Fletcher's Woman. Carol Finch
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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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