Carol Finch - Fletcher's Woman

His new colleague had promised to deliver Savanna within the week. The prospect prompted him to celebrate by pouring a healthy drink. Very soon, Roark’s murder suspect would be in custody and he could carry out the rest of his plan.

And it’s about damn time! he thought in frustration.

It had been three days since Savanna had pulled her vanishing act and left Fletch looking like an incompetent idiot—again. He was on the verge of washing his hands of the assignment, tucking his tail between his legs and riding to Tishomingo to tell Solomon that he’d failed to apprehend the fugitive. His only consolation was that none of the search parties had had any luck finding her, either. When Savanna decided she didn’t want to be found, she wouldn’t be—obviously.

Tired and cranky, Fletch trotted his Appaloosa down the slopes, leaving the mountains behind him. He stared at the railroad tracks glistening in the late-afternoon sunlight. In the distance, he saw a puff of black smoke and heard the rumble of the locomotive chugging northeast toward its destination.

Fletch swung down to give his weary mount a rest and to quench his thirst at the trickling stream. Heat had been building to the extremes for two days and it was wearing on him. Glancing south, he surveyed the water tower and rail station. Three passengers milled around the clapboard building, waiting to board the train. Two men carried their saddles and a young boy sprawled negligently on a wooden bench. Since neither of the men resembled Grady Mills, Fletch didn’t pay much attention. However, he did consider that Grady could be working at one of these whistle stops in the middle of nowhere. It was the perfect place for an outlaw to hole up.

The train came into view then groaned and hissed as it stopped to take on water and passengers. Fletch mounted his horse and rode downhill. By the time he arrived, all three passengers had boarded the train. Fletch glanced at the round-bellied conductor who hiked up his sagging breeches then stepped on to the platform to give his last boarding call.

Fletch ambled into the rail station and nodded a greeting to the agent—who wasn’t Grady Mills, either. But that would’ve been too easy, thought Fletch. Not once in five years had Grady Mills conveniently landed in his lap so he could slap on cuffs. Sure, Fletch had gotten close a few times, but the bastard bounded off like a jackrabbit, much to Fletch’s frustration.

The train whistle split the air and Fletch ambled outside to watch the engine spew steam as it rolled away. He glanced absently at the faces in the windows. His attention caught on several female passengers but none of them resembled Savanna. As the train veered right, Fletch noticed the young boy who’d climbed aboard behind the two cowboys carrying saddles. The boy had pulled his felt cap low on his forehead and had buttoned the homespun shirt up to his neck.

Their eyes met briefly before Fletch dismissed the kid then pivoted on his heels to reenter the station. He intended to send a telegram to Bill Solomon, announcing that he’d lost Savanna.

“Where’s the train headed?” Fletch asked the agent who was busily jotting down information.

“Over to Beaver Springs to take on fuel. The next stop is a spot in the road called Wolf Hollow for a meal. Then it makes a three-hour layover in Tishomingo.”

Suddenly, Fletch jerked to attention, remembering the wry smile he’d seen twitching on the boy passenger’s lips. Delayed recognition vibrated through his mind like a gong.

“Hell and damnation!” he roared in frustrated outrage.

The agent bolted to his feet, glancing every direction at once, expecting an attack. “What’s wrong? A holdup?”

Scowling, Fletch waved off the alarmed agent. “It’s nothing. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Swearing under his breath, Fletch stalked outside to watch the train disappear from sight. He ran lickety-split toward his horse and bounded into the saddle. Too bad he hadn’t recognized the “lad” who’d been waiting to board the train. Fletch would bet his right arm that the kid wearing the felt cap, homespun shirt and breeches wasn’t a boy a’tall. It was that infuriating Savanna Cantrell in disguise! She’d outsmarted him again!

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