Mastering Melanie

by Reese Gabriel

  A sick feeling washed over her as she thought of her one time fiancée, the rapacious Cavanaugh with his sickeningly sweet smile, his cunning lies, not to mention the things he’d tried to do to her and the way he’d made her suffer for her refusal to yield to his advances. “No, marshal. I am not.”

  “I told you, my friends call me Trent.”

  “I’m sorry,” she blushed. “Trent.” Melanie felt her heart racing. For some reason the man’s name on her lips affected her deeply. Confound it! She had to keep her wits about her. This was hardly the time to act like a schoolgirl, letting herself be wooed by a handsome, rugged cowboy. And yet, if he were to take her in his arms right now, scooping her up between those massive shoulders of his...

  Trent cleared his throat, breaking her mad train of thought. “Kind of unusual, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice a deceptive drawl as he shifted in the saddle. “A single woman from New York, all by herself, taking a job in Indian country?”

  Melanie fought a rush of panic. “How did you know I was from New York?”

  “You said your uncle from New York arranged for your job. I assumed you were from there as well. Was I mistaken?”

  “Oh, silly me,” she laughed nervously. “I’d forgotten I told you that. Yes, I am from New York,” she continued, her words coming a little too rapidly for her own liking. “As for my coming out here, is it really that strange, Mister…Trent? I needed a fresh start. Haven’t you ever wanted to do that, to begin all over in a brand new place where no one knows who you are or what sins you carry in your heart?”

  A smile tugged at his lips. In a flash it was there and gone again, like clouds across a windblown sky. “Maybe once or twice.” He held out his hand, appearing to reserve his judgment, for the moment at least. “Come on, I’ll take you into town. We’ll send someone back for your trunks later.”

  Trent was leaning down, wanting to help her up onto the horse. She was going to ride with him. Her body close to his. His close to hers. “I–I’m not sure that would be entirely appropriate.”

  He laughed. It was a wild sound, that of an untamed stallion, or a wolf. All at once she saw in him the fine balance, the delicate tuning that made him what he was. Under slightly different circumstances, she decided, Trenton Cole, US marshal might have been an outlaw himself. Though not the cowardly stage coach-robbing kind. No, Trent Cole would have been a fearsome warrior. Perhaps in some other life he was. She tried to picture him now as a Genghis Khan or a Blackbeard.

  “You worry too much, Melanie. Life is short out here, so don’t waste it fretting over the opinions of others.”

  Trent’s hand was still extended. Melanie took it, allowing the man to swing her up onto the saddle. It was a large, strong hand, capable but also surprisingly gentle and respectful. He nestled her in front of him, just behind the saddle horn, her tiny frame a perfect fit against his large, muscular one. She shivered at the smell of musk and trail dust with a faint hint of whisky. Behind her his heart was beating strong and true, beating right from his chest into hers.

  “Giddyup, Midnight,” he called to the mount, his voice rich and deep. The horse whinnied appreciatively, rearing up momentarily on its hind legs. They hit the ground running, the lawman affecting a rugged gallop across the dry plains. Trent’s arms were on either side of her as he held the reigns, and for a brief time she imagined that she belonged to him, that he loved her and was carrying her to some place of safety where no one would ever hurt her again – not the stage coach robbers of the world, nor the Cavanaugh Reinharts, either.

  What was it they said about meeting someone in the wrong time and place? She laughed grimly to herself. Certainly she couldn’t have picked a worse time to meet a gorgeous, apparently single US marshal, what with her being a fugitive murderess and all.

  “Trent?”

  “Yea?”

  Melanie was leaning into him, not sure if the question she was asking served any real purpose or if she was just wanting to hear his voice. “Those–those men back there. What will become of them?”

  Trent shrugged. “That’s the buzzards’ problem, not mine.”

  “Oh.” Melanie shivered against the setting sun, a low red orb bleeding into the desert, three or four times the size of what she’d ever seen in New York. The way he’d said those words hadn’t been cruel or callous, but his voice had been a sharp blade nonetheless, a sword, keen and cutting, merciless in the quest for justice. She would not wish to ever be this man’s enemy – that was for certain.

  It took the better part of an hour to reach their destination. The sky was nearly black, but she could make out the outline of the buildings. The town of Big Rock was little more than two rows of storefronts lining the sides of a dirt-paved thoroughfare. Melanie could scarcely believe she was destined to spend her life here. She would have given anything for the marshal to slow his horse, to delay forever, if possible her arrival. Surely the people must go mad here, she thought, eying the pitiful little shops, the saloon, the bank and livery stable, all of it surrounded by rock and cactus and looming canyons. It was as if some little piece of a street from some legitimate small town had been caught up in the air and re-deposited lock, stock and barrel in the middle of a wasteland.

  Trent stopped the horse in front of an office marked ‘Sheriff’. “We’ll get you those men that I promised would fetch your belongings,” he said, lifting her down from the saddle.

  “I–I don’t think I can walk,” she exclaimed when he tried to set her down.

  Trent scowled, but he kept her right where she was.

  “Marshal Cole,” called a raspy voice. “We weren’t expecting you in town this week.”

  Trent turned to face the denim legged, red shirted sheriff. The marshal's earlier words echoed through her mind. My friends call me Trent. The sheriff was older than either she or Cole by maybe ten years. A paunch hung over his gun belt, though his buttocks were still flat as a board. Melanie noticed the difference in their stars. The sheriff’s was five pointed, unadorned, like the top of a Christmas tree. It was larger and more prominent than the marshal's though she had a feeling it carried a lot less weight.

  “Business call, Sheriff Harkin.”

  The sheriff ran his hand over his mustache. Melanie didn’t care for the look in his eyes one bit. Black as coal, they seemed intent on no good. “Looks more like pleasure to me, marshal.”

  Trent indicated the passive, nestled Melanie, ignoring the jibe. “I’ve got your new school teacher here. You’ll find her belongings back on the road to Culver City. The stagecoach driver is there, too. There’s money in my saddlebag to cover his funeral expenses. You’ll find some buzzard meat out there, too.”

  “I see.” Sheriff Harkin maintained a flat, neutral tone. “And how many of them were there this time?”

  “Three. The same ones that hit the Rileyville stage last month, if I’m not mistaken.”

  He cleared his throat. “I assume you got them all?”

  Cole stepped up onto the wood platform that ran the length of the porch, close enough to feel the sheriff’s breath. “You won’t have to waste time on a posse, if that’s what you mean…what’s the idea of you people bringing in a new teacher with the Powatans on the warpath?” he continued, not mincing words.

  The sheriff put his hands on his hips, looking past Trent down the street, like he’d just been told some private joke. “Old Man Van Der Mere’s orders. You know how that goes.”

  “Yea. And I’ve had about enough of it, too.”

  Melanie felt the tension, the indignation in Trent’s muscles. She sensed real frustration, all the more so because unlike back at the stagecoach, this did not seem to be a problem the marshal could solve with his fast draw.

  Harkin pushed his tan hat back on his head. “Is the girl hurt?”

  “No,” Melanie replied, deciding she had no use for this pot bellied, impolite man. “The girl is just fine and she is capable of speaking for herself, thank you very much.”

  Just
then a fat deputy came out of the sheriff’s office, his gun belt slung low under huge love handles. He must have been listening in to the conversation from inside. “Got us a little pistol here, huh, sheriff?” he grinned.

  A little pistol? Was that how a teacher was referred to in this hinterland?

  “Put me down,” Melanie ordered the marshal, the battle lines drawn.

  Cole shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “I’ll have you know,” Melanie recommenced, the heels of her boots settled on the wood, “that I happen to be...”

  Melanie hadn’t expected the weight to be so great on her legs. Nor had she bargained for the dizziness now sweeping her head. The last thing she remembered, Trent was asking where her room was going to be so he could take her there, pronto. Apparently, he’d caught her and lifted her back into his arms before she’d managed to crash to the ground.

  “Take her to the saloon, Marshal,” she heard the sheriff say, more than a trace of amusement in his voice. “The old man wants her in there, same as all the others.”

  “Well this one’s not the same,” Trent replied, “as for the old man, he better spend less time on games and more time worrying about the Indians.”

  “I’ll tell him straightaway, Marshall Cole,” said Harkin.

  Was it her imagination or was there a tinge of sarcasm in his voice?

  The last thing Melanie heard, the fat deputy started snickering and then everything went black.

  ***

  Melanie tossed and turned on the soft, feather bed. Sweat beaded on her forehead. A moan escaped her dry mouth. She was dreaming about the stagecoach robbery. The robbers were making her undress when along came the rider, on horseback, masked. She cried with joy, expecting to see the handsome Marshal, but when he pulled off the mask she saw it was Cavanaugh. His finely chiseled features honed into a leer, his small, almost feminine eyes glowing with an unearthly light.

  “Cavanaugh, won’t you help me?” her dream self begged.

  He started laughing as she squirmed. For some reason, it wasn’t the desert they were in but a white, powdery wasteland, like sand or even salt. The sun was low in the horizon, a blue disk, entirely unnatural. It was also cold, very cold.

  “Help you?” he mocked, his voice smooth and oily. “My dear, I’ve come to help them.”

  With that the three robbers fell on her, tearing at the remainder of her clothes. When she was quite naked, they threw her down to the white surface, which was sticky on her skin. Each of the robbers had an extra set of hands, which enabled them to hold her wrists and ankles down while fondling her. Their grip was like iron and they positioned her in a spread-eagled fashion. She tried to struggle, but as she bucked her hips and arched her back it only served to make her more appealing to them.

  Hands squeezed her nipples savagely, while other fingers moved between her legs. There was no color at all when she looked up, the men now looking as white and ghostly as the surface on which she lay. The only hue was her skin, reddened from blushing, reddened from maddening sexual heat. And in the midst of everything, looming over her, his suit of white and black shed in favor of a pair of monstrous wings, was Cavanaugh, laughing and laughing, just as he had in reality when last they’d met in his study, her for the purpose of terminating their now soiled relationship and he for darker purposes.

  The words he’d spoken ran in her mind, echoing off the wall-like skies of her dream world. All at once she was back there, in New York, on that fateful, dreadful day.

  “I am afraid it is not only I whose company you will eschew in future, my dear,” he’d informed her, having heard her re-iteration of her refusal to marry him. With that he had handed her the letter, neatly folded. The words had been preposterous, absurd, and when she had seen the signature, purportedly her own she could scarce believe it was not all some horrid joke. A confession! He had forged on her behalf a confession to a crime she had not, would not in her wildest imagination have ever committed…a crime, in fact, which to her knowledge had not been committed at all.

  “Cavanaugh,” she had breathed, scarcely able to find the words. “You are mad. Tell me this isn’t true, tell me she isn’t…”

  “Dead?” he finished for her graciously. “I’m afraid, yes, but fear not, your own suffering will find its end all too soon on the gallows. As for me, I’ll be spared the embarrassment of being jilted…if I can’t have you, my dear, no one else will, either.”

  The man’s laughter rang in her ears, jarring her till she was back in the strange, white, dust world.

  “She’s a juicy one,” one of the dream robbers was saying, feeling her gushing moisture.

  Cavanaugh’s wings were spread now, shutting out the pale blue sunlight. He was a fearsome sight, all covered in scales and feathers, but it was the thing between his legs that Melanie was eying. It was like a snake, white and hissing, unfurling in the still, cold air. Or a phallus, such as one might find on some utterly obscene statue from some profane culture. Its length was utterly impossible. And yet she could not close her legs against it, could not protect herself from the coming onslaught, held as she was by the four handed robbers. Uselessly, her thigh muscles clenched, she bucked her hips in protest, though she knew she was doing little more than issuing an invitation to her own rape.

  “You had better relax, my dear. This is going to hurt me far worse than it will hurt you,” the demon Cavanaugh said.

  The robbers cackled at his poor attempt at humor. Cavanaugh was upon her then, his sallow cheeks and mutton chop sideburns filling her horizon as he descended. When he opened his mouth and the tongue emerged, she began to scream. It was also a snake, white and sinister as the man’s ungodly member.

  “Hold still,” he chided as though she were resisting something perfectly normal and routine. Hands were at her chin now, positioning her mouth for penetration. Simultaneously, in both openings, Melanie was breached, her screams dissolving then exploding across the unearthly landscape.

  She was still screaming when she awoke. The room was pitch black. Clutching her hands at her silk covered bosom she drew several sharp breaths, both to calm herself and to assure herself that she was still alive. There was a window with a curtain, a thin stream of moonlight shining through a gap at the bottom, illuminating a patch of wooden floor at the far corner of the room. Feeling for the edge of the bed – for she’d identified now that it was indeed a feather mattress upon which she’d been sleeping – Melanie found the chains.

  Her hand recoiled from the cold steel. Leaping from the bed, she landed her bare feet upon the polished wood. She didn’t take another breath till she’d made it as far as the window. The curtain was of a rich red material. Without hesitation, she threw it open, allowing the moonlight to cleanse and illuminate the unfamiliar surroundings. She looked at the bed first. It was brass, rather dull and spindly. She hadn’t been mistaken about the chains. There were four sets of them: two attached to the headboard and two more at the foot of the bed, one on each leg. The chains were silver, each terminating in a leather cuff, with a pair of buckles.

  A chill traversed her spine as it occurred to her their purpose. It was not unlike her dream, except that with such devices a single man could render a woman helpless and keep her that way without the slightest bit of assistance as he forced himself upon her. Instinctively she cupped her hands over the juncture of her thighs. The silk was soft, unfamiliar. Melanie looked down at herself. The nightgown was pale, lacy, low cut and most definitely not her own.

  Who had put it on her? she wondered. And how had she gotten here?

  There was laughter outside, boisterous male laughter. Melanie looked out the window. The dirt street was illuminated by oil lamps shining from several of the overlooking windows. Two cowboys were on the ground, wrestling with one another in the middle of the road. Others were watching, alternating their cheering with long draughts taken from whisky bottles.

  A gunshot fired in the air and everyone looked down the street.

  A m
an in a red shirt and black hat was holding a rifle over his head.

  “Break it up!” he snarled.

  For a moment Melanie imagined it was the marshal, but then she saw it was the sheriff, the man she dimly remembered from her arrival. She was in Big Rock, that was it. In the saloon, most likely. The sheriff, whose name was Harkin, had told Trent to take her to a room there. Desperately she tried to remember those events, the last few moments spent with Marshal Cole. He’d laid her in her bed and let her drink from the silver flask he kept in his pocket. The liquor was good, although it burned her throat. She’d felt sleepy almost at once, and she’d hated that she could no longer see him when her eyes drew shut.

  Had he been the one to undress her? And whose nightgown was this? She had to find out, though it would mean leaving the room and going downstairs. Melanie nearly fell flat on her face after her first few steps. The contraption had been directly in her path though she hadn’t bothered to look in her anxiousness to find the door. As it was, she ended up on her behind, having tripped over one of its legs. She had to feel for it in the dark. She gasped when she felt the leather cuffs attached to it. There was a seat of some kind on it, also leather, and thick heavy straps. Whatever the device was, it gave her a nasty feeling.

  Thankfully the door was unlocked. Her hands trembled as she twisted the burnished metal knob. Light and sound poured into the room. There was a piano playing somewhere nearby and heard the low-pitched sound of raucous, wild men like the ones in the street. Though she dreaded seeing them close up, she knew she must find out what had happened to her. Besides, what if Trent was still here, waiting for her to wake up?

  Not daring to look back, she ran straight into the hall, and straight into the wooden railing. At once the music stopped. Every eye in the saloon was looking up at her from the floor below. There were about twenty-five men, three tables full plus a long line at the bar. There were also two women, one serving at the tables and a second one sitting on top of the piano, singing. They were scandalously attired. The one on the piano wore a bustier and short silk skirt, with dark stockings and high-heeled black shoes with straps about the ankles. She had long, dark hair and looked to be about twenty. The other was plump and blonde, her hair done up high on her head with feathers. She wore a red dress, also silk with a slit that went clear up to her hip. It was low cut, leaving little doubt as to the specifics of her large, milky breasts. Melanie took her age to be roughly twenty-six or seven.