WANTED (A Transported Through Time book)

by Amber Scott

  He was trying to protect her, and all she wanted to do was pout? She scolded herself and listened for what he had heard. The stream, the crickets. Someone was coming, after all, and that took precedence over silly romantic notions. Uh-oh. Was that a heavy footstep, or her imagination?

  “Hold on tight.” Handsome steered his mount out of the cover of trees and kicked the horse into a hard gallop. Samantha’s bones jarred. They bounced together, riding down another hillside, and he held her close with one arm.

  All she could envision were greasy, sweaty, heavily mustached men chasing them on horseback. Crap. Why was he out camping with “bad men”? Who was really to say he, himself, was not, to some degree, a bad man? And what were three bad men doing out in the middle of nowhere, anyway?

  Camping? Hunting? Camping.

  Why would they chase anyone down simply for leaving camp? Something about this whole situation was off, and she got pissed at herself for not sensing it sooner. It was as if she’d just now awakened from her sleepwalk, after a dream. Like he was the dream.

  “Who are they?” Samantha called out over the thunder of hooves. “Why are we running from them?”

  “Like I said before, you don’t want to know.” He heeled the horse again. “They don’t know about you yet. I mean on keeping it that way.”

  “But why would they chase you down?” She tried not to yell too loudly. “Are you their ride or something? Did you take something from them?”

  Please, don’t let him be some sort of thief. Let him be a good, decent kind of guy with some seriously bad taste in friends. Not a creep. Not a mistake.

  “They think I’ve left them. Or might think worse. Look, it doesn’t matter now. I’ll have to leave you at the base, come up, and cut them off. You’ll be safe.”

  Fine with her. What did it matter whom he hung out with, or camped with? It wasn’t like she would ever see him again. A pang went through her. Best knee-knocking kiss of her entire life, and she’d never see him again.

  Charles would have a field day over the Freudian implications this bizarre night tied in to her dad’s death.

  They reached the base, and he drew the horse to a stop. He slid off and pulled her to follow. She winced when her bare feet hit hard earth. She looked around. No car. No truck.

  No SUV.

  Surely, “leave you at the base” didn’t mean here, as in leave her here to walk the rest of the way home. Where was here? What cowboy hero would rescue her, kiss her senseless, only to drop her off to walk home? Barefoot!

  The men couldn’t be that dangerous. Or faster than a car. Could they?

  She stared at him, anger itching up her skin. He cupped her face in his hands, apology bright in his eyes. Her anger washed away. Who could get angry with a man who looked at her like she was a miracle?

  He planted a kiss on her lips, fierce and quick, pointed, and said, “Winnemucca.”

  He climbed back into the saddle and might’ve tipped his hat, if he’d had one. Tears threatened Samantha’s eyes, but she blinked them back. She had absolutely no reason in the world to cry. None. This is what she’d wanted. To go home. Albeit, in a warm car instead of after a warm good-bye. She bit down, waved, and turned the way he had pointed.

  She forced herself not to look back at the image that went with the fading hoofbeats. The first tear sprang free, and then another. Never had she cried so much as she had this night. First her father, and now this. All of it was that damned whiskey’s fault.

  She vowed never to drink it again. As soon as she got back, she would pour it out, dump the whole thing down the drain, and flush it. She’d sell that damned outlaw’s stupid paraphernalia and forget it all.

  Wait.

  Sell it? Of course! Why didn’t she think of it before? Let her father’s blind obsession pay for her tuition. She could be done with all of it.

  The funeral, her dad, her feet. Handsome. All of it.

  If thinking these things didn’t make her feel any better, doing them certainly would.

  ~~~

  Chapter Five

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

  Not this.

  The high ceiling, short windows, and animal heads mounted on the wall reminded her of her high school prom at the Elks lodge. The place smelled like it, too. Perfumed oldness. The thin, red brick-colored carpeting did little to mask the concrete floor. Her heels clacked when she walked on it. The wood-lined wall seams didn’t perfectly line up with each other.

  Still, once she finally decided to actually sell the items, she’d searched the internet as thoroughly as she could for weeks. This appeared to be her most attractive option, unless she went through the internet. Not her preference. The owner of this local auction house had assured her he knew the kind of client she would require. And he seemed to know the history of Jesse Kincaid—Antiques Roadshow style.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  This was the place. She would sell her father’s past and turn them into her future. Standing in the foyer, waiting for the proprietor, a teensy bit of guilt niggled at her. The hostage exchange.

  The past for her future.

  Charles was right. Unless she planned on finding the mythical treasures herself, they needed some cash. They’d celebrate over shots once she got paid.

  She found a button on a wall with a sticky note. “Buzz for service.”

  She did.

  “How can I help you?” A woman’s voice echoed out of the box.

  “Yes, hi. I emailed about the ‘Wanted’ poster?”

  Silence.

  “Are you pressing the button? I can’t hear you unless you press when you talk, hon.”

  Samantha tried again. “I’m here with the Jesse Kincaid poster?”

  Like a silly girl with a crush, she had stopped in a nearby Staples and photocopied the map and poster. 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.

  “Wanted? Oh, the Kincaid treasure hunter?”

  Charles was right. Her father’s death, coupled with the symbol of their estrangement, and her handsome rescuer had manifested from blah, blah, blah. Funny how disappointed she’d felt knowing that Jesse couldn’t be real. “Yes.”

  He looked far hotter in her dream than on paper. It was Jesse, nonetheless. So she still could look at him and fantasize. She still could hold onto the map and keep the notes her father had made on the back. Someday, she might see it as a memento. He had loved the hunt. And maybe one day, she wouldn’t resent all that mystery.

  “Gimme five, hon.”

  The further she explored her idea to sell her inheritance, the more sentimental she grew over it, and 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. Samantha exhaled a loud breath and walked in a circle before getting the poster out of her purse again.

  God, he was handsome. 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. Why not? Even if he wasn’t real. Even if his face reminded her of a father who forgot to parent his daughter or 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. Samantha had expected a man.

  “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 sighed. “In his day, if I’d come across a man like that, I’d have made him mine, outlaw or not.”

  “Yes, well. ...”

  “They don’t make men like that anymore,” she said, 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.”

  Samantha swallowed a gasp.

  “They were your dad’s things, you said?”

  She nodded. “He passed away.”

  “You poor, poor thing.” The woman wrapped her in a tight hug. Carla smelled a little like a fresh cigarette and a lot like Chantilly.

  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. University of San Diego’s admissions office would soon call in its marker. She stepped back, feeling awkward. “Thanks, I, um, corresponded with—”

  “Me. I’m Carla. Oh, you thought I was a man. I can see it in your eyes. That C.S. stuff is just for business. I can’t prove myself in email, but in person, I’m a pistol.”

  Samantha imagined her as a madam 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.

  Samantha was far too independent, not to mention clean, to have ever survived the Old West. Chamber pots, sponge baths, tuberculosis, smallpox, dysentery (or whatever diseases 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 at auction in the next three months, if she got the bid beyond their agreed price. Enough to cover tuition, books, and maybe a month’s rent. If Carla wasn’t exaggerating, Samantha would have plenty more coming in to cover the remaining two-plus years’ worth.

  “Come here, honey,” Carla said, motioning Samantha with her dragon lady 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. Jeez, she hoped this didn’t turn into one of those old-person-telling-a-story-from-the-past-a-mile-long-down-memory-lane kinds 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 over the weekend. She couldn’t wait to hand him some rent money and see his face. He never said so, but Samantha knew he had his doubts about this plan.

  Mostly, that he didn’t think she’d go through with it.

  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 walls lined a large, deep room. What the ...? It looked like the set from a spy flick, 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 Cheshire Cat. If a little yellow feather escaped those lips and floated to the floor, Samantha would not be more surprised.

  “Keeps the place looking honest,” Carla said, thumbing at the old Elks-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.

  Riiiight. Samantha wasn’t touching that with a ten-mile pole. 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 couldn’t care 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 sepia-toned, 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 watching TV or studying for a test. Even his smile, his sweet touch, even if it was out of context in her mind’s eye, 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 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 good-bye. 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 entry door. The encasement swooshed closed behind her, again concealed within the wall. Samantha resisted the urge to reach out and touch it one last time.

  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.

  “I’ll just get us coffee. Nothing like a kick of caffeine while you sign away. Cream? Sugar?”

  Samantha nodded absently and stared at the thick and full-looking file folder, while Carla got each of them a cup of coffee.

  She should be just signing and 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. Samantha wasn’t quite ready to look inside herself. Something told her that file wasn’t the sales agreement.

  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 pretty teacup.