Melanie stiffened. Despite the rudeness of the man’s words, she found herself quite impressed with his diction, as well as the clarity of his words. He spoke as eloquently or more so than many men she’d known in New York. “Sir, I assure you, I have no intention of—”
Harkin, who’d been standing behind her, silenced her mid-sentence, his hand clamping down suddenly on her arm. “That’s enough, girl. You talk only when we tell you to.”
“Let go of me!” she squirmed, grappling with the increasingly aggravated sheriff.
“Knock it off,” he growled, whirling her about and raising a hand as if to strike her.
Red Wolf laughed, the sound like that of a bear. It stopped the sheriff and Melanie both. The man called something over his shoulders to the others now and they laughed, too, though their tone was decidedly more subdued and guarded.
“I told them,” Red Wolf translated, “that white women are the opposite of Powatan women. Our females move well in bed and sit obediently in public. Yours are frigid in bed and wild in public.”
Melanie broke free, making a run at the Indian brave. His words were the last straw on her frazzled nerves, her wounded ego. Too much had been endured from too many men, and now this one would pay the price. It was not a well thought out attack, her hands raised as claws, pointing like projectiles. Stopping her was nothing for the brave. With the merest motion of just one arm, he managed to down her to her knees. Holding her wrist painfully, he made Melanie whimper.
“You’re hurting me. Please let go,” she begged.
“That was a mistake,” he told her calmly, his eyes placid as the sky, the words audible to no one but her. “A mistake for which you shall pay. And very soon.”
A half dozen of the soldiers attacked him at once. Releasing Melanie, he poured himself into his defense. Over and over, he flipped them and threw them off himself. The presence of gun barrels pointed at his head didn’t even faze him as he continued pushing them off. It was only once one of the rifle butts connected with the back of his head that he relented. Collapsing to his knees, he grabbed his hair-clad skull. Still, he did not relent.
The struggle lasted several more minutes. It took two of the soldiers on each arm to bind him and then another three to assist in dragging him to the twin posts at the end of the street, just in front of the livery stable. Melanie had not noticed them previously, though she saw at once their purpose. Tying off each of Red Wolf’s wrists, they immobilized him in a standing position. The sergeant brought the whip, a long curling black bullwhip of the sort Melanie had once seen at the circus in the hands of the lion tamer.
Surely they did not intend to strike the man with such a device?
“Sergeant,” boomed the colonel, “administer the punishment.”
The sheriff grabbed Melanie by the waist as she tried to look away. “Oh no, you’re going to watch this, sweetheart, and you’re not going to give me any more trouble, either. Not unless you want me to tell them who you really are.”
Melanie’s mouth dropped. Was she mishearing?
“That’s right, Miss Jones,” he sneered, “or should I say Miss Hawthorne?”
“One!” cried the sergeant as the snake-like whip snapped through the air onto the brave’s back. The crack was audible, the red line of sliced skin instantly visible, though the man neither flinched nor made a sound.
“Don’t worry,” Harkin breathed hotly on her neck, making her cringe. “I’m not interested in turning you in…yet. I have other plans for you first.”
Melanie tried to break free. “Let me go!”
“That’s it,” said the sheriff huskily, running his hands up her waist as he held her fast, employing her own movements against her, “you just cuddle up next to me so we can get to know one another better. The Judge has you right now, but I’m gonna find a way to get you fired from that teaching job. Then you’ll be just another vagrant. All mine.”
Melanie’s heart was racing like a wild mustang. How could the sheriff have found out? Of all people to guess her secret, he was the one she feared the most.
“Two,” called the sergeant. Again, the brave made no motion. The soldiers offered him something to bite on now, for the pain, but he shook his head.
“I’m a patient man, Melanie,” Harkin assured her, his pelvis pressing her from behind “I’ll settle for owning a piece of you now. Someday, I’ll have all of you.”
She cringed as she felt his hard cock against her tender buttocks. If she dared resist, he might well denounce her.
“Move against me,” he whispered. “Show me what a good girl you’re going to be for me.”
Melanie gave a soft little whimper as she did the man’s bidding, encouraging him with her behind, her moist, needful cunt separated from him by nothing more than the material of his clothing and hers. “Mercy,” she begged.
“No,” said the sheriff, taking the opportunity to give her left breast a quick, unseen mauling through the blouse. “Never.”
“Three,” came the call from the whipping post, signaling another lightning crack of leather on flesh.
Melanie fell against the hateful man’s shoulder, having felt the sting in her own abused nipple. “Make it stop,” she muttered, no longer sure whether she was appealing on the Indian’s behalf or her own.
“Stop?” he pulled at her other breast, “it’s only just begun.”
“I am retiring to my office,” Van Der Mere announced abruptly. “This is no longer a matter for my concern.”
The colonel tipped his hat. “The military has things in control, you can count on that.”
Van Der Mere nodded, straightening his jacket. “I’ll send for Doctor Lassiter, then. To attend the savage, whenever you’re through. Sheriff, keep a close eye on Miss Jones for now.”
Harkin inclined his head, grinning. “Yes, sir.”
Melanie released an exasperated breath and turned her attention to the whipping. Blows four and five struck low and high respectively. Red Wolf’s back was looking like raw meat. How could the man endure it without screaming? She was ready to scream herself, and beg her own tormentor. He had done little more than touch her.
“Makes you hot, doesn’t it?” Harkin asked, still holding her fast. “Bet you wish it was you up there, don’t you?”
“Never,” she hissed, though she was not at this moment sure of anything save the burning in her loins and the pounding in her head.
“You ready to apologize yet, savage?” the sergeant wanted to know.
Melanie waited with bated breath. She wanted vindication, of course, and yet there was something about his apologizing to a woman, especially her, that would have made Red Wolf seem less of a man in her eyes. Better to see him suffer, better to endure shame herself than to see his beautiful spirit broken. In truth, she had a yearning after these red men, as free as the wild horses they tamed. On the train, on the last leg of her journey to meet the coach, she’d seen a herd of such horses, beautiful and splendid, racing over the plain. The sight had brought tears to her eyes.
“Apologize, damn you,” repeated the soldier.
The brave spit at his feet. Shaking back his hair from his face, shoulders squared proudly, he readied himself for the next blow. Melanie tried again to look away, but the sheriff growled at her, compelling her to endure. The whip was such a cruel device. Would such a thing be used on a woman, she wondered, on her in particular? Or was Harkin bluffing?
“When I tell you to,” said the sheriff softly, his voice exuding a sickening sweetness against Melanie’s cheek, “I want you to go right up to him and give that big buck a nice kiss.”
Melanie’s insides felt like they’d been cut with a Bowie knife. He couldn’t do this to her; the Indian was big and powerful and far too attractive. If she but touched him, she was liable to throw herself at him. On the other hand, if she refused the sheriff, he would undoubtedly follow through on revealing his information concerning her real identity. In which case she would find herself back in New York
. In prison or worse. With Cavanaugh, no doubt there to confront her, mocking and laughing, enjoying the sweetness of his mad revenge.
“This is too much,” cried Melanie.
Sheriff Harkin chuckled as the whip snaked its way across the man’s back once more. The brave shuddered, looking as though he were in excruciating agony, but again there came no sound from his throat, no throwing back of his head, and no apology.
“Do you know what they do to white women?” the colonel asked, having come up alongside Harkin to address the sheriff’s fair prisoner. “Especially pretty little sluts like you? They treat them like animals. Like slaves. They work them like dogs and use them all night long in their tee pees. A woman like you would be better off dead than in Powatan hands.”
Beauregard chuckled, then sauntered over to the whipping posts for a closer view.
“Seven!” howled the sergeant, his voice cracking with the exertion.
Melanie sought once again to avert her gaze. The sheriff put two fingers under her chin, forcing her head forward. “I didn’t say to stop watching. You may think you’re better than the rest of us, but you don’t fool me. I know what turns you on. Believe me, I know you better than you know yourself.”
“Eight!” The brave sagged under the weight. If he wasn’t tied, he would surely fall to the ground. The three chiefs in his party began quietly to chant, a low mournful sound. The whip man shook out his leather instrument of terror; number nine was next.
“Go to him now,” ordered Harkin, his voice a cruel blast in her ear. “Give him your nicest, sweetest kiss.”
Melanie stiffened. “I can’t–please don’t—”
“Do it, girl, or it’s back to New York with you,” he threatened, delivering a swift smack on her ass with a ham-like hand.
Melanie jolted forward, then stopped. She was shivering from head to toe. Her feet could barely move, and yet she knew she must obey. One step after another, seemingly a million miles to reach the bound, tortured brave. The man’s suffering was palpable, even from a distance. Up close was a million times worse. The discipline on his face belied description. Melanie had never imagined such power. Even the sergeant looked baffled, holding his whip like a small child.
Melanie tried to avert her eyes from the gashes on his back, the criss-crossed angry wounds, dripping red. Tears collected in the corners of her eyes. He was so tall, so regal. She had to go on tiptoes to reach his lips, even after the colonel—catching the meaning of her sudden arrival had fetched a footstool. At the very instant of contact the whip struck again. She pressed her mouth to his, drinking in the raw strength, the taste of perspiration, suffering and bravery. His body lurched forward under the blow, his formidable chest impacting hers. She felt weak all over, as though she might fall into him and die.
“Don’t stop,” called the sheriff to her. And then the tenth blow came, more powerful than any of the others. Melanie put her hands to the brave’s chest, feeling his strong heart. He was drenched in sweat. She could hear the other Powatans with their wailing chant. She wasn’t sure which was more offensive to them, the sting of a white man’s whip or the touch of a white woman’s lips. Melanie knew what she was to him – the female of his enemy. Among the Indians, women such as he were kept as little better than slaves, Beauregard had said. What would it be like, she wondered, to lie beneath a man like this and to submit to his power.
Her heart began to race. The world about them melted. It was agony to abase herself this way, and yet at the same time, it filled her with unspeakable needs. She felt her nipples tenting beneath the dress, the creeping heat between her legs. She was losing control.
“I am sorry,” she mouthed when the last blow had finally fallen.
The brave did not look at her, did not acknowledge her presence. It was then she realized, with shame, that it had been her and not him who had made the kiss so passionate. Her face heated red. She had behaved as a wanton slut. “I am sorry,” she repeated, and still he said nothing.
She must have stood there for some time, because at last the sergeant came and took her by the arm, helping her down from the stool and escorting her back to the table. The sheriff made her sit down next to the colonel. Incredibly, inexplicably, the men were attempting to continue the negotiations as though nothing had happened.
“Gentlemen, these are the terms we are offering. They are on the table for your consideration. Lieutenant,” nodded the colonel to a nearby officer, “Kindly assist with translation. Sergeant, cut Red Wolf down, so we can continue. Miss Jones, are you transcribing?”
“Y–yes,” she replied, grasping the quill in her spasming hand.
She watched over her shoulder. They were cutting the straps from the brave’s wrists. She half expected him to fall to the ground at their feet. Instead he stood his ground. Refusing their attempts to offer him water, he held up both arms to the heavens. The gesture was so formidable that the soldiers hastened to step back. Red Wolf let loose a cry, now, blood curdling and terrifying. For nearly a minute it continued. Afterwards, no one spoke, not even the glib colonel.
They watched then as Red Wolf marched from the whipping platform to retrieve his horse, which was tied out front of the nearby livery. His back still raw and bleeding, he rode to the white men’s table.
“We speak no more,” he declared. “No more of the white man’s words. Tomorrow you shall hear the true voice of the Powatan.”
He did not wait for an answer as he turned his horse, digging his moccasined feet deep into the side of the Appaloosa. With another cry (Melanie was sure now it was a war cry) he was gone. The three chiefs stood quietly then, bowed and retrieved their own horses.
“Do you think they’re bluffing, sir?” the lieutenant asked as soon as the Indians were out of sight. “Or do you fear we are in for an attack?”
The colonel pulled a cigar from his pocket. “You worry too much, boy,” he offered glibly, propping his feet on the abandoned table. “Why don’t you go and find yourself a nice little whore.”
The lieutenant grinned. “Is that an order, sir?”
The colonel dismissed him with a chuckle.
Melanie’s attention turned now to the deputy, who’d come to the sheriff with a message. “The Judge wants to see the school teacher right away. And Gretchen, too.”
“Oh?” he looked annoyed. “Well, take care of it then.”
The deputy pushed back his hat. “He wants you to do it, personally.”
Melanie’s mouth went dry. Gretchen’s plan was actually working. The Judge was going to see her after all. Now she’d have her chance to influence the man against the cruel powers of Lyla. How ironic, though, that it should occur now, with an Indian attack immanent.
Sheriff Harkin grabbed Melanie, yanking her to her feet. “You heard the man. Go get Gretchen, and get up to the Old Man’s office, lickety split.”
Melanie swallowed hard. “But–but what about the Indians?”
The sheriff cast a glance at the colonel, exchanging a sly look.
“I wouldn’t worry about any attacks, little lady,” drawled Beauregard, taking a puff from the lighted cigar. “Besides, I think you’ll have your hands full with the Judge for the foreseeable future.
“Get going,” the sheriff ordered, giving her a fresh smack on her behind. “Let’s see if you two can get the Judge’s blood pressure a few notches higher.”
He and Beauregard began laughing now, low chuckles, indicating they were up to no good. She thought about it all the way to the saloon. The way the colonel had said what he did, as if he knew for a fact that the Indians wouldn’t be attacking. Was there something more to what had happened here today? The horrible treatment of Red Wolf? The standoffish attitude of the chiefs? Was there some conspiratorial arrangement afoot? And if so, was the Judge himself involved? Given the sheriff’s remark to the effect that she and Gretchen should work his blood pressure higher, it was almost as if they wanted him to be upset, maybe even to have a heart attack.
Mel
anie put the idea from her mind. As devious as these men were, she couldn’t imagine they would murder the town benefactor. For now, it was enough to imagine what Gretchen had planned to win over the old man against Lyla. The very thought of it made her smile, not to mention warming her insides with delicious passion.
Chapter Seven
“Just play along with whatever I do,” whispered Gretchen as they entered the Judge’s office.
Melanie nodded. Gretchen was wearing pigtails and a pinafore dress that could easily have belonged to a ten-year old girl. She herself wore a simple dress of blue with white ruffles, her hair in a bonnet. Apparently the Judge enjoyed the fantasy of women as little girls, as near as Melanie could tell. Although Van Der Mere had never tried to treat her in such a way himself, he certainly enjoyed demeaning her as a child with his spankings.
“Sir?” Gretchen cooed, her voice lovely and high pitched. “We’re here, sir.”
The Judge was shuffling papers. Melanie wondered if he ever spent more than five minutes a day away from paperwork of one form or another.
Old Man Van Der Mere mumbled something incoherent, not bothering to acknowledge.
Gretchen looked at Melanie and offered a reassuring wink. “Sir,” she repeated sweetly, calling out to him. “We’ve been very naughty. And we’ve come to be punished.”
“Oh? And what exactly have you done?” The man’s voice was animated despite his lack of attention. It dawned on Melanie now that this was probably part of the game.
“Well, sir,” Gretchen began, putting her head down and rubbing her hands childishly in front of her. “To start with, I put Melanie’s hair in the ink well. And then I tried to kiss her.”
The Judge looked up. She’d gotten his attention. “That’s very naughty, indeed, Gretchen. What shall we do about that?”
“Ooh,” shuddered Gretchen, playing her role to the hilt. “Please, sir, don’t hit me with your stick like you did last time.”
Mastering Melanie Page 11
