Fletcher's Woman

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."Finch, Carol is the author of 'Fletcher's Woman ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373294329 and ISBN 0373294328.