Carol Finch - Fletcher's Woman

Fletch squatted on his haunches to pull the cap from Savanna’s head. He raked his fingers through the curly tangles of hair that tumbled over her shoulders. Her heart thudded against her ribs when he broke into a full-fledged smile that would’ve knocked her to her knees had she been standing.

Never could a man have been more wrong for her, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. Unfortunately she was drawn to Fletch against her fierce will. She hungered for a sampling of his lips.

The erotic thought sent desire trickling through her body. She chastised herself for being a foolish romantic. She and Fletch meant nothing to each other. She was just another job to him.

It wasn’t flattering, but it was the truth.

Fletch didn’t trust her and Savanna didn’t trust him. He was her enemy, her antagonist, who stood like an insurmountable mountain that prevented her from getting what she wanted—the opportunity to clear her name.

“Carol Finch is known for her lightning-fast,

roller-coaster-ride adventure romances that are

brimming over with a large cast of characters

and dozens of perilous escapades.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Ranger’s Woman

“Finch delivers her signature humor, along with a big dose

of colorful Texas history, in a love and laughter romp.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Lone Wolf’s Woman

“As always, Finch provides frying-pan-into-the-fire action

that keeps the pages flying, then spices up her story with

not one, but two romances, sensuality and strong emotions.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to my husband, Ed,

and our children Jill, Jon, Christie, Kurt and Shawnna.

And to our grandchildren Kennedy, Blake, Brooklynn

and Livia with much love

A very special thank-you to all the readers

who urged me to write the sequel to The Ranger.

I hope you enjoy Fletcher’s story.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

1880s

The hot summer sun gleamed off the Red River that separated Texas from Indian Territory. Fletcher Hawk patted his Appaloosa gelding consolingly as the ferry teetered and bumped over the swift-moving channel. Being a half Apache who had been forcefully retained on a desolate reservation in New Mexico, for more months than he cared to count, Fletch got to feeling twitchy as the ferry headed toward the distant dock. He’d been a Texas Ranger for five years, but he’d never had cause to enter the reservations in Indian Territory.

Now he had cause. The murdering son of a bitch that he’d been hunting for five years was reported to have robbed a stagecoach near Fort Worth several months earlier, then headed north. No matter what assignments Fletch had taken, he’d always been on the lookout for Grady Mills. Unfortunately, the slippery bastard had managed to remain one step ahead. But if Grady thought hunkering down in Indian Territory would keep Fletch off his trail then he thought wrong. Fletch had a personal and professional vendetta to settle with that heartless bastard.

A painful memory speared through Fletch’s mind. Rage and guilt battled for supremacy, but he squelched the turbulent emotions and turned his attention to the other passengers. Three rough-looking men leaned negligently against the railing. They met his stare briefly then looked away without offering a nod of greeting. But then, neither did Fletch. He was simply surveying his companions.

Fletch’s gaze settled on the crusty, bowlegged man who looked to be in his mid-forties. He wore a ten-gallon hat with two bullet holes in the crown. The hat made him look about six and a half feet tall. His mouth thinned out beneath his handlebar mustache as he propped himself against a bay gelding. Obviously the man’s left foot was paining him something fierce because he was one boot short of a pair. His well-worn shirt and trousers indicated a hardscrabble lifestyle. Fletch could certainly identify with that. He’d been all over creation for fifteen years, never having a place to call home.

When the older man laid an arm over his horse, Fletch noticed the flash of a tarnished badge beneath the edge of his faded leather vest. Fletch had the alarming premonition that he was looking at his own image ten years down the road. The speculation made him wince inwardly.

His older brother, Logan, wouldn’t have to fret about growing old before his time, he mused. Logan had given up his Ranger badge and nomadic lifestyle. He’d settled down with his spirited wife and he was the proud father of two energetic boys.

Fletch had nothing but his Appy pony, calluses, battle scars and dozens of unpleasant memories to keep him company.

His gloomy thoughts scattered when the older man put weight on his injured foot then groaned in pain. Leaving Appy tethered to the railing, Fletch ambled over to lend a hand.

“Problem?” Fletch asked as the man dragged in several panting breaths.

“Damn gout. Picked a fine time to flare up,” he said raggedly. “Got a saddlebag full of warrants and a favor to do for an old friend.” He looked Fletch over intently. “You’re a lawman, aren’t ya? You look familiar.”

“Texas Ranger,” Fletch murmured, inconspicuously pulling the silver star from his vest pocket. “Don’t like to bandy it about. Makes some folks nervous, especially when you add my mixed heritage.”

The older man smiled crookedly and his hazel eyes gleamed as he thrust out his hand. “Deputy U.S. Marshal Bill Solomon. I remember you now. I saw you in action near Fort Griffin, Texas, two years back. You had a Mexican bandito cornered outside town after he blasted an army convoy to steal supplies for his gang.” He nodded approvingly. “Mighty slick apprehension maneuver. Me and a few of the boys borrowed that tactic of here-one-minute-gone-the-next with satisfying success.”

Fletch smiled wryly. “Old Apache trick.”

The smile faded from Bill’s weather-beaten features. “Fought the Apache while I was in the army. Lost a few friends, too.”

“I lost most of my family during an army massacre,” Fletch said grimly. “Let’s not talk about old times, Deputy Marshal Solomon. I’ve spent years trying to put it behind me.”

“Fair enough.” Bill stared at him with eyes that had seen countless unforgettable sights. Fletch could identify with that, too.

When the ferry lurched abruptly in a fierce undertow, Fletch steadied Bill, who muffled a pained curse.

“I got a proposition for you,” Bill said, levering his weight off his tender foot. “Fletcher Hawk, ain’t it?”