Fletch didn’t want to believe their side of the story, but it explained Willow’s lengthy disappearance and Roark’s death.
Fletch had dealt with a similar assignment two years ago in Fort Worth. A scorned woman had gone on a killing spree and hadn’t stopped until her unfaithful lover and his new girlfriend were full of bullets. Yet, Fletch didn’t think Savanna would— He chopped off the thought immediately. It’s not your responsibility to figure out why. Your job is to bring in fugitives and let the court system sort the truth from the lies.
Since the men had gone about their business, Fletch took his cue to leave. He rode off in the same direction the vigilantes had come and didn’t change direction until he was beyond the range of their field glasses. Then he picked his way through the tangle of underbrush and trees to scale the eastern slope of the mountain so he could return to the cavern.
The path he’d chosen took twice as long, but it allowed him time to sort through conflicting information. To hear the vigilantes tell it, Savanna was a spiteful, scorned woman who shot and robbed Roark to cover expenses while she was on the run—riding a dead man’s horse. A horse that might’ve been more accessible than her own horse since she’d fled in a flaming rush to avoid murder charges.
According to Savanna, she’d been privately investigating her friend’s disappearance and her horse had been stolen. She claimed she’d escaped disaster when Roark turned abusive. She had bruises and scrapes to lend credence to her story.
However, those scrapes and bruises might’ve come from scrabbling around in the wilderness, trying to avoid capture.
Fletch frowned speculatively, unsure what to believe. Without question, Savanna’s exceptional skills in the wilderness indicated she could defend herself adequately against a man. The drunken Roark Draper, for instance. She’d certainly outsmarted Fletch, much as it crushed his pride to admit it.
Was she guilty or innocent? Fletch didn’t know for sure. If he knew what was good for him he’d simply do his job and deliver Savanna to Bill Solomon in Tishomingo as requested.
Then he’d begin his search for Grady Mills in earnest.
A host of bad memories buffeted him when Grady’s name popped to mind. Fletch forcefully cast off the bitter thought, just as he’d done so often the past five years. Time-consuming assignments were his way of preoccupying himself so he didn’t dwell on the fateful incident continuously. Still, finding that ruthless son of a bitch was his primary mission in life.
Fletch swung down from Appy and left him to graze. An uneasy sensation prickled the hair on the back of his neck as he rounded the palisade of rocks near the cave. Savanna’s mount wasn’t where he’d tethered it. That was not a good sign.
With both guns drawn, Fletch crouched in the bushes to avoid a possible ambush. He pricked his ears, listening for sounds that might indicate trouble. He wondered if someone—like a lone bounty hunter or a small posse—might’ve stumbled on to Savanna while he’d been chitchatting with the vigilantes.
“Damn it.” Fletch scowled at himself.
He’d left her bound up, defenseless and without clothing. She wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight if someone had pounced on her.
Wheeling around, he skulked toward the cedar tree that concealed the cave entrance. Torchlight flickered over the empty space where he’d secured Savanna. His concern for her welfare evaporated in nothing flat and he swore profusely. The unlocked handcuffs lay in the dirt. The quilt was neatly folded and sitting on a rock. Her satchels were gone.
“How in the hell?” A raft of salty curses exploded from his lips and reverberated off the rock walls as he dug into the left pocket of his breeches in search of his key.
But there was no key. His thoughts whirled, trying to remember when he’d been close enough to that shrewd little pickpocket
Fletch had dealt with a similar assignment two years ago in Fort Worth. A scorned woman had gone on a killing spree and hadn’t stopped until her unfaithful lover and his new girlfriend were full of bullets. Yet, Fletch didn’t think Savanna would— He chopped off the thought immediately. It’s not your responsibility to figure out why. Your job is to bring in fugitives and let the court system sort the truth from the lies.
Since the men had gone about their business, Fletch took his cue to leave. He rode off in the same direction the vigilantes had come and didn’t change direction until he was beyond the range of their field glasses. Then he picked his way through the tangle of underbrush and trees to scale the eastern slope of the mountain so he could return to the cavern.
The path he’d chosen took twice as long, but it allowed him time to sort through conflicting information. To hear the vigilantes tell it, Savanna was a spiteful, scorned woman who shot and robbed Roark to cover expenses while she was on the run—riding a dead man’s horse. A horse that might’ve been more accessible than her own horse since she’d fled in a flaming rush to avoid murder charges.
According to Savanna, she’d been privately investigating her friend’s disappearance and her horse had been stolen. She claimed she’d escaped disaster when Roark turned abusive. She had bruises and scrapes to lend credence to her story.
However, those scrapes and bruises might’ve come from scrabbling around in the wilderness, trying to avoid capture.
Fletch frowned speculatively, unsure what to believe. Without question, Savanna’s exceptional skills in the wilderness indicated she could defend herself adequately against a man. The drunken Roark Draper, for instance. She’d certainly outsmarted Fletch, much as it crushed his pride to admit it.
Was she guilty or innocent? Fletch didn’t know for sure. If he knew what was good for him he’d simply do his job and deliver Savanna to Bill Solomon in Tishomingo as requested.
Then he’d begin his search for Grady Mills in earnest.
A host of bad memories buffeted him when Grady’s name popped to mind. Fletch forcefully cast off the bitter thought, just as he’d done so often the past five years. Time-consuming assignments were his way of preoccupying himself so he didn’t dwell on the fateful incident continuously. Still, finding that ruthless son of a bitch was his primary mission in life.
Fletch swung down from Appy and left him to graze. An uneasy sensation prickled the hair on the back of his neck as he rounded the palisade of rocks near the cave. Savanna’s mount wasn’t where he’d tethered it. That was not a good sign.
With both guns drawn, Fletch crouched in the bushes to avoid a possible ambush. He pricked his ears, listening for sounds that might indicate trouble. He wondered if someone—like a lone bounty hunter or a small posse—might’ve stumbled on to Savanna while he’d been chitchatting with the vigilantes.
“Damn it.” Fletch scowled at himself.
He’d left her bound up, defenseless and without clothing. She wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight if someone had pounced on her.
Wheeling around, he skulked toward the cedar tree that concealed the cave entrance. Torchlight flickered over the empty space where he’d secured Savanna. His concern for her welfare evaporated in nothing flat and he swore profusely. The unlocked handcuffs lay in the dirt. The quilt was neatly folded and sitting on a rock. Her satchels were gone.
“How in the hell?” A raft of salty curses exploded from his lips and reverberated off the rock walls as he dug into the left pocket of his breeches in search of his key.
But there was no key. His thoughts whirled, trying to remember when he’d been close enough to that shrewd little pickpocket
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