Wanted

by Amber Scott

  "Where the fuck you been?” Joe asked in his raspy voice, pulling his mount alongside his brother's.

  Mick spit on the ground, as silent as was typical. Of the brothers, Mick might be the mean one, but Joe was the mouthpiece.

  "Scouting.” Jesse kept his voice even. “Signs of Apache."

  As predicted, the two shivered and had the grace to glance about as if they wanted to be sure they were safe. Wasn't even Apache territory. More fools they. Jesse suppressed the urge to audibly exhale.

  They were safe. Now she was, too. As long as she made it the ten or so remaining miles without coming across any other trouble. Were there a real risk of Indians in the area, he'd have gone back for her. He might have ridden her all the way back to town, waiting noose be damned. His own death was probably not worth as much as her life. Leastwise to someone out there.

  She'd been no innocent but not married either. A woman who carried herself like that took her vows seriously, would fear God. The wanton she'd become had surprised her nearly as much as it did him. Maybe more. He'd seen it in her face. But giving in to such a powerful lust shouldn't be sin enough to warrant her demise. He sent up a prayer for any angel might'n be listening to watch over her on her way.

  He'd likely never see her again, feel her again. Didn't even know her name. No way of knowing if she'd made it, save for faith. Jesse almost chuckled. Sinner like himself, praying, trusting the lady to angels. Nothing more he could do, though.

  "May as well set out,” Jesse said, wanting to create some distance between them and the sudden urge he had to turn and go after the woman.

  Both brothers nodded. Mick slowly with narrowed eyes. Suspicious eyes. Joe did once, decisively, and only after seeing his older brother do so first.

  Jesse knew what Mick was thinking. He was thinking Jesse'd barely been stopped from taking the loot and running. They already had their shares, no mistake. Future profits were likely on Mick's mind, supposed family waiting down in Texas with mouths to feed.

  Jesse knew the fourth share was what Mick craved.

  Or maybe Jesse was just accustomed to being on constant alert for a double-cross, the two men awaiting an opportune moment when they could slit his throat, find his map, his money, and the funds he'd begun burying and then parceling out. His redemption fund.

  Well, either way, they'd soon be disappointed. He wasn't about to warn either man this was their last ride as a gang.

  But it was.

  * * * *

  Samantha cursed, stewed, and fought to keep her regrets at bay. The dark night frightened her enough to focus her mind on staying mad and lucid. Who knew how long it would take her to find Winnemucca? She might end up near another town entirely. No. That was silly. How far could she have gotten, blacked out or sleepwalking? Three miles? Five?

  Given the town's small size and being surrounded by mountainous terrain, no sight of lights was pretty easily justified. Truthfully, she just didn't want to tell her bare soles how far they could actually be in for.

  She'd walked no more than a hundred steps, and her vision blurred. A sickly buzz reverberated through her body. She faltered, put a hand out for balance. Finding nothing but air, she stumbled to the ground.

  "Crap,” she muttered, trying to steady her vision on the swimming ground.

  Two thoughts crossed her mind: One, she was going to faint, and two, where was her hero when she needed him?

  She didn't faint. Or throw up. Thankfully. The world got fuzzy, a hot sweat broke over her neck, and she readied to puke, but then the cool night air snapped her senses back to normal.

  Samantha sucked in a deep breath and looked around, disoriented but better. She touched the ground. Dirt gritted on her fingernails. The large rock at her left. Cool, hard. All real, solid. However, the hills behind her were gone. Glancing about, she spotted her father's trailer a few yards away.

  Her throat tightened.

  How could that be possible? Seconds ago, she'd been miles from home. Either she was having some serious blackouts, the caliber a mental patient would find familiar—and she was pretty sure she didn't have multiple personality disorder—or she really had sleepwalked and dreamed the whole thing.

  Samantha stood. Her limbs ached and shook like she'd run a mile in heels. The front door was unlocked, the light still burning in her dad's bedroom, the bed still rumpled, the whiskey, no more than a fifth empty, on top of the wanted poster. Kincaid's eyes peered through the glass, distorted. Her stomach clenched. Those eyes. They looked far too much like Handsome's.

  Her hands trembled. Corking the open bottle, she tucked it into the nightstand drawer from whence it came along with her other new keepsakes, the map and poster, rolled up carefully and returned to their velvet, pillowcase-like sleeve.

  Her head throbbed. The whiskey. Crying.

  Stress. What had happened to her?

  She needed sleep. First, she had to lock up the tin-can trailer and put on something decent to sleep in. As she turned the bolt and latched the chain, the front door creaked. A shiver ran through her. Realistically, the two locks would prove little protection were a person really intent on getting inside. They'd grab the old TV first and maybe hope for some cash in the drawers.

  Flimsy as both locks were, they made her feel safer. Only hours before, walking Mary out, she hadn't felt at all vulnerable. Now, with blackouts and a dead outlaw's eyes turning her mind inside out, every small measure helped.

  She kept on the hall light and returned to the bedroom. Removing her shirt and skirt, she realized her panties were gone. One hand went straight to the bare area; the other covered her mouth.

  Dear God, what had happened to her? First waking up outside in the dark, and now, her panties gone too? She had heard of night terrors, but this was ridiculous. How could her panties have come off? He couldn't have been real.

  Her mind raced for an answer that would make sense and placate the panic tearing through her. She must have removed them. It was the only reasonable answer. She'd had a vivid dream, induced by stress—and potent alcohol—then acted out the dream and removed her own underwear. She'd probably find them in the dirt somewhere outside come morning. Come daylight.

  Nowhere in sight would there be any footprints or signs of a campsite.

  Definitely not.

  Her feet weren't even scraped or sore. If any of the night's details were real and she'd had to walk as far as she thought she had, they would be. Her body wasn't sore either. Anywhere. If he were real, if they'd had sex—she refused to finish the ludicrous idea. He wasn't. They hadn't.

  She pulled on a new pair of panties, her pajama pants, and an old t-shirt. Her rationale kept on working. The pajamas helped immensely. They comforted her, warm. Warm like the man in her dreams.

  Boy, Freud would have a field day with this one. She climbed under the covers, planning her own private panty-hunt first thing in the morning. Well, maybe second thing. First, would come coffee ... and aspirin. She would need a few. And probably something to eat so she could keep down the aspirin.

  Okay. So it would be the fourth thing she would do. Good. A very good plan. Then she'd finish the death business and last wishes, and go home.

  To keep the chill away, she rubbed her feet together, adjusted the pillow so her ear didn't hurt, and fell asleep.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Five

  In all her imaginings (and she'd had a few), this was not one of them. Some fancy, New York-style auction house maybe or a hip gallery. Maybe even a collector coming out of his hermit lifestyle and a dusty library lined with shelves of books on the Old West. Not this.

  In more than simply the high ceiling, short windows, and animal heads mounted on the wall, the room reminded her of her high school prom at the Elk's lodge. The place smelled like it too. Perfumed oldness. The thin brick-colored carpeting did little to mask the hard concrete floor. Her heels almost clacked when she walked on it. The wood-lined wall seams didn't perfectly line up with each oth
er.

  Still, she'd searched the Internet as thoroughly as she could under such a time restraint. This was her most attractive option. Unless she went through e-Bay, not her preference. The owner of this local auction-house had assured her he knew the kind of client she would require. Dollar signs seemed to roll through her eyes, not to mention heavy salivation at selling her goods, made her decision.

  This was the place. She would sell her father's dreams and turn them into her future. When she stood in the foyer, waiting for the handover, a tiny bit of guilt niggled at her. The hostage exchange. The past for her future.

  Like a silly girl with a crush, she'd photocopied the two items. She couldn't help it. She didn't care if the originals stayed with her, but the map and poster were still, in a way, hers. After her dream, seeing the face on the poster, she had analyzed it over and over again. Freud would have a lot to say if given the evidence. Her father's death, coupled with the symbol of their estrangement, and her handsome rescuer had manifested from blah, blah, blah.

  He looked far hotter in her dream. It was him, nonetheless. So she still could look at him. She still could hold onto the map and keep the notes her father had made on the back. The further she explored her idea to sell her inheritance, the more sentimental she grew over it, over her father's bequeathing it to her. At least she could have proof he really had loved her, original or not. And she'd have a law degree. That was the thing to remember.

  God, he was handsome. Samantha sighed, looking again at the poster unrolled in her hand. If only he were real and not a criminal or dead a hundred-plus years now.

  Or the reason her father had ignored her most of her life.

  She let herself have the small crush anyway. Even if he wasn't real. Even if his face reminded her of a father who forgot to parent his daughter and mourn his wife. Even if it was textbook denial and projection.

  "He was a looker, wasn't he?"

  Startled, Samantha peered up at the big-haired, forty-something shop owner and rolled up the parchment.

  "Yeah, I guess,” she said, “for a bank robber."

  "Oh, I'd say that's part of the attraction. Big guns, guts, and fury all wrapped up in a gentleman's smile.” The woman proceeded to sigh. “In his day, if I'd come across a man like that, I'd have made him mine, outlaw or not."

  Samantha suppressed a frown. The woman had a penchant for sharing too much. From the first day she'd come in asking, the woman (Carla, was it?) had been far too personal. Calling her sweetheart, cupcake, honey. When Carla had found out the items were inherited, putting her arm around Samantha's shoulders for a tight squeeze.

  "You poor, poor thing."

  Samantha didn't want this woman's sympathy. She wanted her expedient help in selling these things, before she became more attached and changed her mind. San Diego University's admissions office would soon call in its marker.

  "They don't make men like that anymore,” Carla was saying, oblivious to her customer's discomfort. “If they did, I wouldn't be standing here single and talking to you. I'd be in bed."

  Carla smelled a little like a fresh cigarette and a lot like Chantilly Lace. Samantha imagined her as a Madame in some mid-level brothel, sitting in a window, leaning over a balcony, calling out to Jesse Kincaid as he raced out of town, bags of loot in hand and gunshots singing after him.

  Yeah. She would have fit right in. Right down to the uneven red lipstick and bad rouge. Samantha, on the other hand, would have gone mad by the age of sixteen.

  She was far too independent, not to mention clean, ever to have survived in the Old West. Chamber pots, sponge baths, small pox (or whatever disease they had to contend with)? No thank you.

  Thinking of it made it a bit easier to relinquish her tight hold on the old documents. Carla smiled toothsomely and held the items with the care and reverence Samantha supposed her father would have been happy with. The same care he'd have given them.

  Sorry, Dad. I don't know if this was what you had in mind, but I'm grateful. I promise I'll make you proud, wherever you are.

  Her eyes suddenly welled up, and Samantha turned so Carla wouldn't see. She didn't want another hug, or worse, the woman to pity her enough to refuse selling the items. The deal was too good to walk away from now. Fifteen thousand now, the remainder when they sold in the next three months. Enough to cover tuition, books, maybe rent. If Carla wasn't exaggerating, Samantha would have plenty coming in to cover the remaining two-plus years’ worth.

  "Come here, honey,” Carla said, motioning Samantha with her painted fingernails on hands that looked a lot older than her face. “I want to show you something."

  How could she say no? Well, she would have if she could have. But she hadn't been paid yet or signed the contract and all that. Jeeze, she hoped this didn't turn into one of those old-person-telling-a-story-from-the-past-a-mile-long-down-memory-lane kind of things. She didn't have the patience. Not today.

  Today, she had to pick up Charles from the airport, retrieve her dry-cleaning, and call in to see if an extra shift was available. Remembering Charles would be home tonight helped her smile. God, she'd missed her best friend. She couldn't wait to hand him the rent and see his face. He never said so, but Samantha knew he had his doubts about this plan.

  She followed Carla down the long hall, through the dancing dust in sun pouring through the high windows. They paused at the end, where Carla jangled a key in the lock. She held the other hand like it had a cigarette in it, though it didn't. The door popped open to a dark, cavernous room.

  "Now, where is that switch?” Carla said, key-hand fumbling, empty cigarette-hand flexing. “Aha."

  The light came on, and Samantha's breath caught. Inside, shiny metal lined the walls of a large, deep room. What the...? It looked like a set from a spy movie, replete with modern lighting, slick, clean space, and tables and gadgets she figured must be part of authenticating art and whatnot. Sneaky little Carla! She was all shabby country on the outside, pure brains and technology inside.

  Carla smiled like the proverbial cat that caught the canary. Samantha would not be at all surprised should a small yellow feather float to the floor.

  "Keeps the place looking honest,” Carla said, thumbing at the old Elk's-lodge portion that had made Samantha feel not safe but at risk, like a rookie gambler in a saloon full of high rollers. “Follow me. Don't worry. You can't break anything. But if you please, don't touch all the same."

  Samantha nodded slowly and realized her mouth was hanging open. No wonder the woman could read her like a book.

  "No, honey, I just can,” Carla said.

  "What?” Samantha's brows snapped together. Had she said that out loud?

  "I said I can read people. Isn't that what you were meaning?"

  "Yeah, but, how did you know..."

  "Like I said, I can read people. Gift and a curse and all that but part of the business, I guess. You coming?” Carla gestured for her to follow deeper, and Samantha did.

  She didn't know what to think and wasn't about to ask. Nope. She would keep her mouth shut and get out of here as quickly as possible, before the woman whose help she needed caused the prickles up her spine to become full gooseflesh.

  Carla smiled over her shoulder, laughing in a short, little huff. She didn't speak again until they reached the rear corner of the metallic room. There she pressed a couple of buttons, and a clear encasement moved out of the wall like a drawer opening.

  A daguerreotype lay inside. Samantha didn't have to ask who it was.

  Her heart recognized him in an instant. It was him, her dream rescuer. Jesse Kincaid. A fluttery tremble raced from her belly up to her throat. She swallowed against it and forced her hands not to shake. She couldn't stop them from reaching out to touch the encasement.

  She cared less what Carla thought right now. All she cared about was getting a better look to verify what her mind said couldn't be possible. Sitting astride a glorious black horse, one she could almost claim she knew, was the very same man she'd dreamed
of.

  At the memory, a current of warmth shivered through her. God, but he was nice to look at. Even with the brownish color of the aged, fading picture, she could almost distinguish the light green of his eyes, the near-black of his wavy hair. She closed her eyes a moment and let the full effect of him wash through her.

  She missed him.

  Strange but true. She missed this dream hero and their single encounter. She'd hoped to relive it, dream of him again the way one does after seeing a movie or studying for a test. Even his smile, his sweet touch, even if it was out of context in her mind's sleep, she'd be happy for it. Simply to know he was there, somewhere still in existence.

  Not merely one weird night brought on by stress and trauma, gone thereafter, never to be seen or dreamed again.

  Not even the poster could comfort her. Not this picture. It should have comforted her. Seeing the likeness, the clear evidence she'd experienced unreality, the age of it should have given her a semblance of clarity.

  It didn't. Instead, she got a little peeved. She suddenly felt robbed. Part of her wanted to conjure up her fantasy man from her past—her father's past—the past.

  He was no more than a dead outlaw. With a gentleman's smile and a seducer's touch? Samantha shook her head and opened her eyes. She'd forgotten for a moment she wasn't alone. Carla seemed unperturbed by her moment. Almost like she'd expected it. The woman stood in the same place but busied herself thumbing through a dusty box of file folders.

  Samantha looked down at the photo again. Her heart panged. Her trembling subsided into an ache. She said a silent goodbye. Turning her back on the encasement, she faced Carla, searching for the words that would wrap up this thing.

  "Here,” Carla said, pulling out a folder. “Here we are. Eureka. X marks the spot.” Each phrase sounded more like a coo than an exclamation.

  Samantha kept her brow smooth. Whatever this woman meant, she'd soon explain. The shining gleam in Carla's eyes shouted as much.

  Carla pressed the folder to her bosom, breathing in and out. Like it smelled of Heaven or something. Then Carla jerked her head back toward the door they came in. The encasement swooshed closed behind her, again concealed within the wall. Samantha resisted the urge to reach out and touch it one last time.