The marshal’s eyes passed to Harkin’s for the briefest instant then returned to the rustler. “Maybe too long, Harkin.” He leveled the rifle with both hands. “I thought I told you to let go of the girl.”
The rustler, seeing he meant business, put both hands up, allowing Melanie to scramble from his lap. “Marshal, I ain’t making no trouble,” he replied, the tremor in his voice quite audible. “I’m just playing a friendly game of cards.”
Cole nodded towards the pile of cash in front of the man. “Where’d that money come from, Craven?”
Harkin leaped to his feet, a look of surprise and horror on his face. “Marshal, did you say Craven? As in Jake Craven, the rustler?” He drew his pistol. “Get up boy, you’re under arrest. Dammit, marshal, I had no idea this was the very same Craven. Ain’t never seen his picture, you know, except for those drawings on the wanted poster, and I don’t have to tell you how bad those are. Somebody get me Homer, will ya?”
A shout went out for the deputy.
Craven looked at the sheriff in confusion. “Harkin, what the hell’s going on? You know damn well who I am!”
“Shut up you varmint!” Harkin cocked the revolver. “You lay your gun on the table right now; you’re under arrest.”
Homer came in a moment later, soaking wet from the rain. “What is it, sheriff?”
“Deputy, this here’s a wanted criminal. I want you to take him right over to the jail. You hear me?”
“Sheriff?” Homer scratched his sopping wet head.
“Now, Homer,” the sheriff said more forcefully, his eyebrows doing a little dance in the marshal’s direction.
“Oh,” Homer smiled. “I get it.”
“Sheriff, I’m not fooled by your little game,” Cole informed him as Craven was handcuffed and led away. “In fact, when I finish collecting my evidence, I intend to see you run out of this territory on a rail. And now that old Judge Van Der Mere is dead, that shouldn’t be so difficult, should it?”
Harkin narrowed his stare. For a moment he looked like he might use his gun on the marshal. A few tense moments passed, then he holstered it and began to laugh. In short order, everyone at the table was laughing, too. “Marshal,” he finally said, drawing a deep, lazy breath. “You must be the last honest man in this entire territory. Seems to me that’s worth a whisky or two.”
The marshal, who hadn’t flinched the whole time, shook his head. “I don’t drink, Harkin.” He inclined his head towards Melanie, huddled by the bar, terrified. “You mind telling me why you got the school teacher working in here?”
Harkin ran his hand through his hair in a simulation of conscience. “I was afraid you’d ask me about her, marshal. It troubles me, it really does. Any chance you and I could talk privately for a moment? It’s a sensitive matter, you understand.
Cole frowned, then nodded his head. “I’ll give you one minute, outside.”
Harkin was still chuckling as he followed the marshal out of the swinging saloon doors. They were gone several minutes. No one spoke a word in the men’s absence, not even the colonel. When the sheriff returned, the marshal behind him, he was smiling broadly. “Marshall Cole’s gonna sit in with us tonight boys, any objections?”
“A law enforcement officer of your caliber is always welcome,” said the colonel stiffly, his expression hard to read.
The marshal made no reply as he took the seat recently vacated by the rustler.
“You can use Craven’s stake, if you like,” offered Harkin.
“That’s stolen money, sheriff.”
“Of course it is,” Harkin agreed with a wink. “Just pulling your leg that’s all.”
Cole pulled a money clip from his vest pocket. “Let’s get this over with.”
“I need a whisky,” the captain spoke up, looking in Melanie’s direction.
“Get it yourself,” said the marshal, casting a warning glance.
The captain looked to the colonel.
“You heard the man, get your own drink,” Beauregard told him. “In fact, it’s time you headed back to the fort.”
“Sir?”
“That’s an order, Appleby.”
The captain’s cheeks puffed, turning a shade of pinkish red. “Yes, sir,” he grumbled, rising to his feet.
“He’s going to double check on security arrangements,” the colonel explained to Cole. “Can’t be too careful with Red Wolf on the loose, can we?”
Cole picked up the cards dealt by the sheriff. “Yes,” he noted dryly. “That’s another interesting development since I’ve been gone. Suddenly Red Wolf is a fugitive, from the cavalry and from his own chiefs both. How might that have happened, do you suppose?”
The colonel consulted his cards. “Who knows, marshal. Savages are so unpredictable.”
Cole eyed his hand. “Indeed,” he countered. “And so are many white men.”
Melanie’s heart was pounding. The marshal was in the game, which meant he was playing for her, just like the others. And as mad as he seemed to be at them, she could only guess he was trying to win her freedom. But why didn’t he just take her, then? Clearly he had the upper hand here. What exactly had Sheriff Harkin told the man? She flushed red imagining what a man like Harkin would say about a woman such as herself. Strange, she thought, that mere words should embarrass her given all the things she’d been forced to do since coming to Big Rock. As for the marshal, what did it matter if one more man thought her to be a harlot or worse? Didn’t half the territory already know that about her by now?
She knew the answer, of course. The difference lay in the fact that she didn’t have feelings for any of those other men, only the enigmatic, handsome and supposedly impotent Trent Cole.
“I’ll take two,” said the marshal, pushing two cards forward face down.
“Three for me,” Harkin chimed. Clearing his throat he added, “You know marshal, times are changing out here. They say within the next fifty years this territory will double in size. And that doesn’t begin to reflect what’s happening in California. That’s a lot of room we’ll need for settlers, don’t you think?”
Cole tossed in a silver coin. “Could be. That’s not my job though, is it?”
“And what exactly is your job, sir, if I may ask?” This from the unusually somber colonel.
The marshal eyed Beauregard. “Justice,” he said, the word burning a hole in the air.
“I fold,” the sheriff announced. “This is too rich for me.”
“Me as well,” said Doctor Lassiter.
A portly railroad man beside the doctor did likewise. Colonel Beauregard twirled his mustache, studying the marshal. “I believe you’re bluffing.”
“Try me,” the marshal replied.
There was a hushed silence as the colonel laid out his cards. “Full house.”
Cole smiled thinly as he turned over four aces. “Not bad, colonel. But not good enough, I’m afraid.”
Harkin pounded his fist on the table. “Nice work, marshal. Chalk one up for civilian law enforcement over the military.”
“Just deal the cards, Harkin,” said Cole, his face expressionless.
Melanie had never seen the table so quiet. Other than the minimum conversation needed to propel the game, nary a word was spoken. Ironically, it was exactly what Colonel Beauregard was always saying he wanted. A game that was all business. The marshal took the next two hands. The doctor, surprisingly enough, took the third with an inside straight. Then it was the marshal again and the railroad man.
Colonel Beauregard looked fit to be tied. Down to the last of his stake, he began betting recklessly. The marshal wiped him out with a pair of jacks on a clear bluff. The sheriff judiciously lost the next two hands, and it was down to the doctor and the railroad man. The marshal took them both with ease in under a half hour. Pushing back his chair, he said, “I will require a room.”
“Naturally,” smiled Harkin, delighted to engage the straight and narrow federal officer in any sort of vice he could manage. “You can
use Melanie’s. She’ll even show you the way. She’s quite used to it. By the way, marshal, you’ll find it’s equipped with lots of toys.”
He put his hat back on his head. “That won’t be necessary, Harkin. See that I’m not disturbed till dawn.”
“Certainly,” Harkin bowed with exaggerated politeness. “Consider it done.”
Melanie could scarcely stay on her feet. The marshal was behind her and it was all she could do to fall back into his arms. Opening the door, she let him precede her. He then closed it carefully behind her.
“Shall we lock it?” she asked meekly.
The marshal took the comforter from the bed and rolled it into a makeshift pillow. “No,” he replied simply, setting it on the floor at his feet. “There won’t be anything worth breaking in for.”
She watched him lay down on his side, his back facing her. “What are you doing?” she asked stupidly.
“I’m going to bed, Miss Hawthorne. I suggest you do the same.”
Melanie felt the words burn through her chest. He knew her real identity. Had Harkin told him or had he deduced it for himself? “But I should be on the floor,” she offered at last, uncertain as to how to proceed with the man.
Cole exhaled, his voice indicating annoyance. “I’m trying to sleep, Miss Hawthorne, do you mind?”
“How do you know my real name?”
He laughed faintly, still not bothering to turn over. “Give me a little credit, will you?”
She looked at her hands. “I thought maybe the sheriff told you.”
“The day I rely on Sheriff Harkin for information is the day I turn in my badge, Miss Hawthorne.”
Melanie listened to him breathe for several minutes. “So why don’t you arrest me?”
“Are you guilty?”
“No.”
“Well there’s your answer,” he shrugged.
She swallowed. So he was protecting her after all. “Then you’ll take me away from here?” she asked hopefully.
“If I do that, I’ll have to arrest you. Harkin made it clear if you try to leave, he’ll turn you in. Is that what you want?”
“No,” she admitted truthfully. “As horrible as this is, at least I’m alive.”
He gave no answer. Sitting herself noisily on the bed, she did her best to garner his attention. It made no sense. He wasn’t rescuing her and he wasn’t making love to her. He’d made no arrest, and yet he wasn’t going to save her from Harkin’s clutches either.
After enduring several deep female sighs, Cole spoke up. “Be quiet, Miss Hawthorne, or I shall have to gag you.”
Melanie leaped to her feet and stood over him. “Why don’t you, then?” she spat viciously. “Everyone else does. Oh, wait, I forgot. You’re not like the other men.”
Cole moved so fast, Melanie had no time to react. Before she could draw another breath she was flat on her back, the restraints tightly buckled on both hands.
“I’m sorry,” she wailed, honestly regretting her cruel reference to his impotence. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I’m leaving your ankles free,” he said, ignoring her apology as he thrust a conveniently located leather gag into her mouth and fastening it behind her head. “Now maybe I’ll be able to get some rest.”
She flashed him a hurt, angry glare. Didn’t he know how much she wanted him? Didn’t he realize how she’d dreamed of him, yearning for his touch, imagining him in place of all the others who’d been using her?
“Good night,” he said flatly, turning off the lamp and returning to his meek and lowly place on the floor.
Within minutes, she heard him snoring, this incredible contradiction of a man. So gallant as to rescue her not once but twice and yet so barbaric as to tie her to the bed and leave her frustrated and needful. Rubbing her legs together, she did her best to create what friction she could beneath her skirt. The tight corset was making her woozy, not to mention forcing her blood engorged breasts like tiny mountains toward the ceiling. She ached to be touched, whipped, beaten, anything to bring relief to the pent up tensions.
Could there be a worse torture than to be forced to lay in the same room with the one man she truly wanted and to have him spurn her? Closing her eyes, she tried to conjure the scene. Marshal Trent Cole, splendid and naked, his cock huge and pointed straight at her. Smiling wickedly, she tries to run away. He raises the lariat over his head, spinning the rope with an ear-dazzling whistle. As she runs she knows he will bring her down, and yet she attempts escape anyway. The rope catches her midsection, cinching at her belly button. All at once, her legs are halted. A final tug and she is on the ground.
She’s breathing heavily, sweating profusely onto the dusty earth. Cole takes his time, unconcerned with her struggles. A few expert twists and she’s trussed up, helpless in a hog tie, just like Zechariah had used on her. Melanie attempts to move, but the ropes are too tight. All she can do is lay there and grimace as he nudges her onto her side with his foot.
Her sex is spread wide, her back sharply bowed. She releases a single moan of anticipation as he kneels beside her, his thick, pulsing organ leading the way.
“Take it,” he warns, “take it all, or you’ll earn yourself a good tanning.”
She moans as he pushes himself into her mouth. She absorbs him all, obediently, stifling her gag reflex. He is sweet and pungent and ready to explode.
“Nice and slow,” he tells her. “We’re gonna make this last. Afterwards, it’ll be a taste of the cat o’nine tails. You like that idea, Melanie?”
Like it? These are the words she’s longed to hear. The words she’s craved in real life since the first hours after she met the man, back on the dusty trail leading into Big Rock, three dead gun men at his feet, smoking pistols in his hands.
“Yes,” she mumbled aloud now into her saliva soaked mouth restraint. “My God, yes.”
It was at this point Melanie lost consciousness, the power of her own fantasies overwhelming her exhausted, titillated body. Sleep, if it could be called such, was absolute, encompassing and merciful.
***
Melanie awoke to the sensation of warm breath on her face. There was pressure at her hands, too, like someone was freeing her wrists. Opening her eyes eagerly she called his name, the nuances all but lost on the thick leather gag.
“Trent…take me, Trent,” she wanted to say.
But it was not the handsome marshal unfastening her bonds, but another, darker figure, his face painted in vibrant hues, his long hair wild and fixed with a pair of crossed feathers from some mighty bird of prey. Terror gripped the former society girl turned teacher as she beheld the bare-chested brave, the renegade Red Wolf.
Raising a single finger across his blood red lips, he made the universal symbol of silence. There was no need for him to spell out the details. The knife tucked into his woven belt said it all. If she tried to scream for help, even through the gag, she would meet an untimely end. Sensing his desire for confirmation, Melanie nodded numbly, feeling like a small bird under the hungry eye of a hawk.
Apparently satisfied with her acquiescence, leaving the gag in place, Red Wolf hoisted the small, white woman easily now over his shoulder. As he took her to the open window, the same one he must have entered, Melanie got a good look at Trent Cole, sitting at the desk, slumped over an empty bottle of whisky, passed out cold. He must have gotten back up, she thought. If only he’d come to her instead of turning to the dreaded firewater.
Damn him, anyway. Hadn’t he told the marshal he didn’t drink? Melanie clutched her tiny useless fists as the Powatan carried her into the cool night air. It was still dark, though it was late enough by now that there was not a soul on the street. Supposedly, there were sentries, left by Beauregard, but she caught sight of none of them. Red Wolf had his horse tied in front of the saloon. The animal stood proudly, fearless and silent as its owner emerged.
How bold the brave was. How fearless. No wonder they hadn’t been able to catch him. No wonder even the mighty Colonel Beauregard
with an army at his back seemed frightened of the man. Melanie looked down at the bronzed, muscled back. She shivered as she beheld the scars; a powerful, etched reminder of the beating he’d endured at the army’s hands.
Maneuvering her as though she were a mere sack of flour, Red Wolf hoisted Melanie over the horse’s back. Sitting himself directly behind her, he wrapped a single, sculpted arm about her still corseted waist. She flushed red as she felt the prickling of the horse’s hide on her bare crotch, left exposed beneath the tiny skirt.
Uttering a single word in his native tongue, Red Wolf induced the horse into motion. Not unlike the marshal’s steed, the brave’s mount responded splendidly, galloping at once across the deserted, moonlit street. Her jaw aching from the gag, Melanie did her best to stifle the unwanted moans. She couldn’t help it; the sensation of the horse’s rippling muscles, combined with the feel of the brave’s perfect chest against her back was driving her mad. Weak and feverish, she leaned against her captor, giving him the full warmth of her small, curvaceous body. The scent of him made her nostrils flare and her nipples peak in the silent night air. Like cactus and rawhide and the sweet smell of juniper.
Gripping the horse’s tangled mane, she did her best to keep her hold on reality. She was a prisoner, in great danger. She must be alert to escape, ready to fight for her freedom. Or so her mind was telling her. Her body, on the other hand, was praying for the gag to come out so she could vocalize her feelings.
Force. She wanted force. The Indian’s hand in her hair, pulling her back, his large capable hands on her and in her, demanding her sexual surrender. Whimpers came now, in time to the rhythm of the flying hooves, over the star sprinkled horizon into the utterly black and boundless night.
Melanie laughed out loud. She had gone mad, surely she had. Even so, she would enjoy the ride. “I am yours,” she called aloud, not sure if she was addressing the Indian, the wind or both.
Chapter Fourteen
It was broad daylight by the time they reached Red Wolf’s secret camp. They had ridden fast and furious, a fact clearly evident by the change of landscape. There were trees here and undergrowth. It was also considerably cooler, the air being damp on Melanie’s nearly naked skin. Red Wolf dismounted first, stopping just shy of a primitive lean-to. With little ceremony, he pulled Melanie down, throwing her to the dirt at his feet.
Mastering Melanie Page 21