenever she pleased. Unfortunately it didn’t sit well when he was on hand to watch it happen.

When Mick finally left the room, Fletch tapped lightly on the bar to gain Savanna’s attention. Her first instinct was to duck, just in case someone was prepared to shoot her when she turned around. Fletch stuck his face between the bars so she could see there was no cause for alarm.

“If you’re done kissing Mick, I’d like a word.”

Savanna’s shoulders sagged in relief as she set aside the tray. “Fletch? How did you know where to look for me?”