WANTED (A Transported Through Time book)

by Amber Scott

  “Jesse,” Ginny said. “Look at this. Here ... and here.”

  “I didn’t see it,” Jesse said, sounding angry.

  Samantha opened her eyes. Jesse stood at her foot, shaking his head and looking like he’d sucked on a tart lemon. Was he angry with himself? He shouldn’t be. He didn’t bite her.

  Besides, this was no more than a figment of her—

  “Get my knife,” Jesse said.

  Samantha fought to sit up, to stop Ginny from scrambling from the room for any sharp object. If she didn’t wake up from a wet bed or from shooting, stabbing pains up her leg, who knew what was happening in reality. Anyone getting a knife was a bad idea.

  The last time this happened, she’d never found those panties. She’d somehow removed them in her state of semi-consciousness, who knew where or why. If she were in that same semi-conscious state now, she could be doing all sorts of strange things to herself, causing her own pain, acting out what she dreamed.

  She might have peed in the kitchen sink, broken a glass, and was now bleeding on her dingy grout while Charles and Fluffy slept peacefully two rooms away, oblivious that she was hurting herself.

  Ginny returned, knife in hand. The blade shone in the moonlight and looked nothing like Samantha pictured any old western utensil did. No rust, no crude handle. Nice gleaming steel and an expensive-looking ivory handle.

  Samantha blinked. She shook her head. The pain moved upward, and for a moment, terror traveled through her. She didn’t want to die. She wanted whatever had bitten her to die instead. When Ginny approached, Samantha had the urge to close her eyes and let the woman cut her open.

  Jesse must’ve seen her rising panic, because he lay next to her and began whispering soothing words into her ear. “Shhh. It’ll be all right, Samantha. You’re safe with me. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

  That’s when the world went pitch-black.

  ~~~

  Chapter Eight

  Long before she actually passed out, Jesse could see she was going to. Her face grew pale, and her lips lost their rosy color. A fear unlike any other gripped him, along with the knowledge he mustn’t stop her. Better for her to stay knocked out than to be in pain.

  A fear too similar to one he’d long ago felt for his sister, when they’d first found themselves on their own—mother gone in childbirth, father dead in the war. Grandmother passed away after raising them best she could for ten years.

  As he watched her eyes flutter and listened to the small gasp escape her mouth, his belly roiled in acidy powerlessness. Her head went limp and to the side. That’s when he knew Ginny had better cut into her then, or he’d lose all sensibility.

  “You sure?” Ginny asked.

  He looked up at his sister and nodded. He didn’t know how long she’d be out, but they had to move quick-like while she was. Better this way. As long as the poison wasn’t to blame for her faint.

  He hadn’t seen a snake. Not ’til he shot it dead. He’d like to shoot it dead again, seeing her like this. He should have looked first, carefully. Damn distracted is what he’d been. Just the other morning, he’d found a rattler curled right on the wooden seat, waiting for him like Satan for Eve. Thankfully, he hadn’t had a hangover to contend with and spotted the serpent before it bit him right in the ass and ended the life every sheriff from here to California wanted swinging in trees.

  Leave it to a snake to go and ruin an ideal evening. But then, a snake couldn’t change what it was. Not even most men could.

  This was all his fault. First, letting Samantha stay, lying snugly in his arms, then falling asleep himself. Being too busy looking for persons in the trees to remember that scouting the underbrush might be a better plan.

  He’d had no choice but to get Ginny. Now Ginny would be haranguing him for the ruination of a young woman’s reputation, never mind that the young woman had been willing and able, and she wasn’t known in these parts by any other soul. Well, he assumed.

  “Keep her still,” Ginny said.

  Jesse winced, watching his sister steady the ankle and delicately fillet open the pinked, ivory skin. He held Samantha’s hand and patted it, even though she wasn’t aware. Ginny put her mouth to the cut and began to suckle it.

  Ginny pulled her mouth away and motioned for something to spit into. Jesse fetched a bowl from the small kitchen and brought a jug of cider vinegar. Old-wives’ tale or not, he’d try anything to get Samantha back on her feet.

  They took turns sucking and spitting, and the longer Samantha stayed out, the better and worse he felt. The more they sucked out, the poison’s taste bitter and distinct, the less likely she would die. But the longer she lay there, motionless, eyes closed and breathing shallow, the more worried he became.

  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 remained 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 taking turns in sucking, they administered the cider vinegar and some whiskey on top of that for good measure. “I think we’d better wake her,” Jesse said at last.

  Jesse returned Ginny’s look of wariness. ‘I’ll take no part in a dunking, Jesse.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do it, if it comes to that. Now, back away, because I have a feeling she’s going to be mad as hell.”

  “Mad? We’ve been working to save her, Jesse. She’ll recognize we’re only helping her.”

  “Yeah, while she’s been out cold.” Jesse held up a hand. “You didn’t see the way she looked when she saw the knife. There’s something there neither you nor 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. “Should I get some water?”

  “Try some noise first?” he asked.

  Ginny smiled, opened her arms wide, and clapped in fast, noisy succession. She sounded like she was bringing in a herd.

  It worked.

  Samantha abruptly sat up 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 at Ginny’s face and back to Jesse. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Jesse frowned. “A snake bit you. Outside the privy. We need to know how bad 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 jawline, 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.

  “Samant
ha,” 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 as much with his intense stare.

  It seemed to work. Samantha’s gaze locked onto 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 out 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. He’d let lust cloud his good sense, and now he had to set it straight. Not simply for his own safety. For Ginny and Tommy’s, too.

  “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.”

  ~~~

  Chapter Nine

  Carla rinsed the antique teacup in the sink. She rubbed the crackled pattern with soap and warm water until the fluid ran clear.

  Carla didn’t quite know what she had expected, but Samantha Hendricks had not been 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 many weeks since Henry’s death, Carla wasn’t sure Sammie would ever walk through the door. But she had.

  Henry had been right after all. 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’d grown into a stunning, savvy 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.

  Out the second-story window, she could see Sammie’s car parked close to the street.

  With the figure 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. The money wasn’t nearly as important to Henry as his other last wishes for his daughter.

  Should she move the car to the rear, or did it 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 and 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 Samantha here.

  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 those last few weeks. 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 Charles say about knife-wielding women? Snakebites were pretty obvious, sexual-deviation guilt, penis envy, or something along those lines. Jesse. What did Jesse, the 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 searched her brain for any other possible logical conclusion and short of time travel, a nervous breakdown might be the only answer.

  Crap.

  Well, if she was hurting herself somewhere, wherever she had managed to wander off to in her current sleepwalking, semiconscious state, someone would find her. Someone, Charles maybe, would find her and wake her, or get help or whatever needed to be done. This definitely went beyond a dream.

  Dreams did not smell as good as Jesse. They did not have lapses of waiting, or even have much logical order. So what did she do? Sit and wait around til it ended? Navigate this new psychosis?

  The thing was, she really, really liked this craziness.

  Jesse. He was a fantasy worth any tight, white jacket. She’d stay in those arms forever if there was ever a chance to.

  That settled it. Until the spell broke, she would enjoy him as long as delusionally possible.

  So, snakebite. What did that mean? Adam and Eve. Sin. 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 sluttiness, a behavior she’d only flirted with before, did that mean she would stop punishing herself?

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

  Interrupting her contemplations, 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 might be, his attentions 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 fascinated her father was 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 undergraduate 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.

  “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 un-prop 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, hands and cheeks. His heart beat steady and sure beneath her ear.

  “Who are you, and I don’t mean your name? 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 in the 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 here 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.”