Wanted Read online

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  Atlantic Bridge

  www.atlanticbridge.net

  Copyright ©2008 by Amber Scott

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

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  Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2008, Amber Scott. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Six days and still no tears. Samantha Hendricks half-laughed instead. Sitting on her father's bedroom floor staring at one map, likely more than a hundred years old, one fusty looking whiskey bottle, and one, all too familiar, sketched image of gentleman bank robber, Jesse Kincaid.

  The last announced: WANTED: Jesse Kincaid. Dead or Alive.

  Her inheritance. Thanks, Dad.

  She shouldn't have been surprised at Henry Hendricks's letter, serving as last will and testament. She also shouldn't have sneered at his opening line, the classic: "Sammie, if you're reading this, then I am dead." Anger, no, make that resentment, was about the only emotion she could manage.

  His sweet, even fatherly words carried no weight. No more than these three items flaccid on the floor in front of her crossed legs. What in the world did he expect her to do with this stuff? Keep it? Carry on in his stead? Conveniently, his death letter failed to mention why she got any of it, only that she did, and that one day she would know why.

  Samantha picked up the letter again. No. Not know why. Understand. One day she would understand. She snorted. Not likely. She never understood her father's obsession. Why bother starting now? Much as she suspected she would one day want something sentimental of his, some keepsake to show her children, herself, that she had been loved, thought of, these were not the proof she would need. The measly six—make that seven—lines (including the cliché opener and the closing, "I will always love you.") would not do the job either.

  The singlewide's thin walls groaned against the outside wind. Footsteps squeaking down the hall warned her Mary, her cousin, was outside. Samantha schooled her features and smoothed back her hair.

  Mary knocked before opening the door. Samantha looked up, resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the older woman's far too empathetic gaze. Pity. Loud and clear. Not just because Samantha's dad died six days ago on his way to his mailbox, or so the coroner and sheriff concluded. Mary felt sorry for Samantha for more than that. Exactly what more, Samantha couldn't say. Her new orphan status, maybe, or her being unmarried at twenty-five and starting law school, thereby doomed to spinsterhood. Who knew?

  Maybe because Samantha and her father hadn't seen or talked to each other in more than two years. Didn't matter. “Heading home now?” Samantha asked.

  Mary nodded. Her hands wrestled each other. “Yep. Heading home. Unless you need anything?"

  Samantha smiled despite the urge to scowl. Mary sounded desperate to stay, to help. She'd done so much already. “No. Thank you. Really, Mary, you've done far more than I could ask.” Far more. The funeral arrangements, the flower arrangements, dinner arrangements.

  Mary's hands went still, gripped each other. “Well, then, I suppose I'll go. My number is on the fridge should you need me. Call anytime. Herb can't hear a thing and refuses to get a hearing aid, and I'm a night owl, always have been, so..."

  Samantha nodded and shoved her hands behind her, wishing her wool skirt had pockets. “I will.” She wouldn't. “Promise."

  "All right then.” Mary's hands released, and before Samantha could blink, the woman got her into a tight hug. Shorter and heavier, particularly up top, Mary felt like a big, squishy stress ball. She didn't simply hug, she rocked. To and fro, to and fro. Samantha gave in and hugged her back in hopes it would purchase her an end.

  Mary only held tighter, then pulled back, holding onto Samantha's shoulders. Her lips pursed, her eyes glistened, and Samantha's stomach knotted tighter. “Let me walk you out, Mary."

  Another hug and another promise later, Samantha returned to the floor and her illustrious inheritance. No one to dispute this and put it through probate. No siblings to fight over the treasure map; no one to toast a shot of whiskey with. Inky black eyes stared up from the poster.

  Wanted.

  What she wanted was the $10,000 reward the stupid thing promised. Probably a pretty penny back then. Not much now. Enough to get her through the law school's doors this fall, no more. “I don't know what I'm going to do,” she told Kincaid.

  A heart attack, of all things.

  Setting aside the poster, Samantha sagged back against the aged double bed and studied the map. She turned over the thick, waxy paper. It looked old, but looks were deceiving. Taped to the back was a worn photocopy of the original map, marked and annotated in her father's distinct, elegant scroll. Her father's copious notes, and marks that guided her eyes through the map, would make a treasure enthusiast drool.

  The whiskey—she could only assume the amber liquid was, in fact, whiskey—was the perplexing part. It didn't even have a label, only watery slaps against glass.

  The whole place smelled like him but mostly in here. Cigarettes and Brut. She hadn't thought she'd ever miss his smell or him. She found she did. Now only scent remained to burden memory, his life wasted chasing a pipe-dream.

  Samantha swiped away a tear and surveyed the room. He'd been a good housekeeper. Neat. The same bed her mother used to tuck Samantha into, snuggled between them on cold mornings, lay made. Everything was clean, tidy in a symmetrical way she didn't recognize. She didn't know what it all meant. She barely knew her father in life. Why would death be any different?

  Jesse Kincaid stared up at her, the whiskey next to his whisker-shadowed chin.

  What about the outlaw had so fascinated Henry Hendricks all these years? When had it started? Before mom died? After?

  The gentleman robber. Glimpses, recollections of sitting with her father and an Old West fairy tale tugged at her mind. Samantha pushed them back and shook herself out of her thoughts. She should call home. Charles, her roommate and closest friend, would want to know she'd made it through the day, at what hour to expect her back. “The post mortem, no pun intended,” he'd said. Charles liked to keep an eye on her, and he would worry.

  She didn't move to her cell phone or her father's rotary next to it on the nightstand. Instead, she stared at Jesse Kincaid's cunning eyes and tho
se stupid words: Wanted. Dead or Alive.

  Somewhere in her memory, his robbery count, even some of the locales, sat dormant, unused since childhood, stories told and retold while she sat on her father's lap. Buried treasure.

  She reached down for the three items again, laid them out on the bed. 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 in any style, 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. She wasn't the first to open it, but it was almost full.

  Curious and a bit miserable, she tasted. The hot part, she'd gotten right. The liquid 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 awful stuff, let alone bequeath it to their only daughter? She sighed, missing him all the more.

  Her belly and shoulders warmed. Tingled a bit. She thought if she 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.” Her emotional wall broke. The one 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. She 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 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, 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 heavy-hearted, 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 his own corner in Hell for all he'd stolen.

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  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, As 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 is 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 hoof beats, 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, shushing 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 heart beat 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."