CHAPTER 1

“What do you think you are doing?”

The voice that rose above the din was distinctly feminine and unquestionably irate. Although not screeching, the tone was shrill enough to silence every movement within audible range, including the man wielding the whip.

Cara Martini pushed through the crowd and stopped nose-to-nose with the castigator. More precisely, nose-to-chest, but in her current state of agitation, she was as foreboding as he—despite her diminutive stature. The stench arising from his sweating body was repugnant, but she remained firmly planted, for the nearness prohibited her from viewing the bloodied individual tied to the whipping post behind him.

Although she wanted nothing more than to aid the person strapped, hanging slumped and nearly lifeless; eyeing the tortured soul wasn’t a mandatory part of that help as far as she was concerned. So, she stood with her nose only inches away from Rankle’s dirt-covered, sweaty chest, lifted her gaze and speared him with a look meant to bore a hole in his brain.

She’d watched from her bedroom window as Rankle hauled the protesting person across the main street, and cringed. She couldn’t make out the person meant for the beating, as Rankle’s large frame overshadowed the petite form of the person he intended to assail; but to her it didn’t matter, for she knew that Rankle was not a man known for his restraint with a whip. Too many times, she had seen justice meted and then watched as the man continued to raise and lower his whip as if deriving some perverse pleasure from the infliction of pain. She’d seen it too many times and had had enough. If she couldn’t help them all, perhaps she could assist one from a lengthy stay at the doctor’s quarters, or a fitting for a coffin from the undertaker.

Common sense told her to remain safely ensconced in her room, but she was not much for listening to sense, common or otherwise.

“Good day to you, Miss Martini,” Harold Rankle murmured, taking a polite step back before tipping his hat. He pulled a dirty handkerchief from his equally filthy jeans pocket and wiped the sweat dripping down his face. “What is it that I can do for you on this fine day?” He returned the brim of his hat to shade his eyes and tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket, waiting patiently for her response.

Cara knew that his polite demeanor was a ruse. Just as he, no doubt, could see the angry disgust in her own gaze, she saw the angry irritation in his. He only treated her with regard because of who she was and because she was a lady. That didn’t mean that he was pleased at having his task interrupted. He was having the time of his life and it riled him that someone would dare interrupt his pleasure—especially a tiny whiff of a girl. Were this a man, he’d have just punched him immediately. His jaw clenched and re-clenched as he waited for her to speak, but within a minute, the clenched jaw loosened and a grin formed as his brain envisioned this nosy, interrupting female strapped alongside the other one. He’d derive a great deal of pleasure from beating her too. His gaze said as much.

“I’m not certain why you find the beating of a helpless person so amusing, sir, but I am quite certain he’s suffered enough.” Cara whispered, appalled at the smile forming on Rankle’s too-big mouth.

“Beg pardon, miss, but that simply isn’t your call to make.”

“Well, I’m forming a formal, and quite public, complaint. There is no way that anyone will agree with you that this person deserves further assault.”

“The person is a criminal, Miss Martini, and crime must be punished. Are you saying that crime shouldn’t be punished?”

“Short of murder, there is no reason for you to be thrashing a person to within an inch of his life. Did this person in point of fact, sir, take another’s life?”

“No.”

“Then the penalty and torment is certainly sufficient for the crime committed, or do you truly think that removing the entirety of flesh from a person’s back proper punishment for a crime?”

“Your father left those decisions to me, Miss Martini, not to you.”

“Yes, well, I’ll take up your misplaced fanaticism with my father presently. Something tells me that he is unaware of your constant abuse of these so-called offenders, especially to the Natives of this land.”

“Those Natives, Miss Martini, wouldn’t think twice about removing that lovely blond hair from your head to take as a trophy, and leave you for dead, all for a loaf of bread.”

“In this instance, sir, I cannot see how you are much better than they are then. Still, I am not here to debate the rightness or wrongness of their actions, merely to defend the unjust punishment of the one hanging behind you. Now, will you cease the excessive execution of this so-called justice, or do I find someone capable of stopping you?”

“As daughter of our esteemed governor, I will bow to your bidding,” Rankle said amiably. Too amiably, Cara estimated. There was a catch. There had to be. Just as Rankle’s reputation for meting punishment too severe for the crime was known far and wide; so was his reputation for not backing down from a confrontation. She waited for the hammer to fall, and was stunned when it finally did. “If you wish for the punishment to cease, I will do so, providing you take the place of the criminal.”

“Surely my hearing deceives me,” she gasped, along with several of the spectators that had gathered to view the on-going confrontation. A confrontation they found amusing until that ultimatum was issued.

“You heard me well enough, Miss Martini. You are interfering with the discharge of my duties, but because you are a woman of some importance, I will bow to your request, providing you are willing to take your place on the whipping post and complete the punishment that I started. I can hardly have spoken any plainer. So, what say you? Is this prisoner truly worth your own hide?”

“Certainly not!”

“I thought as much. Go back to your needlework, Miss Martini, and leave the justice of Martins Landing to me. Good day.” Rankle turned back to face the criminal, leaving Cara standing there in stunned silence. She glanced up as Rankle lifted the whip, the sight of which snapped her out of her bemusement.

Raising her skirts, she dashed around Rankle’s side, placing herself between him and the barely conscious Indian. The crowd gasped loudly in disbelief.

“No! I can’t let you do this. No more! Enough is enough!” She stomped her foot against the dirt, the effect of which was laughable as the slippered sole made not a sound.

“If you don’t move, I’ll issue the punishment to you, strapped to the post or not, and then when you’ve been dealt with, I’ll finish up with the heathen. Is that what you want?” Rankle was done catering to the whims of a bureaucrat’s spoiled daughter.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“As I’ve already said, you are interfering with the duties of my office. If you continue to do so, then I will be well within my right to stop you.”

“My father will see you hanging on this post if you lay so much as a finger on me, and well you know it. You will strike no one else this day, sir!” She straightened her shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest, but her confidence began to wane when he started clenching the handle of the whip.

She suddenly doubted that her standing in the community would stop his carrying out his threat. She glanced about her and decided to elicit help from those gawking nearby.

“Surely, whatever this person’s crime is doesn’t warrant this amount of abuse!” She said loudly. “Isn’t there any person here that is willing to stand against this injustice besides myself? Or, would you wait to do something when it’s your neighbor strapped behind me? What crime, precisely, was committed here?” She asked, addressing Rankle again.

“Theft.”

“Of what? A prized mare?”

“Bread.”

“Bread! You dare stand there and tell me that the severity of this punishment is because of hunger?”

“Hungry or not, a crime is a crime,” Rankle said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Maybe she’s right, Rankle,” a voice interjected from beside her and Cara sighed inwardly in relief. “Heathen or not, the poor child has suffered enough for the crime committed, surely.”

“Thank you, Reverend Tomlinson,” Cara said with a sigh.

“I’d suggest you not get involved, Reverend,” Rankle snapped. “I don’t tell you how to preach your sermons, do I?”

“That is hardly the same...” Reverend Tomlinson began, but Rankle interrupted.

“When you beat at peoples’ souls and I sit and watch them cringe, do I jump up and shout for you to stop your duty, cease performing that which you swore an oath to do? Well, consider this my small part of saving souls. One beating from my whip and the poor soul thinks twice about committing the same crime.”

The Reverend backed away with a shrug and Cara wanted to scream, “Surely you aren’t buying this rubbish?”

“He’s right, Miss Cara,” the Reverend sighed. “If crime isn’t punished, then it won’t be long before the criminals take over. As much as it pains me to watch the suffering of another, it’s not my place to interfere.”

“Poppycock. Justice was served several whip strikes ago. Now he’s merely continuing for the pleasure he derives. Can’t you see that?”

“You’ve had your moment of protest, Miss Martini, and no one here is willing to stand with you. Now move!”

“I can’t do that.” Cara looked at the people milling about, now with lowered gazes of shame. If she couldn’t move them to action, she feared the person hanging behind her would die. “What if someone other than this Indian had committed this crime,” she tried once more, her gaze challenging every gaze it encountered; however briefly. “Carlton,” she snapped at the local baker, “what if this was your son? What if he thought it would be amusing to snatch a pie from a window sill? Would you stand by and allow the beating to go on and on and on? Or what about your daughter, Sarah...”

“Coddle criminals?” Rankle interrupted quickly, suddenly fearful that Cara’s pleas would not continue to fall on deaf ears. He kept his job because he kept crime away; so just as she wanted to appeal to their sense of justice, he needed to feed their fear of sin run amok. “Is that what you’re suggesting, Miss Martini? Are you saying that we should just let people behave however they wish without fear of repercussion? No, don’t answer that. I’m tired of your interference. Now move or I’ll move you, and deal with your father’s protestations at a later date.”

“No!”

“So be it.” Harold cracked the whip at his side, the threat apparent. Cara remained steadfast, her heart racing, her pulse pounding. She wanted to glimpse at the crowd to see if there was anyone willing to stop him; but feared that he’d strike if she glanced away; and then he made his move.

Rankle raised his arm with such speed that the whoosh of air from the whip brushed Cara’s cheek. She cringed involuntarily. She closed her eyes, awaiting the sting of the thin leather that she knew would lash at her at any moment. When nothing happened, she peered from beneath her lashes, and then her eyes flew open in utter amazement.

“You weren’t actually planning on striking my fiancé, were you, Rankle?”