back the quilt to expose Savanna’s head so she could get her bearings. When she bowed her neck to look around, a cloud of curly auburn hair framed her flushed face. A very bewitching face, he couldn’t help but notice. Not to mention that she had a luscious body that had given him a severe case of lust.
Fletch blew out an exasperated breath and glanced the other way. This is strictly business, he told himself resolutely. It didn’t matter that Savanna was the most intriguing and attractive female he’d ever seen or met. He wanted no complications in his life. No fond attachments, either. Savanna was only a passing acquaintance. End of story.
His older brother had stumbled on to an unforgettable female while on assignment and he’d eventually married her. Fletch, however, intended to remain unattached and uninvolved. He had a long-standing debt to repay and his conscience wouldn’t allow him to shirk his duty. A pretty face and a gorgeous body—even one that inspired erotic thoughts and made his mouth water—wouldn’t sidetrack him. He had willpower and self-control that wouldn’t quit—or so he told himself.
Except that he was drooling over Savanna like some moonstruck schoolboy. Damn it, if she noticed his preoccupation, he predicted she’d use his ill-fated attraction against him. Whoever or whatever Savanna Cantrell was, she was nobody’s fool. His previous dealings with her testified that her quick mind was always at work, devising ways to outsmart her antagonists.
“See that midnight-colored gelding with two white stockings one of the vigilantes is riding?” she said, breaking into his wandering thoughts.
Fletch fished his spyglass from the saddlebag to take a closer look at the five riders who’d made camp in the clearing. Four of the men met the descriptions Bill Solomon had given him. The fifth man hadn’t been on the Wanted list.
He gave a low whistle as he appraised the sleek, muscular horse. “He’s a beauty. Long and leggy and built for speed. You planning to steal him the first chance you get?”
“No, that’s my horse. He was a gift from a close friend.”
“How close?”
“That’s none of your business, but you might be interested to know that Parmicho, or Mick, as I fondly refer to him, is the police chief of the Chickasaw Nation.”
Fletch told himself that he didn’t care if the police chief was sweet on Savanna—and vice versa. He could see why men might find her appealing. He just didn’t want to be one of them.
“That’s Buck Patterson who’s riding my horse,” she continued. “Buck stole Rambler the night Roark Draper pounced on me during one of his whiskey-fueled binges. That’s why I’m riding Roark’s horse instead of my own.”
When Fletch lowered his spyglass to stare skeptically at her, Savanna thrust out her chin. “That’s the truth. The whole truth and nothing but.”
“So you’re claiming that you killed Roark Draper in self-defense then stole his horse because Patterson stole yours?”
“I did not kill Roark,” she corrected. “I incapacitated him with a well-aimed kick to his groin. I’ll be all too happy to demonstrate the maneuver if you don’t believe me.”
Fletch grimaced. “No thanks. I can’t say that I’m surprised you’re the type who hits a man where he can be hurt the worst.”
“I was defending my virtue,” she snapped righteously.
“Right. Then what happened?”
“Then I picked up a chair and slammed it upside his head. When he collapsed, I rushed down the back steps of the hotel. My horse was nowhere to be found so I climbed aboard Roark’s.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Stop looking at me like I’m lying. It’s the truth.”
“Sorry, but the jury is still out.” Fletch reached over to untie her feet. “Besides, it’s not my place to pass judgment. I’m in law enforcement not sentencing.”
Having learned his lesson about dealing with this cunning woman, Fletch hooked his arm around her waist and got a good grip on her before he cut her wrists loose from the stirrup. He quickly replaced the rope with metal shackles.
Muttering, she grabbed modestly at the quilt to cover herself while he glanced around, trying to spot the cave she claimed was in the vicinity.
“I want my clothes,” she demanded.
“No. Where the hell is the cave?”
She glared flaming arrows at him.
He ignored her.
When she refused to reply, he said, “We can stand here all day. Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me, Paleface. But then, I’m not the one who’s stark-bone naked and has an astronomical price on my head. If you want to risk being seen and getting shot by vigilantes, that’s your business.” He stared her down. “The warrant reads ‘dead or alive,’ you know.”
Their gazes locked and they engaged in visual battle. He refused to be the one to back down first.
Eventually she said, “You don’t have a heart, do you, Fletch? Just a chunk of rock rattling around in your chest.”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s not a requirement for this job.” His voice was laced with cool detachment. He glanced downhill at the group of men milling around camp. “It’s them or me. Decide who you want to spend the evening with.”
Her dark eyes flashed fire and brimstone. “The devil or one of his brothers? That’s some choice you’ve given me.”
She lurched around, gathered the quilt tightly around her and led the way through the trees. Fletch held on to the trailing hem of the blanket—just in case. He almost wished she’d make another run for it so he could feast his eyes on—
No, you don’t! the sensible voice in his head shouted. Don’t go looking for more trouble. Savanna Cantrell is a barrel load, so don’t push your luck.
The moment Savanna ducked inside the cavern concealed by a cedar tree, a low warning growl erupted. She instinctively grabbed for a weapon. The only one within reach was the dagger strapped to Fletch’s thigh. She lunged for his knife, but, hampered by the darkness, was slightly off the mark.
Her fingers inadvertently clenched in his crotch. Fletch sucked in his breath then shoved her hand away to retrieve the knife himself.
Another growl echoed around the stone walls. Thankfully, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. She noticed movement off to her left. “There,” she whispered.
“Probably a badger,” he whispered back. “Vicious little beasts.” He held his pistol—backward—in his left hand like a makeshift club. He clamped the knife in his right fist.
When the varmint snarled and charged, Fletch struck out with his boot, sending it rolling across the floor. Savanna ducked behind him and curled her bound hands against his hip, giving the impression that she was cowardly seeking his protection.
Let him think what he wants, she mused.
Fletch growled as ferociously as the badger, then gave it another kick when it attacked. The beast came back for more and Savanna decided this was the prime opportunity to escape. She
