WANTED (A Transported Through Time book) (2 page)

She reached down for the three items again, laid them out on the bed. A ragged sigh escaped her. What she wouldn’t give for a small break from this heaviness inside. She grabbed the bottle. Knowing somewhere in heaven her mother was wincing, she uncorked the whiskey with her teeth.

She sniffed the bottle’s mouth. Yep. Definitely malt liquor, though if it was single, double, or whatever else, she couldn’t say. Whiskey wasn’t her drink. A martini wet, dry, or even blue, yes. A glass of wine, maybe. Whiskey, nope. She didn’t need the hair her father liked to say it put on his chest. It didn’t smell bad, though, sort of sweet. Like hot candy. The already broken wax seal proved she wasn’t the first to open the thing, but it was mostly full.

Curious and a bit miserable, she tasted. The hot part, she’d gotten right. The drink burned from her lips to her throat, leaving a strange trail all the way down to her belly.

A bare hint of sweetness came at the very last. Breathing out, Samantha puckered her face. Why on earth would anyone drink such dreadful stuff, let alone bequeath it to his only daughter? She sighed in frustration and missed him all the more.

Her belly and shoulders warmed. Tingled a bit. If she ever had to, she might learn to like it. A little.

“Well, Dad, I hope this makes you happy.” She toasted the empty room. The walls hardly held in the sound. “But it had better not put a single extra hair on any part of my body.” She tried to laugh.

He would have laughed. He would have said something funny and cutting. “Nah, you’ve got enough already,” or, “It’ll make you sophisticated, European-like.” The emotional wall she’d been slowly bricking upward since high school, when he became so consumed by his outlaw-quest that he failed to notice if she was even home, let alone still in school, broke. Sam drank another sip. A good burn this time, not as severe, and, in a way, sweeter than the last.

The table lamp burned yellow, making the walls and carpeting and comforter orangey rather than the sunnier color she’d found that morning. It suited the sickness inside her.

The tears burned nearly as much as the whiskey. A sob shook her chest, choking up her throat. Gone. He wouldn’t see her finish law school; he’d never hold her babies. All these fruitless, empty years of waiting for him to notice her. To miss her.

All she had was this stupid booze. Some memorabilia.

“Figures,” she whispered, looking out the window. A full moon radiated light outward, creating eerie, little rainbow rings. Stars fluttered in the darkness.

She drank another pull from the bottle, let it burn, and let the tears run.

She was damned tired. A hint of drunkenness began to settle into her muscles.

First, the bumpy flight into Reno, the rental car, two and a half hours of sagebrush-spotted barrenness until Winnemucca snailed into view. All three traffic lights turned red on her drive through downtown to her father’s small spread. She sensed the whole town knew, and everyone talked softer, like children in a library, until she passed by.

A surprisingly nice funeral. The whole place filled wall to wall. She never knew how well known or well loved Henry Hendricks had been. It seemed every last person in town knew who she was, where she was going in life, but not a single face rang safe or familiar to her.

The day blurred past with hugs and sympathetic smiles, rubs on her shoulder. Tuition due, no word on loans, rent. Loneliness. A sob hiccupped out of her. No one to hear or see her cry. So she cried until no more tears could wrench free and, a little bit drunk, sore-eyed, and heavyhearted, climbed into her parents’ bed, sadly noticing how small it felt.

It was all that damned Kincaid’s fault.

As her eyes drifted closed and sleep wrapped comforting arms around her, she prayed gentleman outlaw Jesse Kincaid had earned his own corner in hell for all he’d stolen.

*

The campfire crackled and sparked. Pretty near Hinkey Summit, Jesse grew confident he and his two campmates were alone. He’d gone out to scout the area, though, just to be sure. With more than ten men on horseback following less than an hour behind, one might have gotten lucky.

The robbery went as smooth as ever. Most did. Started when that truth-stretching reporter picked up their scent, offering his “unbiased observing and reporting for the common good.” Nowadays, bankers almost smiled when they saw his gun. Like he’d blessed them. What good came out of misguiding the public about mannerly robbing, Jesse’d never know.

Winnemucca was still a small enough town to make it easy, even if his illustrious reputation preceded them once again. Made the stealing easier, the hiding a hell of a lot harder.

He longed for a good, warm bed and some well-cooked food instead of a godforsaken campsite among the birches and brush. The dried meat boiling in potato broth did little more’n fill the angry hole in his gut.

Jesse walked soft in his hard-soled boots. In truth, the fire would attract anyone who’d followed them this far north. But they needed it, and Jesse gauged the risk as low. His two partners-in-arms were back there now, readying food, likely complaining about their smaller share of the loot.

Jesse could care less. Avoiding the noose took precedence over hurt feelings at his bigger portion. When he told them he took no more than they got, they didn’t believe him, and he didn’t like explaining what the fourth portion was for. He did the robbing. His neck was the one wanted. He got the larger share. That was that.

The fourth portion would go to an orphanage this time ‘round but might’ve
gone to another needful place, a
s it was intended, depending on what day and where he’d happened upon. If it didn’t go somewhere, he’d be no more than a common, greedy criminal. Like his companions.

Which was why he’d long since stopped trying to explain his motives or the loot-distribution system to the two blockheads. They wouldn’t care.

After leaving the camp as unobtrusively as possible, he’d tramped about it in circles. A near-full moon gave him plenty of visibility, but he didn’t like to trust his eyes alone. Listening to the night sounds, he heard the creek gurgling nearby. He went to it, alert for hoofbeats, soft neighing, a snort. A man could hold his breath, keep everything stone-still—except his heart. A beast didn’t know any better.

Well, his stallion Diamond might. He was Apache trained, and a rarity. Hearing nothing beyond the chirping summer night, Jesse turned back for camp, taking the long way in.

A twig snapped under his boot. He stopped. Listened. He smelled the air. Something was different. He couldn’t quite place what, though. A shiver ran over his skin from the inside out. A low wind rustled the leaves, whispering over the babble of water behind him. He heard it. A whimper. Soft—no horse and no man. He’d recognize the sound of a woman anywhere, and one was close ... crying.

A trap. The thought raced into his head and slammed his heart to life. He scoured the ground and foliage, his senses on the alert for a sound beyond the whimper, to confirm his fears and rid his gut of plain fear.

Near the stream, lying on the ground beneath a scattering of yearling trees, Jesse spotted a snaking tendril of blonde hair. Among the shadows, it stood out like moonlight on water.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t until his pulse slowed and his senses verified she was alone. Sure, if he thought hard enough, he could come up with possible explanations for a woman stranded, unescorted, miles from any small town or ranch. None came immediately to Jesse’s mind. Not even a decent trail near enough to account for some disaster or attack having befallen her.

If she wasn’t a trap, he was a fool. Crying? If he were setting bait, he’d have her cryin’ good.

He went to her slowly, careful not to step on any other noisy twigs, placing his steps so the grass didn’t hiss over his boot soles.

The closer he got, the quicker his heartbeat picked up. Not from trepidation, but from a strange anticipation and awareness.

She lay unmoving on the ground, eyes closed, and when she whimpered again, Jesse nearly jumped. The campsite’s conversation echoed far behind. The fools took themselves to be safe before he’d even come back ... but they were not alone.

She was here. Gingerly, Jesse knelt next to the prone young woman, either fast asleep or fast acting. Her bare calves gleamed like milk in the dark, her frame slight, but likely tall.

Twice, he’d heard her cry. Was she dreaming? Having a nightmare? Blonde tresses covered most of her face. What he could see was streaked with black and pinched. He reached out to move the hair aside and better discern if she was hurt. Or acting.

Her breathing failed to spark his suspicions. She didn’t flinch. Black drips painted her cheeks but not the likes of any tribe he knew, and he’d come across southern and western Indians over the years. He’d seen a few yellow-haired ones, too, but none so pale as she. Nope, she wasn’t native.

She might be stranded somehow out here. Surely she’d be grateful to have his help. Jesse chewed his lower lip and fingered the stubble on his chin. If he woke her, if she truly was out here alone, he’d have to bring her back to camp. Bait or not, she’d never be safe with those two jackasses.

All the same, he couldn’t leave her and have her demise on his conscience. Among all the other things to feel guilty over, he didn’t have room for her innocent face. So he had to do something. Fast. One of them, more likely Joe than Mick, would surely wander from camp, thoughtless of the risk, to tell him supper was ready. For all Joe knew, Jesse might be lynched in a tree, another rope waiting for the next straggler from the herd.

He moved to shake her awake. Her eyes flew open, and her gaze met his. Even in dark and shadow, unmistakable fear shone in them. Jesse went still, seeing no act at all. She lurched up and scooted back, her body rustling the foliage loudly enough to feel like a shout.

Hurriedly, she glanced about, and Jesse found himself wondering if she had any idea where she was or how she’d gotten here. Perfect. She was a damned damsel in distress, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she was about to make the distressed part absolutely clear. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted to loose a scream.

Jesse sprang on her, clamping his hand over her mouth. “Shhh. Don’t scream. Whatever you do, don’t scream. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He meant to soothe her with his low voice, but she wriggled even harder against his hold, making so much shrill noise beyond his hand gag, he suspected they’d be discovered. He held his arms about her like a vise, pressing her face into his chest.

“Two very bad men are sittin’ at a campfire just past that cluster of trees. You don’t want them to hear you. If they hear you, I’ll have no choice but to claim you as a hostage. Now settle down, or you’ll soon wish you were dead.”

She went quiet but made up for the lack of noise with renewed thrashing of her limbs. Jesse stood, dragging her up with him. Damned feather-brained females. A man could spell a thing out, and still they did whatever fancied them. If it weren’t for a certainty Joe and Mick would have some foul and ugly acts in mind for the beauty, he’d let her go and walk away.

He was certain. He knew Joe and Mick. While she struggled, his brain raced to piece together a way to get her to safety without risking either of their necks in the process.

Nothing. Not a damned thing came to mind. His name echoed through the dark. From Mick.

Jesse twisted the painted beauty around, wrapping his arm over hers, and couldn’t help but notice her small waist and ample bust. Hell. Of all things to be thinking of. Jesse pressed his mouth near her ear. “Shhhh.” She fell still.

Was it Mick’s voice that froze her up? Or were his words finally making sense to the girl? Either way, they had to get her hidden. Well, he had to. She likely wouldn’t prove helpful.

He spun on his heels, swinging her around with him, and searched the shadows for safe cover. Mick called out again. Closer. Jesse considered calling back, but that would betray their position, and probably wouldn’t satisfy the man.

The best he could do was hide her, and the only place he could figure was behind the nearest good-sized sagebrush. If he hurried, cut off Mick and rebuked him, he might be able to keep the Irishman away.

That left only her. He had to be sure she wouldn’t bring attention to herself or wander off and die, or worse, wander into camp. Could be she wasn’t completely sound-minded.

“Hide here. I’m warnin’ you, don’t you make a single sound. Not a sneeze, do you understand?” When she nodded her head against his palm, he realized he still had her gagged. He had to be sure, though, before he let her go. He turned her so as to see her eyes better. “They’ll violate you, use you up, and save you for later, and I won’t be able to stop them.”

Her eyes a clear blue, even in the shadows, filled with fright when she’d awakened, and paled even more.

Satisfied, Jesse pushed her to the shrubbery, shoved down on her shoulders, making her squat, and pressed his finger to her lips. He bore his gaze into hers until she nodded her understanding.

Mick’s voice reverberated within ten feet behind him, but calling in the wrong direction. Jesse’s chest tightened. He had moments, at most, to get away from her.

“I’ll come back for you.” Slowly, willing luck to cushion his path again, he backed away.