Carol Finch by Fletcher's Woman Page B

off, she was a murder suspect who had so many tricks up her sleeve that it was downright scary. Second,he didn’t dare let her know that he’d developed an irrational fascination for her. A man would have to be just plain loco to hand a woman like Savanna that kind of ammunition. She’d use his vulnerability and physical attraction as weapons against him.
    Hell, she was a pistol-packing, knife-wielding, pocket-picking holy terror already. No need to make things worse!
    Fletch stalked over to take cover under a tree. He propped his back against the rough bark and hunkered down to outwait the raging storm. Two hours later he slid to the ground and fell asleep, serenaded by the rain pattering on the leaves. But the taste of Savanna’s tantalizing kiss was there to greet him.
    Although guilt and regret were never far from Fletch’s mind, it wasn’t Elaina’s face he saw in his fitful dreams; it was the captivating image of this auburn-haired, ebony-eyed hellion who alternately tormented him and pleasured him.
    She was driving him crazy…and he didn’t know how to stop it from happening.
     
    “I have to see to my needs.” Savanna’s voice broke the silence of dawn. She glared at Fletch because he’d left her tied up the whole livelong night.
    He rolled to his feet to tie a rope from her ankle to his. He kept his hand clamped on her left arm—just in case. She glowered pitchforks at him as he followed her to the edge of the underbrush so she could relieve herself.
    “You lost the luxury of complete privacy after you escaped me twice,” he said as they returned to camp. “Don’t expect favors.”
    Her reply was a glare that consigned him to a place where the hottest climates prevailed.
    She watched Fletch gather their supplies then strap themon to the horses. He stepped behind a tree to trade his wet clothes for a set of dry ones from his pouch. He didn’t offer her the same courtesy, though her wet shirt clung to her like a coat of paint. Obviously he was going to let her blow dry in the wind.
    Savanna went rigid when he picked her up and deposited her on the horse. She didn’t want him touching her. It triggered too many erotic sensations she’d just as soon forget. She gnashed her teeth when he double-checked her satchels to make sure she hadn’t managed to lift a weapon when he wasn’t looking. Too bad she hadn’t had a chance. She’d like to give him a good shooting.
    He arched an amused brow when he came up with a handful of widow’s digs, a serape and a rolled-up sombrero. “You came prepared, didn’t you? What other disguises do you have in here? I’ve already seen the squaw dresses and your young boy disguise.” His eyebrows nearly rocketed off his head when he held up a red satin dress that boasted a diving neckline. “A prostitute?” he croaked. “Interesting. Were you also planning to accept payment for services?”
    She scowled at him and said, “Are we leaving or not?”
    “Leaving.” He crammed everything back into the satchel.
    And off they went—with him holding the reins to her horse, her hands and feet secured to the saddle. Savanna decided to ignore him. She spent her time conjuring up and discarding escape plans. Their progress had been delayed because of her illness and the storm, but if they kept this swift pace, they’d arrive in Tishomingo the next evening. That didn’t give her much opportunity to make a getaway. Needless to say, she was getting desperate.
    If all else failed she’d try to bargain with Fletch. She couldn’t positively identify George Miller as Grady Mills,of course, but she could tell Fletch about the man working at a stage station she had passed through recently. That would be her last resort if she couldn’t elude him.
    Yet, she had no guarantee that Fletch would agree to exchange her freedom for information. He might promise to let her go after she told him what he wanted to know. Then he might double-cross her. If she announced that she knew