Forever His

August 30, 1895

Near Buffalo Creek,

South Dakota

The sun beat down. Searing heat waves hit the hard packed earth, blistering, charring everything, even the dry prairie grass. Jacob St. John, his arms stretched overhead and bound to a whipping post, no longer counted the lashes tearing into his back, no longer felt the horrific agony.

More than a half-dozen men and one woman were gathered in the sage-patched backyard of the run-down shack. So far not one person made a sound as they watched Chavez wield the whip, stripping the flesh off his back.

If Chavez weren't so angry and seeking revenge of his own, he would probably have just had him shot. Revenge was a powerful motive. Chavez wanted Jacob to suffer, to yell before he died. It seemed Etta Barringer did too. So far Chavez was toying with him, taunting and teasing him, cutting an inch here, ripping an inch there, not doing much damage but making mincemeat out of his back.

Jacob hadn't made a sound yet, not even a sharp, indrawn breath. He wasn't about to even though he knew Chavez would get impatient and start slashing. There was no hurry. Chavez had as long as he wanted. No one save Etta knew where he was, no one would come looking for him, at least not until the sun went down. By then Chavez would be done with him, and he would either be dead or buzzard-bait. For the life of him, he couldn't figure why Etta would hand him over to Chavez. She had always been Pinkerton to the core, yet she had betrayed him once before. If he survived this, he meant to have answers. He'd move heaven and earth to search out the lying Etta Barringer and find out exactly what she had against him.

The pain of betrayal at the forefront of his mind, and vows of revenge against the instigator of this kept him going. He focused on the woman's laughter and the scent of lemons that permeated his soul.

He had been taken by surprise. Still, he didn't go down easily. It took all of Chavez's men to get him bound securely to the post in back of the shack. And of those men, not one came away from the encounter without a scratch. Blood from the multitude of small cuts Chavez had inflicted ran in rivulets from his back, pooling on the parched thirsty ground, soaking into the dirt, staining it.

He stood, his head proudly erect and that seemed to draw anger from Chavez. The grip of his fingers curled around the top of the post, the only sign of Jacob's pain--and fury.

The first real stroke of the whip felt like a red-hot branding iron searing across his back. Jacob didn't flinch, nor would he as long as he could hear her laughter or smell lemons floating languidly on the breeze. He wished he could see her, stare into her beguiling, green eyes until she knew he'd never stop hunting for her. Fury at his own weakness rose, and the anger he felt deep inside simmered, because she'd always attracted him. Ever since she showed up in a small town in Oregon, seduced him then drugged him and left him to sleep off the opium-laced whiskey, she'd fascinated him.

Concentrate on her--on what you're going to do when you find her again . . .

Damn, how many strokes? Twenty-five?

Etta, courageous, intrepid, intriguing, and she'd sold him out. For how much this time?

Chavez had been a Pinkerton once. Damn, but Chavez was supposed to be in prison. Chavez could put on an act. He'd fooled Edmund, his boss at the agency. He'd fooled everyone until he was caught red-handed with his brother and his gang robbing a Wells Fargo station.

Thirty-five? Forty?

He should have kept closer tabs on Chavez. If he had, he would have known Chavez would come for him. And Etta? What was her connection to Chavez?

He could barely stand now, his vision fuzzy. The inferno had worked its way up to detonate in his head. Sheer grit kept him standing, kept his facial muscles from quivering. He had never felt pain such as this, never believed such a thing existed. Etta hadn't stopped laughing and clapping her hands with glee each time the whip slashed across his back.

Damn, but he wished he could see her.

Concentrating on Etta no longer helped block the pain, did not keep him standing or his eyes open. He began to sag, began to understand that he might not survive this. Chavez meant to kill. An empty whiskey bottle landed at his feet. He knew the men had been drinking, and he prayed Chavez had been too.

He felt Chavez next to him, smelled him, felt his breath. "You still alive, Pinkerton?"

Jacob didn't respond. He didn't dare. The screams inside his brain waited for an opportunity to explode. He wasn't going to give them a chance. Chavez's men no longer cared what he did. Most of them were passed out and sleeping off the liquor. His pride and self-respect was what mattered here.

"Good," Chavez said then he turned to one of his men still standing. "Throw him over his horse. Take him to Little Muddy Spring and stretch him out on his back. Spread-eagle him.

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