of weighing her options.
“I don’t make deals with the devil or his sister,” he returned flatly. “Just untie me and let’s ride to Tishomingo so you can turn yourself in. You can tell your side of the story to a judge.”
“No. If we can’t strike a deal then we’re going nowhere together.” She spun on her heels and strode into the underbrush. “The bears, lobos and mountain cats will keep you company…or have you for supper,” she taunted. “But, being the consummate survivalist you are, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“If anything happens to me, lady, it will only make your situation that much worse,” he warned her.
“I’ve already considered that.”
“Like it or not, I’m the only friend you’ve got right now.”
“Then I am indeed in dire straits,” she called back to him while she donned the squaw dress and leggings Morningstar had brought to her.
A few minutes later Savanna returned to Fletch’s side. Since he refused to bargain with her or to give up his pursuit, she wasn’t offering information about the man he was tracking. No deals, he’d said unequivocally. Therefore, she had no choice but to clear out and avoid the small Chickasaw villages nestled in the mountains. There were isolated and rugged regions where she could hide before she doubled back to privately investigate Roark’s murder. She’d wait until the initial furor died down and the search parties gave up and went home.
She retrieved a dagger to slice the leather strip that anchored his left leg. She watched him tense, as if expecting her to bury the knife in his chest. Fear didn’t register in his ruggedly handsome features, only angry defiance.
“A pleasure meeting you, Fletch.”
“Wish I could say the same, you little termagant,” he muttered in a resentful tone.
“You’ll free yourself eventually,” she assured him. “There’s a small cave up this trail. I’ll leave your weapons inside it. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you defenseless against unfriendly beasts. The two-legged and four-legged kind. Despite what you think, I don’t make a habit of leaving a trail of dead bodies in my wake.”
“You’ll regret this!” Fletch vowed. “When I catch you—and I will catch you—I won’t be as pleasant as I am now.”
“This is pleasant?” She scoffed at the snarl in his deep voice. “I’m sorry, Fletch, but I don’t find you as charming and irresistible as you seem to think you are.”
“Damn it, woman!” He growled as she turned to retrieve his horse, thereby making it even more difficult for the mob of vigilantes and posses to accurately identify her. “If you take my horse, I’ll hang you myself!”
Fletch whistled and the Appaloosa tossed its head when Savanna tried to reach for the reins. It took a moment to control the well-trained horse, but she managed to drape her bags of supplies and disguises over the pommel then swing into the saddle. He whistled again and the horse sidestepped, but she offered it a lump of sugar as distraction. She smiled when Fletch cursed because his horse turned traitor and became putty beneath the gentle stroke of her hand.
Savanna reined Appy beside Fletch who swore ripely and strained against the remaining restraints. She tossed his Bowie knife just beyond the normal extension of his leg—the one she had cut free a few moments earlier.
“It shouldn’t take you long to get free, but I’ll be gone by then. Do yourself a favor and give up the hunt.”
“Never.” He glowered at her then bared his teeth. “I’m going to make you damn sorry when I get my hands on you.”
She chuckled, undaunted by his threat. “Then I’ll take extra precautions to ensure you never get your hands on me.”
She rode away, listening to him call her every uncomplimentary name in the book, plus a few in the Apache dialect that she was glad she couldn’t translate.
Fletch almost never lost his temper; it was counterproductive and tangled up rational thought processes. But he was well and truly furious! There was just so much humiliation a man could stand—especially when doled out by a mischievous woman—before he erupted like a geyser.
Scowling and cursing, he contorted his body every which way until he could shove the knife across the ground with his freed foot. After several frustrating attempts—that nearly wrenched his arms from their sockets—he managed to scoot the knife upward until he could grasp it in his left hand.
He poked himself in the arm twice while trying to saw the leather strap in two. A half hour after Savanna rode off on his horse, Fletch was loose.
“Ornery damn witch,” he muttered at the vision dancing in his head. “Ow, ow…ouch!” He winced as his bare feet connected with sharp pebbles and twigs.
After being tied up for so long, he’d lost circulation in his limbs. Lacking his usual coordination, he kept tripping over his own bare feet. Plus, he was unfamiliar with the area. It was dark and it took him more than an hour to find the cave where Savanna had stashed his boots and weapons.
Fletch wasn’t surprised that Savanna had helped herself to more than half of his ammunition supply. But he still spouted several more epithets to her name. There was no telling where she’d gotten off to by now. Worse, he was aware that she’d been toying with him since he’d first spotted her on the trail that morning. After three days of playing cat-and-mouse, she’d decided to lure him in. Like a fool, he’d blundered into her trap and had his male pride trampled six ways to Sunday.
Tired and annoyed, Fletch contemplated disregarding the promise he’d made to Bill Solomon. Hell, he’d only met the man once and owed him nothing. As for Savanna, he wished that maddening woman farewell and good riddance!
What did he care if Savanna led the vigilantes and bounty hunters in circles for a few weeks before they captured her—or not? She certainly could ride and bait traps as well as any man he’d ever met.
She’d be fine, he convinced himself. She was no babe in the woods, that was for sure! In fact, it’d serve her right if he left her to those money-hungry, bloodthirsty vigilantes. He had his own crusade to pursue, after all. Furthermore, she was probably as guilty as sin.
The image of midnight-colored eyes twinkling with impish delight flashed in the darkness. Begrudging respect and admiration for her unconventional skills unfurled inside him, even while he tried his damnedest to ignore it.
Fletch fumbled around like a blind man, his knife at the ready—just in case the mischievous imp had left a few other surprises for him. Like a snake or scorpion in his saddlebags or boots. Cautiously, he dragged his gear from the cavern. When he shook out his boot, he encountered a scorpion. Whether the pest had been purposely planted or had set up housekeeping on his own, Fletch didn’t know. But he kicked it aside, then donned his boots. Hurriedly he strapped his double holster around his waist and tucked his extra hardware out of sight.
Quickening his pace, he jogged back to the horse Savanna had left for him. “Argh!” he yelped when he bounded into the saddle—and realized too late that she had unfastened the cinch. Fletch clawed air as he and the saddle tumbled to the ground. He landed flat on his back and his breath burst out in a pained grunt—followed by the foulest of foul curses that he attached to Savanna Cantrell’s name. Then he cursed himself because he kept underestimating
