insisted. “I want Grady Mills and this is the first promising lead I’ve had in over a year. I’ve got my own fish to fry.”
“But the question is, can you go off to fry your fish and live with a woman’s senseless death on your conscience?” Bill asked somberly. “You took a vow as a Ranger and you’re honor-bound to uphold it. Now you’re a U.S. deputy marshal, too.”
Can you live with a woman’s senseless death on your conscience? Nothing else Bill Solomon could’ve said would give Fletch pause…except that. The crusty old lawman was unaware of the impact of his comment. But it struck hard and deep and reopened the unhealed memory that had haunted Fletch for five years.
Fletch muttered begrudgingly as he stuffed the warrants into his saddlebag then tucked the badge in the concealed pocket of his vest. “Can you make it to Porter’s Trading Post to rent a room on your own or do I need to make a travois to drag you there?”
Bill chuckled at Fletch’s sour scowl. “I can make the ten-mile ride if I have that pint of whiskey to numb the pain.”
“I thought it was against the law to have whiskey here.”
“It’s against the law to sell it, but this is for medicinal purposes,” Bill insisted.
Fletch hoisted Bill onto the bay gelding, then handed him the pint. They rode off, following the trail through the thicket of trees. Fletch swore he wasn’t going so much as a mile out of his way to track a female who probably deserved to have vigilantes chasing her.
Savanna Cantrell probably thought she could get away with murder, just because her father was the Chickasaw agent. If Fletch crossed paths with the woman, he’d do what he could to appease the older deputy marshal. However, he was not going to waste precious time when he had a solid lead on Grady Mills. Fletch had a long-standing debt to repay. He also had a score to settle and he’d been trying to do it for five long years…
His thoughts scattered when an eerie sensation trickled down his spine, putting his seasoned reflexes on instant alert.
“What the—?” Bill croaked when Fletch abruptly shoved him flat against his horse’s neck.
Three bullets simultaneously whistled over Fletch’s head. He bounded to the ground to pull Bill from the saddle. Bill growled in pain and grabbed at his tender leg. Fletch paid no mind to the agonized deputy marshal. He pulled both Colt pistols and blasted away at the puffs of smoke drifting from the underbrush.
“I bet it’s those scraggly buzzards from the ferry.” Bill grabbed his rifle and joined in the shootout.
“Let’s find out for sure. Cover me.” Fletch bounded on to Appy’s back and raced off.
Refusing to become an easy target, Fletch sprawled atop his horse then made a beeline toward the bushes where gunfire erupted. With both barrels blazing, he guided his steed with the pressure from his knees and heels, plunging headlong into the underbrush. Surprised yelps competed with the sounds of discharging bullets. Fletch swooped down like the angel of doom and the bushwhackers beat a hasty retreat.
Although they took off hell-for-leather, Fletch winged two in the arm. He was about to take a shot at the third when Bill bellowed, “Never mind about them sidewinders! We got more important business to attend. I’ll add their descriptions to these bench warrants. If you see ’em again, then arrest ’em. But first things first!”
It wasn’t Fletch’s nature to abandon a pursuit in progress. He’d earned the reputation with his Ranger unit as being relentless. Reluctantly he reined in his horse and retraced his steps to find Bill swearing and struggling to his feet.
After Fletch helped Bill onto his horse again, the older man removed his hat and poked his finger through the new hole he’d acquired during the shootout. “Better to give an outlaw a tall hat as a target, I always say. Better to have a hole in your hat than one in your head.”
“Yeah. Getting shot at isn’t one of my favorite things.”
Bill stared after the fleeing bushwhackers. “Sometimes I wonder if this job is worth the hell ya gotta put up with.” He shook off the thought then motioned Fletch on his way. “You go on ahead. I’ll make my way to the trading post.”
When Fletch reined north, Bill called after him. “I’m counting on you to find Savanna. My guess is that the reward on her head is luring in all sorts of no-account hooligans, like the ones who took potshots at us. They’re probably trying to dispose of competition for that bounty money.”
“Either that or our three friends already have a reward on their heads and they wanted to take us down when the opportunity presented itself,” Fletch called back.
“Could be. But I want your promise as a Texas Ranger that you’ll do your damnedest to find that gal and deliver her to me within two weeks. She’s a woman, Fletch. She’s my old friend’s only child, too. I don’t have to remind you of what she can expect if some money-grubbing ruffian apprehends her first.”
Fletch had encountered several women who had suffered abuse at outlaws’ hands. Not to mention the abuse of soldiers who preyed on defenseless Indian women on the reservation where he’d been confined—and physically restrained when he tried to intervene on a woman’s behalf.
“Promise me,” Bill demanded insistently.
Fletch sighed in exasperation. “You’re a pushy bastard, you know that, Solomon?”
“Part of my charm.” His handlebar mustache elevated a notch when he grinned unrepentantly. “I’m as pushy as you are relentless. We all have our admirable traits, don’cha know.”
“Don’t know what’s so damn admirable about being pushy. It leans more toward annoying,” Fletch said before he trotted off.
Savanna Cantrell muttered under her breath when she spotted the same lone rider who’d been dogging her heels for the past three days. He kept vanishing and reappearing from the pockets of shade cast by the trees covering the sloping hills of the Arbuckle Mountains. Her pursuer rode a muscular Appaloosa and he dressed in black. He was like a shadow within the shadows that never went away.
She was surprised that he’d picked up her trail in the first place because she periodically crossed the limestone and granite peaks that left only discreet signs of travel. She’d even disposed of horse droppings and circled back a time or two, but the living shadow remained steadfast. Damn him.
Savanna had been on the run for ten days and so far had managed to elude Oliver Draper’s parties of hired gunmen sent to capture her. She was traveling in the guise of an Indian woman and she knew the rugged terrain—every cavern, nook and cranny of this mountain range. She’d frequented the area hundreds of times during her father’s employ as the Chickasaw agent.
Savanna’s mentor, friend and substitute mother had seen to it that her survival skills were wide-ranging and always at the ready. Morningstar had taken Savanna under her wing like a Chickasaw maiden, even if Indian blood didn’t flow through her veins. In turn, Savanna had helped Morningstar and her daughter, Willow, understand white traditions, and she’d become a champion for the tribe her father protected and defended.
Savanna glanced over her shoulder as she led the rider—a relentless bounty hunter, no doubt—up the winding path to one of the rendezvous points where she met with Morningstar. Savanna had set a trap—as a last resort—several days
