Forever His by Chrsitine Young
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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 . . .
Christine Young has done it
again in this historical romance. The blizzards, betrayal, deceit and a
ruthless bandito like Chavez made this a great romance.
Melinda for Night Owl
Romance 5 out of 5
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