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?” Savanna asked anxiously. “Has anyone spotted her hiding out in the mountains?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Morningstar replied fretfully. “To make matters worse, you have captured a law officer, and I doubt your father would approve. Robert cannot come here, for fear that he might lead mercenaries to you. He cannot risk trying to contact me for the same reasons.” She stared pensively at Fletch. “Maybe you should take this lawman into your confidence and let him become your protector. Do you think he is trustworthy enough to help you?”
Savanna laughed humorously. “No. Right now I can’t trust anyone not to betray me except you.” She stared down into Fletch’s intense blue eyes. “This man is both a Ranger and deputy federal marshal. He claims to know Papa’s longtime friend from the army, but I’m not taking any chances of being deceived. I’m better off on my own.”
Morningstar retrieved the bandoleer of ammunition and a package she had tucked beneath the saddle blanket. “Your friends in our mountain village took up a collection of supplies to sustain you. They wish you well, my child. I do not advise that you linger too long in one place. I saw several campfires glowing in the valleys. There are too many men searching for you.” She stared solemnly at Savanna. “These ruthless bands of white men are putting Chickasaw families at risk and could be driving Willow deeper into hiding, too.”
Savanna mulled over Morningstar’s words long after the older woman retreated into the darkness. The very last thing she wanted—aside from swinging from the gallows and having her neck stretched out like taffy—was to endanger those she considered extended family, those who offered her aid and comfort while she dodged the posses. Willow might even think they were chasing her and refuse to show her face or make contact.
“Who the hell was that woman?” Fletch demanded, breaking into her troubled thoughts.
“None of your business.”
She stood directly over the brawny lawman sprawled helplessly at her feet. When it came to men, Savanna wondered if this wasn’t the best way to deal with the troublesome gender. For sure and certain, the safest way to deal with this particular man was to leave him shackled. If wild animals or ruthless scallywags attacked him while he was restrained, she’d be responsible for his demise. The last thing she wanted was a Deputy U.S. Marshal’s death on her conscience. It would also make her look guiltier than she did now.
Savanna needed to make a decision and she needed to make it fast so no one else would be hurt. Vigilantes and search parties were breathing down her neck. Considering the astronomical bounty, mercenaries would undoubtedly try to wrest information from innocent victims. Savanna couldn’t live with herself if her friends suffered because of the calamity that had befallen her.
And she had Roark Draper to thank for this, she thought bitterly. Damn him and his disgusting hide. Maybe it was unkind to speak ill of the dead, but Oliver Draper’s spoiled, abusive, disrespectful son had received exactly what he’d deserved.
Unfortunately, Savanna hadn’t had the pleasure of meting out his well-earned punishment.
Instead she’d been blamed for it.
She’d dearly love to know who had falsely accused her of the crime that had brought Oliver Draper’s wrath down on her. Was it Oliver himself? Or had one of his henchmen worked independently behind the scenes? Or perhaps one of the opposing factions who disagreed with her father’s policies had decided to use her to make him look bad so he’d be replaced. She didn’t know exactly what was going on and it was difficult to find out while spending her time avoiding capture.
She turned her attention back to Fletch who was giving her the evil eye and straining against the leather shackles. Clearly, he wasn’t thinking kind thoughts about
