Carol Finch Read Free

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 asyou 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 earlier. Since she couldn’t shake this man, she would detain him. Then she’d take refuge in another section of the tree-choked mountains and V-shaped valleys.
    She urged her mount around an exposed curve on the trail to keep her tracker moving in the direction she wanted him to go. Dismounting, she scurried around the snare she’d camouflaged in the thick grass and waited for the man to appear.
    Fifteen minutes later the rider halted twenty yards from the trap that separated them. Savanna made certain she didn’t glance down at the trap because whoever this man was, he was an expert in the wilderness. He’d know she was baiting him if she wasn’t careful. While the rider swung effortlessly from his mount, his gaze constantly swept the area. His long, shiny black hair swung against his broad shoulders as he trained his pearl-handled pistol on her to counter the pistol she aimed directly at him.
    Although Savanna thought she was doing an excellent job of keeping her attention trained on the man—so he wouldn’t get the drop on her—her gaze locked with the most intense blue eyes she’d ever seen. There was no question that Indian blood ran through his veins, but those thick-lashed blue eyes and lighter shade of skin coloring indicated white ancestry.
    The man, dressed in black breeches and shirt, stood six foot four in his scuffed boots and he must’ve weighed at least two hundred and thirty pounds. He was big and bronzed andbrawny. Savanna knew that if push came to shove, her self-defense skills wouldn’t be enough to counter