Wanted

by Amber Scott

  She'd been silly enough about this dream ... and in front of this woman. She followed Carla out, waiting patiently for her to lock the door and return to the foyer. They went through it, around the left side of the room, and up a small stairwell to the second floor. If Samantha weren't so curious, she might have started asking questions.

  Finally they ended up at a small metal table straight out of a 1970s Woolworth's catalog. Samantha stared at the closed file folder, thick and full looking, while Carla got each of them a cup of coffee.

  She should be going, really. She didn't quite have the luxury of time today. Not if she wanted to work tonight. And Charles would be at the airport, but she stayed. She waited for the cream, the sugar, for both cups to be stirred, for the spoon to be carefully laid on the saucers, and for Carla to bring over the cups.

  All the while, not a single leaf of paper peeked out of the precarious-looking pile within the folder's hug.

  Carla took a long sip from her steaming china cup. Samantha followed suit. Wordlessly, the aging brunette opened the cover, letting the pile spill over the table.

  Samantha's gaze first distinguished a headline, patent and gripping: “Jesse Kincaid Found Murdered.” Her vision warbled, the world tipped, and Samantha decided she was definitely about to faint. As she slumped to the pale green linoleum floor, she hoped she didn't break Carla's teacup.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Six

  Samantha opened her eyes. She looked up, focusing on the face hovering above her saying, “Miss? Miss, are you all right?” Samantha squinted, and the face came into focus. It wasn't Carla's face but could have belonged to her younger sister.

  Bolting upright, Samantha looked around her. The little metal and vinyl table was gone, along with the linoleum. In its place were roses on white lace and cotton, and plain oak chairs. Under her hands, dusty, grit-covered wood. Good, God, where was she?

  "Where's Carla? Who are you? Where am I?"

  "Oh, no. She's hit her head but good,” the woman said, although not to her.

  Samantha looked around for who else might be listening.

  "Tommy,” the woman called in a booming voice that made Samantha jump. “Tommy Echavaria, get in here. Now."

  The loud thump of footsteps neared, running. A short, burly man with brown curls and dingy suspenders burst through the door. “Ginny? What is it? Is the baby okay?"

  "Yes, Tommy. Yes. The baby's fine,” Ginny said. She gestured to Samantha. “The woman you found on the road woke up in the while you took getting Doc Vernor to come on over and see her."

  "She's okay?” Tommy seemed unperturbed by Ginny's tone.

  "Clearly not."

  "No, I'm fine. I just fainted, I think.” Samantha tried to stand. She didn't know where she was or who these people were, but she knew she was getting the hell out of here fast. The room spun and forced her to sit back down. Where pain stabbed mercilessly through her head, her hand covered it.

  "Help me get her onto the table, Tommy. You should have put her there in the first place.” Ginny was definitely in charge.

  Tommy scooped Samantha up in his arms, and Ginny cleared clattering dishes from the table. She wasn't going to throw a fit. She wasn't about to argue. She could tell, even from the quick, sidelong glance she'd managed, this woman might try even harder to keep her here. Plus, she couldn't stand on her own yet.

  Tommy laid her down. Samantha's legs dangled off the table. She looked up to see Ginny and Tommy, a cute couple, actually, perfectly sized and suited for one another with different versions of brown hair and blue eyes. Each assessed her and the table in their own ways. Tommy with his arms crossed and head tilted. Ginny with her hands on her hips and eyebrows up. Up high.

  "Get Jesse,” Ginny commanded finally.

  "I thought you wanted me to get Doc Vernor,” Tommy said, none too submissively.

  Ginny shook her head. “No. Changed my mind. Get Jesse."

  Samantha blinked her eyes. Even if it was lunacy to hope for it, to even think of it, nonetheless, her belly flip-flopped with expectation. Somehow, had she fallen into a new dream? Of him? Indefinable delight lit up every fiber of Samantha's dreaming body. Jesse. Yes, Tommy, go get Jesse.

  Let him be as perfect as I remember.

  * * * *

  A whir sounded as Jesse sliced the axe into the small log, a thud as it stuck in the stump. The halves drummed to the other pieces piling up. He settled another into place. Daylight dwindled down, and the afternoon sunshine warmed his bare shoulders. A sheen of sweat formed over his body from his exertion, cooling his skin under the tease of the late summer breeze.

  Work felt good, shut his mind and opened his limbs to the rhythm and press of the axe. Lift, swing, slice. Didn't need the wood. Not for months. He needed the work.

  If he didn't keep his mind blank and closed down, she'd end up wandering into his thoughts. She'd spent far too much time there as it was. For no good purpose. For no good reason.

  She had no business showing up there, in his mind. Sneaking like a ghost from the grave, stealing his sanity. He needed his sanity. Craziness had him beginning to contemplate a way to get back to Winnemucca, track her down, and make her his again and again until his body was purged of all need and want of that smooth skin, those daring eyes.

  Lift, swing, slice. The wood split with a crack, echoing, bouncing out into the emptiness that had once been a solace from the life of danger and distrust he'd been living. The life he'd be leaving.

  He paused, wiped his brow. Half the pile he'd gathered over the last few weeks remained. He'd soon be done and left with more meanderings stuck in his brain like honey, about a woman who seemed too good now to be true.

  He should have asked her name. He'd thought of naming her, to put the idea to rest, but figured he'd get it wrong. Then some dumb part of himself would think he could always go and find out.

  Like one, big, crazy, spiraling circle.

  "Damned fool,” Jesse said, tossing the axe blade into the base log.

  He caught his breath, heavy from the exertion. Only then did he hear his name. Well, the name he was known by.

  "Will,” Tommy called out over the meadow. “Ginny sent me.” Tommy motioned with his hands and left back the way he'd come.

  Jesse didn't bother putting on a shirt. The concern on Tommy's face got Jesse walking fast. It wasn't the first time Tommy had come at Jesse's sister's behest. Lord knew it wouldn't be the last. This time, something was different in the way her husband had said it.

  Something inside Jesse stirred to life. Not worry. Or fear. A strange sense of anticipation. That didn't make sense, though. Tommy had looked anything but excited. Whatever had his wife sending him to get her brother had Tommy looking worried. So Jesse should be. But he wasn't.

  Jesse strode down the hill, met the dirt road, and followed it to his sister's place, half a mile from his own. Honeysuckle scented the breeze, and the air was drier than usual. Thirst scratched at his throat. Anticipation neared an unnamable giddiness he couldn't find any source to blame on.

  He laid it at the feet of curiosity.

  Tommy called him Will now. His sister, Ginny, always tried to, as well. If she slipped a time or two, so long as no one was around to hear it, Jesse let it slide by.

  Tommy never slipped.

  Will Edgington. Not Jesse Kincaid, infamous outlaw: Wanted Dead or Alive. Just Will.

  He walked up the boarded steps to the door sitting ajar and didn't take another step. What he saw, who he saw, arrested him.

  He'd know that wheat blonde hair anywhere, had dreamed of it for too many weeks to count. When she turned her blue eyes his way, he recognized the emotion in her face. His own expression surely mirrored it, because a thrill ran through him, the same that sparked in her eyes as she looked at him.

  She sat up straighter on the table as she faced him. She moved to get down, come into his arms, or so he hoped she would, until Ginny's shrill scold stopped her.

&nbs
p; "No, no, no. Lay down, missy. You've hit your head, and if you don't lay down, I reckon you'll be puking all over my good, clean floor."

  Jesse resisted the smile tugging at his cheeks and eyes. His heart danced in a new rhythm. The girl from his dreams swept her gaze down his bare chest, settling at his waist, before carefully laying back down on the table that was far too short for a body as tall as hers.

  Jesse walked into the room, turning his gaze from her. He didn't want his sister and brother-in-law to see the raw emotion churning through him. He didn't want them to see how important this woman being here was.

  "What happened?” Jesse looked from Tommy to Ginny and back to the woman on the table.

  "Tommy found her. She was laying passed out cold. He brought her in.” Ginnny kept her arms crossed and her tone defensive.

  They'd called for him rather than a doctor. That meant Ginny had been paying attention. One night of too many whiskeys on their front porch, and he'd spilled his drunken guts to his prying little sister. She must've put two and three together.

  "Where did you find her?"

  "Near the Hendricks's place, next to the creek."

  Jesse stepped closer but didn't dare go all the way. He might make a fool of himself.

  "Did you call the doctor?"

  "I thought you'd want to decide if we should,” Ginny said, her gaze probing his eyes to verify if she was right.

  Jesse nodded. It was enough. Ginny's eyes flashed, a small devious smile forming on her lips. “Well, then,” she said. “Perhaps you'd like a moment."

  Jesse cheeks warmed uncomfortably. Embarrassment. His kid sister, the one he'd looked after since they were eleven and nine, knew him too well, and was far too clever for her own good.

  "Come on, Tommy. Let's go check for eggs."

  Tommy followed with a polite nod of his chin and tip of his hat to each person. He didn't seem at all wondrous or affected by the new direction his life was taking. He seemed simply able to enjoy the journey.

  They closed the door after them, and she sat up. Jesse stepped in. His hands itched to touch her, to be sure she was real and here. Instead, he put them under his pits, arms crossed, and while she scrutinized him, teetered on his boot heels.

  It appeared she wasn't sure what was real, either, because she kept shaking her head, touching her forehead with the back of her palm, and laughing in short huffs.

  "Where am I?” she finally said.

  Jesse's brow furrowed. “You don't know where you are?"

  "No. I don't know where I am, but I know who you are."

  Jesse grinned, despite trying not to. He didn't want to act foolish, like a schoolboy with a crush on the teacher, even if his current state keenly resembled it.

  "And who am I?"

  "You're ... you never told me your name."

  His grin grew broader. “I never did. Neither did you."

  She smiled too. She tipped her head a little, and her hair shimmered gold in the sunlight. Her eyes shone bright with happiness. “Samantha,” she said.

  "Samantha.” He should take his hand out from under his underarm and greet her properly, but he couldn't. Samantha. It fit her. Bold, feminine, soft, strong. Better than the few he'd allowed himself to imagine.

  Silence hummed between them. She giggled. “Aren't you going to tell me yours?” Her eyebrows drew up and in. She shrugged a shoulder forward, like it was a place she could hide her shyness.

  It was a good question. Should he tell her the truth? Would she want to run from here, for help? Some were terrified of Jesse Kincaid, others enamored. Those who wanted him wanted only the name, the image of what it represented, already firmly, unshakably rooted in their heads.

  He didn't want that from her. He wanted her to know him. Not a name, not a reputation, bad or good.

  "Kincaid."

  She lifted her chin and assessed him like she would a sculpture. “Kincaid.” Her voice trembled a bit, lowered and breathy.

  God, but his name sounded sweet on her lips. Those very lips parted and wet, and his mind drew directly to the last time he'd felt them. Samantha. She moved from the table, not entirely steadily, and he rushed forward.

  He held each elbow to support her weight, and she let him. Her gaze stayed on his face, moving from eyes to mouth to his hair and back.

  "You are the best dream I ever had,” she said and leaned her head back. Her eyes half-closed.

  He didn't know what she could have meant, and he really didn't care. He cared only that she was here, in his arms. Warm and real and here. He pressed his mouth to her chin and placed a small, tender kiss there. His heart beat up his neck and pounded in his ears, but the blood rushed below.

  Jesse breathed her in. Lavender and roses. She might as well have been food.

  She slowly moved her arms up his and entwined them around his neck. “I don't want to wake up. Not for a long, long time. Okay?"

  One eyebrow cocked. He considered her for a moment, unsure what to say to that. “I won't if you won't."

  A low, soft moan, near a whimper, escaped her lips, and the wall of control inside Jesse cracked. He kissed her. He pressed his mouth to hers, delved his tongue to explore her, reveling in the spark shooting through him at the contact. He needed her. Already, he needed her. His sister's kitchen was no place to seduce any woman.

  Jesse pushed Samantha away to arms’ length. His breathing labored, and the hurt look on her face almost did him in. Nevertheless, he could not have her here.

  He took her hand and asked with his look. She nodded. They stepped out the front door to an empty porch and a blazing sunset dripping up the sky's horizon.

  Jesse exchanged a glance with her. Samantha smiled again, shyly.

  He almost swung her into his arms and ran home. Instead, he walked fast, and she followed up the hill.

  As his own porch neared, she said, “Do you take off your shirt for all the girls?"

  He paused, looked at her.

  "Or just for me?"

  Her seductive tone matched her seductive expression. He could have laid her down right there in the long grass, lifted her skirt, and taken her.

  As it was, he nearly dragged her across the threshold, where he picked her up into his arms and strode straight to his bed. He dropped her on it. She bounced and laughed.

  Her arms opened wide. He joined her, entering her embrace. Showering her face and neck with kisses, he chuckled, but there wasn't anything funny about how badly he wanted her, how urgently he needed to feel her skin against his. Flesh on flesh.

  * * * *

  As he lifted her ankle-skirt high, Samantha gasped. His hand glided up her inner thigh, dragging heat and fever with it. His chest felt so satisfying, hard and smooth against her fingertips. As long as she didn't wake up. He was too good to be true. She was not about to question the gods or her luck or, why after weeks of trying, he finally came back to her dreams.

  Confident, sure, as though he knew her, he touched her. His touch embodied her own want of him. He smelled of the same heady scent, like the outdoors, like the sun. While her senses drank up the rest of him, she breathed it in. His eyes. God, the way they looked at her now, those eyes could make a nun blush. Heavy-lidded, smoky green, impassioned beyond anything she'd ever witnessed.

  But then, he wasn't real. So why not have the perfections seem so believably unreal, unimaginable, wondrous? Her body alive with hunger for his, her thighs parted at the touch of his fingers, opening for his exploration.

  She raised her hips, wanting to feel his hand slide closer. At every lift, every gyration, he circled his hand away in a slow, melodic path of tickling pleasure. If it wasn't so difficult to think, let alone speak under the spell of his eyes and hands, she would beg him.

  When he neared satisfying her craving and twirled away again, she couldn't look away, only blink and close her eyes. She'd open them, look into his, and plead, all the while daring him, as well, to stave off even longer.

  She realized she wasn't alone in th
is torture. She, too, could play his game. She unbuckled his belt and tore open the button fly. Jesse's body shook, his eyes perceptively widened and dared her back.

  Samantha shoved her hands down his back, between fabric and skin, and gripped his muscular ass. She moaned. She maneuvered space to allow frontal access and found the source of all male pride. When she touched it, his swelled brilliantly. The long, hard shaft, already stiff in readiness, throbbed when she encircled her hands around it.

  As she pulled her hands up the length of him, he slipped a hot finger into her wet sheath. A shock of pleasure rocked up her body, and she cried out, squeezing him. He groaned and pressed his hand farther into her, whispering her name against her neck.

  She pressed one of her own hands over his, needing to feel more. He obliged and rotated in and out of her slippery flesh, bringing waves of ecstasy climbing up near orgasm. She stroked him and undulated into his hand.

  Suddenly he pulled his hand and body from her, and she ached from the absence. However, she also knew better, bigger was about to fill the void. A void not created now, under his expert touch, a void she'd carried since she last experienced him. No longer, not anymore, not now. Now she would have him, dream or no, again and again, until she woke alone and ragged, and then she'd find a way to come back again.

  She was like an addict, eager and desperate. He responded with the same level of urgency. His kisses were quick and hard, his gaze intent.

  He removed his clothes and helped with hers. The cool of the evening tickled her flesh, easing the heat between them. When he returned to her, naked, skin on glorious skin, he moved slowly.

  He touched her face with his hand, and his gaze spoke the unspoken question. Permission. She gave it. She led his body closer, arched into him. From toes to lips, she pressed her body into his and thrilled in the contact. Her heart hummed alongside her desire, and her desperation gave way to a small sense of wonder.