Wanted

by Amber Scott

  "I'm not a talented actress. I couldn't act my way out of a paper bag. I'm a student. I start law school in two weeks and sold the map and poster to pay for it. You're either a figment of my imagination, and I'm having a very detailed and surreal nervous breakdown, or I've somehow skipped more than a hundred years to meet you.” She left out the part about feeling like her father orchestrated the whole thing.

  Jesse crouched by the fire and picked up a twig. He traced circles into the dirt and leaves.

  Samantha searched for better words, a more lucid way to explain what seemed impossible yet so probable. How could she make him see the same?

  Why?

  So he knew she wasn't deceiving him and planning to help his partners kill and rob him.

  So he trusted her.

  So that, by some wonderful chance she dare not even hope for, she found a way to keep him from dying and her leaving this place. Leaving him.

  Samantha's belly burned. He meant something to her. More than he should. Sex wasn't love. It wasn't. Amazing sex, while it could cloud the brain and heart, couldn't sustain a leap across time. Could it?

  Silly. Silly of her to think of it. Even if she fell head over heels for this man, in real love, how could she expect him to fall for her when she was nothing like a man in his era would possibly consider ... marrying?

  "Henry?"

  "Henry Hendricks,” Samantha said at his quizzical tone and nodded.

  "What was he like?"

  Samantha's heart broke just a little. “He was wonderful. Smart. Funny. Obsessed.” She half-laughed at the last.

  "No. What did he look like? Like you?"

  "Uh, no. Not really. When I was little, and my mom was still alive, she always said we were two peas in a pod. I don't think she meant in looks. I think I have his eyes. Wait a minute. Why do you ask?"

  Jesse twirled the stick in the dirt. He shrugged one shoulder. “I met a man named Henry about a week before I met you. Reporter. I never told him who I was, and he never asked me, but he knew."

  Samantha gasped.

  "Never stood out in my mind until now. Something you said reminded me, I guess. Before, I thought he was like every other reporter I've run across."

  "Why do you think the Henry you met was my father? What was it I said?” Her heart picked up. A pang ran down her belly. Her father?

  It couldn't be.

  It could. It might have been.

  It must have been.

  Jesse didn't reply.

  "Please. I need to know. What did I say?"

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  Chapter Fifteen

  He didn't like this one bit. Not one, single, damned bit. He was being lured. Pulled, almost, into her web. While he could sense it, acknowledged it, he couldn't seem to stop it.

  True, he'd met a man named Henry, and as she spoke what he figured was her last ditch effort to win back his loyalty and trust, he didn't know why the reporter suddenly sprang to mind. Now she was looking at him like he held the moon and stars, and he didn't.

  He didn't have any answers for her. Damned it all, but the very worst of it was he wished he had.

  He wanted to go to her and put an arm around her shoulders. Her pain looked so real, so raw, sitting there, staring back at him.

  He wouldn't do it. He couldn't. Jesse looked away. Back down to the ground. What she'd said wasn't impossible but unfathomable. The stuff of books and fables. More. Worse.

  Worse, he felt himself believing it.

  "Please,” she said. “I need to know."

  What could he say? “He was an inch taller than me. Skinny. A beard but not because he grew it. Overgrowth, I imagine. Blue eyes. The same blue as yours.” As he spoke, her face fell a bit, and he hated that he cared. “He asked a lot of questions about a lot of things that had little to do with my ways and a lot to do with my personal business. I told him to go to Hell."

  Samantha frowned a little then smiled. “Really?"

  Jesse nodded, almost smiled, as well. Almost, but he stopped himself in time.

  The sky was growing dark, and what he should have been worrying about was Mick and Joe finding the campsite. He needed to know where they were. He still couldn't be sure it wasn't them he'd seen in that flash of color passing through the trees on their way down.

  All he could focus on was her face and that they would be alone, bound together—he wasn't willing to leave her free to escape quite yet—to sleep, or otherwise, the entire night.

  What was it about this woman that befuddled his brain so thoroughly? Why on earth was he considering as true her tall tale?

  He hadn't a single answer to those questions or to hers. He didn't know what she said or how she said it, but the more he tried to place why, the surer he grew. Henry, the same Henry who'd put him out, and he'd told to go to Hell outside of Winnemucca, was Samantha's father.

  Her dead father.

  "You told him to go to Hell,” she said, and quirked her eyebrows. “What did he do?"

  "He chuckled and told me he probably would. Then he said something strange.” Jesse paused. He'd forgotten Henry's last words until that very moment. The memory of them flooded meaning into his mind. Clear, uncomfortable, impossible meaning.

  Samantha frowned. “What? What is it?"

  Jesse shook his head. “Nothing. Just remembering. That's all."

  "Remembering what?” Her voice grew insistent.

  "What I told you.” He said, stood, and turned to the fire. The food should be ready. Maybe if he stuffed his gut, the unsettling feeling tightening it would go away.

  He needed the distraction. So she wouldn't press him any further. He had to think. With her right here, asking him questions and inciting his body despite all his suspicions, thinking was no easy task.

  "Food's ready. It's nothing fancy, not like what you might be used to. But it'll stick to your ribs."

  "Whatever you have is fine. Really."

  Hurt tinged her voice. He wouldn't let it get to him.

  The sun was going down. He'd better figure out what was going on here. Fast.

  * * * *

  Carla wasn't surprised at the late-night knock on her door, and though she answered with mussed hair and in her robe, she'd been expecting it.

  One full day had passed since Sammie had come to sell her inheritance. She'd like to think that was a good sign, but Henry had warned her not to measure her time by what Sammie's would be.

  He had only bounced back twice, himself, and he insisted that each time, the two places didn't match in time spent or lost or lived. Whatever one called it. Now the police were here at her door.

  They didn't come in a patrol car, but the lanky man dressed to the nines could only be a detective. His partner likely waited in the sedan, that same model bought by every state's highway patrol and most rental-car companies.

  Before coming to the door, he scanned Sammie's car with a flashlight. Or so Carla imagined when her window flashed with light for a split second before the knock came.

  For a good two minutes, she waited there, counting them out, so she would be sure. He knocked again.

  She called out, “Coming.” She waited again. Ten seconds.

  She peered out her peephole, like she would have if she hadn't been waiting here for him. He was good-looking and young. Younger than any detective she would have guessed to be.

  Cracking the door only as far as the chain latch would allow, she peered out. “Can I help you?"

  He smiled, but his eyes were cold. He looked pissed and scared. Shit. He wasn't a cop.

  "Yeah. That's my best friend's car in your parking lot."

  "And?"

  "And she's missing."

  Carla played her role as best she could. She'd practiced it enough times with Henry, but the real thing wasn't as easy. They'd role-played only the police showing up. Not her roommate, and this must be him.

  Best friend. She wondered if Sammie thought the same way.

  Carla scowled. “What do yo
u mean missing?"

  "As in disappeared without a trace. I've filed a police report. If you want, I can call them and tell them I found her car here, and we can deal with them. Or you can let me in, pour me a nice cup of tea, and tell me when was the last time you saw her and what happened to her."

  She was going to puke. Right there on the door, she knew it. She was no good at any of this.

  Shit.

  Henry would kill her if he could. Henry was not here.

  Carla nodded, swallowed back the rising bile, and unlatched the chain. “You can come in. But if you're a rapist or robber, you're wasting your time.” He was neither, that much she knew.

  He wasn't the angry, beat-it-out-of-you type either. Call it instinct or an innate ability to read people or a sixth sense, but she trusted it.

  Maybe Henry didn't plan for this. Surely she could manage the unexpected twist and stall long enough for Sammie to come back safe and sound and, if all went well, not alone.

  His name was Charles. When she asked if she could call him Charlie, he blanched. “God, no,” he said and scowled. “Where's Samantha?"

  Carla waved her hand through the air, at once dismissively and compellingly. “Before we get into your questions, I have a few of my own. You're not the only person with trust issues. So sit down and have a friggin’ cup of tea.” She went up the stairs to her apartment. She didn't have to look behind her to see if he followed. His stubborn footsteps told her as much. “Wherever Sammie is right now, I can almost guarantee you she's in good hands."

  Once they reached her kitchen, Charles's skeptical look didn't slow her down. She pointed to a chair and began to pour water into a kettle. How in the world she was going to explain all this? She hadn't a clue, but it was the only thing she could do.

  If he didn't believe her, well, that would be his problem.

  "Did you ever meet Henry, Sammie's father?"

  "No, I can't say I have. Samantha never introduced us, which she would have if he were ever around."

  Carla smiled at the way he emphasized the name. Samantha. He didn't like her calling her Sammie, then?

  "Well, Henry and I go, went, way back. I hadn't seen Sammie since she was little, too young for her to remember, back when her mom was alive. Her mom and dad called her Sammie. It stuck, I guess."

  Charles's eyes lost a degree of their irritation. “Why did she come here?"

  Carla sat down with her tea and gave Charles the mug she'd poured for him. She'd be lying if she said the idea didn't cross her mind to send Charles directly after Sammie. What better way to prove Sammie was alive and well than in the flesh, right? She figured that was the easy and hard way out of it.

  She'd agreed to this madness, so she'd better see it ended as well as she could.

  "Henry knew he was dying. He knew he didn't have much time. After not seeing him for more than a decade, he showed up on my doorstep, asking for a favor. Sammie's mom and I were best friends, and he used that against me. I should have been too angry to talk to him, the way he up and left with Sammie the day of Lillian's funeral."

  She took a sip from her mug and gauged Charles. He cared less about what she'd said so far but was willing to wait it out. Half his mind was thinking about the police tearing her place apart top to bottom. Carla almost laughed.

  "He begged and told me about his health, and since Lillian was like a sister to me, the only thing I cared about was seeing Sammie again. Henry held that hope hostage."

  Charles blinked. “Sounds like a smart man."

  Carla smirked. Smart ass. “He was. Very smart. Too smart. So keep that in mind when I tell you what I'm going to."

  Charles frowned. He was obviously running out of patience. Carla held up her hands. “Just saying,” she said and took a deep breath, “Sammie isn't here. She came by yesterday morning to sell her inheritance. You see, her father left her..."

  "I know what he left her. She's my best friend. Could you get on with it?"

  Carla narrowed her eyes. “As I was saying, Sammie brought me the map and wanted poster to sell. What she didn't know was her father planned on that the whole time. Not just to get her the money to pay for school.” She wasn't sure how to word the next part. “Henry was also playing matchmaker."

  Charles frowned. His eyes softened.

  "Henry met a man he was convinced was perfect for Sammie. As part of his dying wish, I had to be sure they met.” She was trying hard not to chicken out.

  "That's it? Samantha's been on a date this whole time? Jesus, lady, why didn't you say so? I mean, a date? Wonderful. The girl hasn't been on one in at least a year. I even bought her some equipment last Christmas, the poor thing."

  Carla winced inwardly. Now for the hard part.

  "Yes, well, she's got a good head on her shoulders, and boys can wait."

  Charles snorted. “I beg to differ. Nothing like a stiff drink of water, if you know what I mean,” he said with a conspiratorial hand to this mouth, “to get a girl through finals."

  Or a guy, she surmised.

  Well, to each his own and beside her point. Although, if he was placated by what she'd said, maybe explaining the exact nature of Sammie's blind date wasn't necessary after all.

  "When will she be back?” Charles leaned back in the metal and vinyl chair Sammie had sat in the previous morning as she'd drunk the concoction that dragged a person through time.

  "I expect her any time now.” Chicken.

  "Really? Mind if I wait with you, then, you know, in case you're lying your ass off?"

  Carla smiled. He didn't act like he thought she was lying and, really, technically, she wasn't. Sammie was on a date. With an Old West outlaw and in a different year. Carla had no handy reason to tell him “no.” So she nodded and tried to chase away the worry in her belly with another sip of sweetened chamomile.

  "So,” Charles said, setting down his mug. “Tell me about this mystery man who's after my little Samantha's heart."

  Her next cup would be vodka.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Sixteen

  He didn't believe her. However, Samantha got the feeling Jesse wanted to. He wasn't the kind of man who trusted easily. He needed proof.

  She didn't have any. That, and she began to wonder how much longer she'd be here with him before time snatched her back to Carla's kitchen. Each instance she'd leapt through time to get to him, she'd remained only a stretch of hours at a time. The first was possibly eight. The second, far less than twenty-four, and she'd estimated around six since they'd left his house.

  The way he'd been acting since she woke up made her now think something had happened during that last leap blackout spell. What if she'd said something, or worse, what if she'd disappeared and reappeared right before his eyes?

  What would he think? It was too early for aliens. Maybe he'd think she was magical or she'd drugged him. Or who knew? Little sense in trying to guess. She should simply ask.

  She had no way she could show him proof. Unless she disappeared again, if she had, which she figured must be what had happened.

  "Samantha?"

  Jerking up her head, she realized he'd been talking to her. Well, whispering.

  "Yes,” she said quickly. When she looked at him, prickles rushed over her skin. His gun pointed barely above her head, and he shushed her with his finger on his lips.

  "Come over here, slowly, quietly,” he said, his voice barely audible, his stare never wavering from the point holding his attention.

  When her belly flipped up, the food in it only worsened the tight feeling. Samantha did as she was told. The darkening day seemed to breathe shadows and eeriness.

  A horse. Not coming from behind them, where their horses grazed. Samantha glanced at the pair. As though on cue with her thoughts, the black stallion pricked its head, ears twitching.

  It nickered softly, a breath snorting out its nose in a thin puff of steam.

  Steam. The night was growing cold. Her mind was hot. Jesse moved her behi
nd him.

  "Stay close, and try not to move."

  "It's them. Isn't it?” They'd come to kill him. They'd found them. She knew it.

  "Shhh. I'll keep you safe."

  Samantha's throat thudded with her heart's beating. What if this was the past, the ending she knew, and she would be forced to witness it? He'd die thinking she'd led his killers to him, that she'd brought death right to his door.

  Twigs snapped in the distance. Behind them, the horses shuffled restlessly. As they waited, the fire died down, nearly embers, making the night all the blacker.

  The dark outlined the silhouette of a man on a horse.

  Jesse crouched lower, pulling her with him. Samantha hugged his back and held her breath, waiting for the events to play out tragically, searching her mind for a way to prevent his death.

  She could think only to protect his back, to block it, and as she buried her head in his shoulder and began to say a prayer, Jesse lowered his gun arm.

  "Tommy, what in the hell are you doing, trying to get shot?” Jesse said and uncocked his gun.

  Samantha's’ belly and heart dropped so acutely, when Jesse stood, she plopped in the dirt. The fire's embers crackled beside her, and she ran her hand through her hair.

  "Sorry, Jesse,” Tommy said. “Didn't think you'd be expecting anyone else."

  "I was. What are you doing here?"

  "It's Ginny. You have to come back with me."

  "What is it? What's happened?” As he spoke, Jesse kicked dirt onto the fire. “Is Ginny all right?"

  Terror trickled into his voice. His sister. He loved his sister.

  It warmed and worried her all at once. If he'd been sure the two men supposed to murder him couldn't find them, how did Tommy?

  Samantha stayed quiet and waited. Jesse cleared the campsite in short order, and before she had time to think of a question to ask or a way to reassure him, he held her astride in his lap the same way he had the night they'd met.

  First, Jesse got complete reassurance from Tommy that his sister was safe. Though she was, she had refused to tell Tommy why she so badly wanted her brother to return. She just did. After finding out what he wanted to know, Jesse sent Tommy back.