Wanted

by Amber Scott

  If Ginny felt the same, she didn't show it. She sucked and spit and watched, quiet and deceptively calm. She was a wonder in a crisis. Her calm had gotten them through more than one scrape on their rough road to adulthood. His cunning, her calm. They'd been a pair, still were. Even now, grown and married, Ginny was his baby sister.

  He liked to think their parents looked down from Heaven, proud of the two of them, despite the life he led, the life he was ending. He figured they understood and they'd make sure God got on his and Ginny's side. Not that Ginny needed any help in that area. She was a giving soul, patient and nurturing. Strong. If she and Tom were ever blessed with children, she'd be a wonderful mother.

  After turns of sucking, they administered the cider vinegar and some whiskey on top of that for good measure. Both knew the only true way to test their work was to wake the patient.

  Jesse returned Ginny's look of wariness.

  "I'll do it. Back away, because I have a feeling she's going to be mad."

  "Mad? We've been working to save her, Jesse. Surely she'll recognize we're only helping her."

  Jesse held up a hand. “You didn't see the way she looked when she saw the knife. There's something there neither you or I can understand, but I'll tell you, I think she'll be right mad. Call it instinct."

  Ginny threw up her hands in small defeat and backed away. She was still in her nightclothes. He wondered if Tommy even noticed she was gone.

  Jesse sat on the bed next to Samantha and gently shook her shoulder. “Samantha,” he said softly. “Samantha, can you hear me? Wake up, beautiful. Samantha?"

  He looked at Ginny. Ginny shrugged, as though to tell him this was his game, and she was taking no part in it.

  He tried again, speaking louder, shaking harder. “Samantha, wake up. Can you hear me? Wake up."

  His worry doubled in on itself, prickling up his gut. Ginny crossed her arms, stepped closer, and peered over the bed.

  He looked to his sister and nodded. Ginny smiled, opened her arms wide, and clapped in fast, noisy succession. She sounded like she was bringing in a herd.

  It worked.

  Samantha sat up abruptly and looked about the room, panic painted on her face.

  "It's all right,” Jesse said and touched her arm. “You're all right. You fainted."

  Ginny bit down on her lower lip and nodded. “How's your leg?"

  Samantha looked to Ginny's face and back to Jesse. “I don't understand,” she said.

  Jesse frowned. “You were bit by a snake. We need to know how badly it still hurts."

  Samantha shook her head, putting her hand to it. “I've totally and completely lost my mind, haven't I? Am I on meds in some psych ward somewhere?"

  Ginny frowned. “What's she talking about, Jesse?” She moved back two steps.

  Jesse stroked a finger down Samantha's cheek and jaw line, pressing her face toward his. He met her eyes and tried to read what he saw. The stormy blue orbs revealed nothing more than basic fear.

  "Samantha,” he said firmly, now more interested in calming his sister. “Where does it hurt?” Samantha needed to get a grip on her emotions quickly. She needed to answer him. He tried to say so with his intent stare.

  It seemed to work. Samantha's gaze locked to his, and her features relaxed a bit. She pointed to her ankle. “It doesn't hurt as bad as before.” She kept looking at him.

  "Good,” Jesse said and left her there, pulling Ginny into the kitchen.

  "This isn't proper, Jesse. You can't know where she was going or who she is. Stealing an evening is one thing."

  Jesse held up a hand. “I know. I mean to ask her all those things. If she isn't concerned about propriety, you still can be, but not until I find out what's going on."

  "Something isn't right here, Jesse. I can feel it."

  The last thing he wanted was for his sister to get one of her feelings, which most times were dead accurate. He needed her to leave, so he could be alone with Samantha and figure out what in the hell had happened. Better yet, he wanted to know who she was and what she was doing here.

  "If you want her to stay with you, I guess that would be proper enough, but I can't move her to your place tonight, not until the pain subsides."

  "You've been taking too many risks, Jesse,” Ginny said, shaking her head. “Don't cut off your nose to spite your face."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Nine

  Carla didn't quite know what she had expected, but Samantha Hendricks was not it. When the tall blonde had walked into her store not days, but weeks, after her father passed, Carla hadn't known whose daughter she was. The girl, well, woman now, didn't look a thing like her daddy and not at all like Carla remembered.

  Sammie didn't remember Carla, of that she was sure. Not a single flicker of recognition in those big eyes at any point in their conversations. It had been so long since Henry's death, Carla wasn't sure Sammie would ever walk through the door. But she had.

  Henry had been right. He knew his daughter well. Now Carla would have to see his last wishes through without revealing she had any affiliation to the girl or the father. Or the outlaw.

  So far everything had gone according to plan. Sammie wanted to sell the maps, agreed to the price, and was following through by turning them over today. Henry was likely gloating up in Heaven or whatever place existed beyond mortality. As well he should.

  Sammie was a stunning, bright young woman. She wasn't the kind of girl who used her looks as currency or for flirtation. The exact opposite of the kind of girl Carla had been. Conservatively dressed, Samantha held herself proudly and made steady eye contact when she spoke. Polite but not submissive.

  With what Carla had proposed, Samantha's law school should be just about covered. The auction might bring in even more than the sum she'd quoted. All that could wait. It wasn't nearly as important as Henry's other last wishes for his daughter.

  Carla rinsed the antique teacup in the sink. She rubbed the crackled pattern with soap and warm water until the fluid ran clear. Out the second story-window, she could see Sammie's car parked close to the street.

  Should she move it to the rear and risk someone seeing her do it? Leaving it where it was meant visibility. Moving it meant fingerprints, hairs, and fibers. Either way, it wasn't as though Carla could come up with any easy explanation, and sooner or later she would have to.

  Henry had long insisted all she would have to do is play dumb, wait it out. But Henry couldn't say how long Sammie'd be gone. Other than waiting, the only thing he could advise was for her to ask for a lawyer. Lawyer up. That's what he called it. Too many crime shows and not enough socialization is what Carla called it.

  Too early to worry about those things. It might take a week or longer for anyone to even report her missing. Self-sufficient as the girl likely was, she might not even have told anyone where she was going that morning. Or why.

  Carla set down the cup and turned her attention to the saucer. Once dry, she would return them to the set, to be auctioned off that afternoon. Wouldn't want any residue on any of the pieces. Or to have any pieces in the house, in case the police came calling.

  In case someone looked for her.

  Ah, Henry, what had she gone and gotten involved in? She could only pray the old goat knew what he was doing when he planned this out so long ago. She knew the how. She knew the where and when of it. She'd long ago stopped asking why.

  * * * *

  Samantha was glad he left, even gladder his sister left. She didn't like the way the more-than-helpful woman, real or not, had looked at her. There was that knife a moment earlier too. She didn't know what part of her psyche the woman represented in this strange, surreal delusion. She didn't want to know.

  What would Freud say about knife-wielding women? Snakebites were pretty obvious, sexual-deviation guilt, penis envy, or something along those lines. Jesse. What did Jesse, glorious, gorgeous cowboy represent?

  Her dreams, her desires, her goals, her lack?


  Samantha couldn't guess. All she knew was how magical she felt when he was near, and whatever this was, she was willing to prolong it to spend another moment with him. She decided if she was hurting herself somewhere, wherever she had managed to wander off to in her current sleepwalking, semi-conscious state, someone would find her. Someone, Charles maybe, would find her and wake her or get help or whatever needed to be done.

  Until the spell broke, she would enjoy it as long as possible.

  So, snakebite. Punishment for dallying with Jesse? If it was punishment. What was her last form of punishment, the last time she'd dreamed of him? Besides a wicked headache and a bit of nausea, nothing.

  Did that mean, as long as she came to terms with her deviant sexual behavior, her outright, wanton sluttiness, a behavior she'd never acted out before, did that mean she would stop punishing herself?

  She hoped so. Because she wanted to enjoy this fantasy, not mutilate herself in reality while she lived out her suppressed desires.

  Jesse returned with a blanket roll and a glass of water. He helped her sit up to drink and propped up her foot on the roll. The fabric was coarse and itchy, but the attention was sweet.

  Sweet as it was, it also made her uncomfortable. She suffered the discomfort. He was there with her. That was all that mattered. The cowboy hero her mind had created to rescue her from herself? The outlaw who had intrigued her father, now her dream adventure. The gentleman outlaw murdered at the tender age of twenty-nine, a day before his thirtieth birthday, by his two cohorts in crime. Shot in the back.

  The headline of Carla's newspaper came up fresh and clear in her mind. A stolen life. She'd only minored in psychology in her undergrad work, but most any educated, and some uneducated, could probably figure out this one.

  "How's your leg?” Jesse said, lying next to her.

  "Better."

  "Good.” He smiled. “How's your head?"

  "My head? Fine. Why? Did I hit my head too?"

  Jesse chuckled. “No. But you sure were talking like you did. Ginny got scared. And she doesn't scare that easy."

  Samantha winced inwardly. She'd scared her own psyche's representation of obstacles. God, all these deductions and conclusions overwhelmed her brain. Fatigue seeped through her.

  From now on, she would sit back and enjoy the damned delusion. Intimidating sister and all.

  "Sorry about that,” Samantha said. “I was a little out of it."

  "But you feel better now?"

  "Much.” She snuggled up to his chest, being careful not to unprop her foot.

  Jesse covered her up, tucked in the edges, and hugged her close. “I need to ask you some questions, Samantha.” He paused, as if he didn't want to say what he had to say. “Is that all right?"

  Samantha cringed inside. She found herself returning to the psychoanalysis and forced it to stop. “You can ask me anything, Jesse."

  His body heat warmed her toes and limbs and cheek. His heart beat steady and sure beneath her ear.

  "Who are you? How did you find me?"

  Samantha swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. What could she tell him? Certainly not the truth. Not that which would certainly cause a total mental breakdown, and she'd be sitting front row to watch her own demise into insanity.

  Stop.

  "I'm Samantha Hendricks. Born and raised in Southern California.” She stuck as close to the truth as possible. “I didn't come to find you. I just happened to come across the right place and the right time, I guess."

  Jesse stroked her arm with his thumb. “Why did you come here?"

  Samantha realized she had no idea where “here” was. Was she in Santa Barbara, where Carla's shop was located? Or home in San Diego? Winnemucca?

  He hadn't asked where she was, only why.

  What was she supposed to say? “My father died a few weeks ago. I came to sell my inheritance. When your sister's husband found me, I had come from the home of the buyer."

  He didn't respond. He didn't press further, and while she couldn't gauge if her answer had satisfied him, she wasn't about to verify if it did.

  Her eyes were so tired, anyway, all she could do was rest them and listen to him breathe. Within moments, she fell asleep.

  * * * *

  Charles Whittaker might not be the nicest or friendliest person in the world, but he was not inconsiderate. He had done absolutely nothing to deserve being ditched, or worse—forgotten—at the airport.

  His plane landed three hours ago. Not one. Not two. Three. Sam was nowhere to be seen. He'd had her paged; he'd called their home number and her cell. He'd left three messages, ranging from annoyed to furious to plain and outright worried. He refused to leave more.

  Every man had a limit. He had certainly reached his. Charles ignored the stares of curiosity and sympathy from the kiosk workers who'd no doubt watched him pace and come and go and call and hem and haw. Fuck them. So his ride hadn't shown. They probably had five different friends to call as back-up in such a situation. Charles did not. They probably made minimum wage and picked pimples on their back for each other. Charles did not.

  Holding his head high, he dragged his limping wheeled luggage, which had seen far better days but still had a respectable and clear Gucci logo, onto the walkway. He would have to take a cab. Hopefully, he would get a driver who didn't rattle on in a monologue and didn't listen to rap at supersonic volume.

  Samantha was going to get more than an earful over this little stunt. He hoped against the sick feeling in his belly it was, in truth, a stunt. Let her be in the bath or off with some guy who'd swept her off her feet in the last forty-eight hours or just mean and mad. Let her be any of those things, as long as she was alive, safe, okay.

  He'd clearly been watching too many reality crime shows. He should simply stick to being pissed and plot exactly what he would say to scathe the insensitive bitch.

  Samantha wasn't insensitive. While she might seem bitchy, was no bitch, either.

  A cab pulled up in the line. Charles peered in and tried to hide his distaste. The old driver looked like a raging alcoholic with those ruddy cheeks and puffy nose. He shrugged. Beggars couldn't be choosers, now could they?

  Wishing he could hold his nose, Charles climbed in and stated the address. The scent of old cigars emanated off the man. Oh dear, this was going to be one long ride home.

  As Charles left the cab and it pulled away, he jiggled the lock open on the front door, the screen pressing heavily against his back, little wires from the screen portion poking into his skin through his thin cotton shirt. The door and pokes may as well have been an evil little imp menacing his temper into full force. When he saw his wayward roommate of four years, going on five if she was lucky, and he forgave this insult, he would give her a scolding that would make Manson blush.

  Unforgivable. Rude. Inconsiderate. Did he mention rude? Charles pushed open the creaky door and pulled his in luggage after him, trying to fight the persistent screen door and find a light switch at the same time.

  Rather than calling for her, he'd make a hell of a lot of noise. She would rush out of her bath, a look of supreme shock and dismay on her face, and he would put his hand up and ... The screen door smacked shut, his bag settled, and Charles closed the door. The lamplight showed the furniture undisturbed, and silence blanketed all the unused space. Unused. Unoccupied.

  She wasn't here. He didn't have to check any of the five rooms to verify it but walked through them anyway. They only proved what he already knew.

  In his second turn of the rooms, he looked for a note of some kind, a sign of where she might be, when she might've gone there. At least he didn't notice any signs of foul play. No broken windows, no blood. Only a missing body.

  If Samantha had any sort of social life, he wouldn't be so worried. But she didn't. She was young and hot and stayed in on Friday night to study or watch reruns and romantic comedies. He dragged her out twice a month, usually to one of his gay establishments, which she tended to adore anyway, straight men pres
ent or not. But she hardly ever went out with any of her few girlfriends, who were mostly in relationships, so even those nights out were tame. A movie. A middle-aged bar and grill.

  She hadn't talked a lot lately. He figured it was because of her father's death. They'd been rather estranged, and it had always bothered her. What if she'd gone back to her dad's place? What if she'd been stalked to the front porch and kidnapped?

  Fuck. Charles sat down on the avocado-colored sofa and put his hands into his hair. Fuck. He didn't know the first place to look for her. It, this, wasn't like his Sam.

  An hour passed of nail biting, pacing, and scanning the fridge for notes. He even looked under the stove, in case she went to magnet one up in the usual spot, but in a hurry, she didn't see it fall to the floor like a leaf.

  Nothing. He watched the clock, willing the universe to make her call, checking the dial tone, making sure he had service.

  Twelve o'clock. If she hadn't called back or showed up by then, he would call the police. He made sure to say so on her cell voicemail, in case she was mad at him or worried about calling or something.

  The clock ticked. Twelve-o-one. He picked up the phone and dialed.

  "Police non-emergency,” a tired-sounding female voice said.

  "Yes, I'd like to report a missing person,” Charles said, clearing his throat.

  "How long has the person been missing?"

  "I'm not sure. The last contact I had with her was two days ago."

  "Would you like a car sent out now or in the morning?"

  "Now."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Ten

  Samantha rolled over and hugged close to the warm male body next to her. She was still here with him. Smiling, she thanked whatever forces were in charge and sighed. The morning sun warmed the chilled room; birds chirped and chanted in the day. If she were dead, this was Heaven.

  He was Heaven.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes, secretly tickled to watch him sleeping. She glanced upward. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw. From where she lay, she could see right up his nose. She adjusted herself gently and quietly so their faces were even.