EYES OF SILVER, EYES OF GOLD.

by Ellen O'Connell.

DEDICATION.

This book is dedicated to my sister, Elizabeth, who issued the challenge that made me stop talking about writing a book, and write one - this one.

STORY SUMMARY.

EYES OF SILVER, EYES OF GOLD is a story of family conflicts set in Colorado in 1885.

Anne Wells has embarra.s.sed her rigidly proper family since she was a child with occasional but grievous lapses from ladylike behavior. They blame those lapses for the disgraceful fact that she is a spinster at twenty-eight.

Cord Bennett, the son of his father's second marriage to a Cheyenne woman, is more than an embarra.s.sment to his well-to-do family of ranchers and lawyers - they are ashamed and afraid of their black sheep.

When Anne and Cord are found alone together, her father's fury leads to violence.

Cord's family accepts that the fault is his. Can Anne and Cord use the freedom of being condemned for sins they didn't commit to make a life together? Or will their disapproving, interfering families tear them apart?

ANNE'S FEAR WAS ALL-PERVASIVE, mind-numbing, a greedy serpent coiled in her stomach, hungrily devouring all strength and will. It changed the world from a wondrous place full of color and warmth to a cold, airless box done in shades of lifeless gray. As the effects of the laudanum wore off, Anne sat in hopeless silence, trying to defend against her father's triumphant boasting with the stony demeanor he used so well.

"He won't even miss you, you know. He doesn't give a d.a.m.n about you. A few days, and you'll never cross his mind again."

Anne wondered if the anguish in her mother's eyes reflected her own, if she looked as dreadful as her mother, who had aged twenty years in the past hours. She stared out the train window, watching the windswept prairie speeding by. The sound of the train's wheels marked the miles and beat out a rhythm: It's your fault, it's your fault, it's your fault.

"If you think his family will do anything, you're wrong. Once they know their own blood isn't involved, they won't care any more than he does."

Fear flooded Anne's mind again in a black tide, bringing at least a respite from the constant barrage of victorious gloating.

One year. One year and a few weeks. That was all there had been, all there was ever to be. It was over now, ending the way it began, with pain and fear and blood.

CHAPTER 1.

DAMP AND SHIVERING, ANNE fought against waking, tried to shut out the sounds of nickering horses, lowing cows, and plaintive cats. As she curled in a tighter ball, stalks of hay p.r.i.c.ked her cheek, and the summer sweet scent rose around her. She came fully awake in a dismaying rush.

Last night this barn had been a welcome refuge from the storm, but she had only intended to wait out the rain. Now the gray light of early dawn might mean having to explain herself to the barn's owner. Maybe, just maybe, she could steal away before anyone saw her. Anne forced her stiff body into a sitting position then gasped. A shadowy figure leaned against the wall, watching her.

Cord Bennett. In the dim light in the barn it should have been impossible to identify anyone, but Anne recognized him instantly from a glimpse of his eyes under the brim of his hat. She stared up in disbelief. How long had he been standing there, watching her sleep? Unwilling to babble a nervous apology, Anne sat in the hay, returning his silent, steady regard, but she could not stop the voices echoing in her head.

"His daddy had brown eyes, but those eyes of his are yellow, yellow like a wolf's."

"The color don't make no nevermind. What tells you he's the devil's own is there's nothing behind those eyes. They're empty, empty, savage, and cold."

Which was ridiculous, of course. Those gossips were wrong. Maybe Cord did have unusual light brown eyes, but Anne did not find them cold. In fact, though she was chilled to the bone, meeting those eyes had something to do with the heat she could feel flushing her face and burning steadily downward.

Her mind filled in the features she could not distinguish in the shadows. Under the hat his hair was thick, black, and probably almost touched his collar. The bronze face was all angles and planes, honed to the point of gauntness, with well-arched eyebrows and cheekbones so high they gave the eyes some of their narrowed look. The square jaw and firm-lipped mouth completed a face that was not merely strong, but fierce.

Just looking at Cord Bennett made brave men uneasy, but Anne felt herself relaxing.

She had first met Cord when they were both only ten years old, and although everyone she knew believed the polite boy had grown into a dangerous man, she could not abandon her childhood impression. She was rea.s.sured by his presence, not frightened.

The long silence was becoming awkward, so she ventured, "Good morning."

"Mornin'." His voice was deep, soft, and as expressionless as his face.

"I suppose you wonder what I'm doing here in your barn?"

"You as cold and wet as you look?"

Glancing down at herself, Anne could not control a shudder of self-disgust, but she answered simply, "Yes."

"House is warm. There's coffee." He picked up a pitchfork and lifted part of her bed.

"Be almost an hour before I'm done here."

Coffee! Warmth and coffee! Add a bit of food to that and it would be as much of heaven as anyone could ask for on this earth.

As Cord disappeared into the shadowy depths of the barn, Anne scrambled to her feet and hurried outside. Across the yard a dark red house with a roofed porch trimmed in white nestled among cottonwoods that were now dropping the last of their shining, yellow leaves. The day would be bright and sunny, but a steady breeze exaggerated the morning's chill, hastening Anne's dash for the house.

She halted in surprise just inside the door. White walls, pine floors, and large windows made a sunny interior that all but invited her in. The front part of the room was a small parlor. A spindle-backed rocking chair flanked a lamp table. A worn settee was pushed against one wall as if to keep it out of the way. Books that looked worn from many readings filled shelves beside it.

The back part of the room was the kitchen, and the large black stove pulled at Anne like a magnet. Not only was it the source of the warmth she sought, but the coffee pot sat on top.

Taking off her muddy shoes, Anne hung her damp fascinator on one of pegs by the door. She eyed a heavy blue wool shirt hanging there for long seconds before giving way to temptation and exchanging her soggy coat for the shirt. Surely a man who freely offered hot coffee would not begrudge the use of his shirt for a while.

A moment's rummaging on shelves near the stove produced a thick white mug. With a sigh of pure pleasure, Anne collapsed into one of the chairs at the table in the kitchen.

She wrapped the wool shirt tightly around her, tucked her damp, stockinged feet up into the warmth of her skirts, and took the first lovely swallow of the strong, hot brew.

Cradling the cup in her hands, more comfortable than she had been in some time, Anne tried to think how she could get Cord to help her.

Such thoughts made her absently touch her hair, then start as her fingers found not just straggling locks, but a dry gra.s.s stem. Startled, she began combing through the thick ma.s.s with her fingers, pulling out and pocketing hairpins and more bits of hay as she went.

Across the room Anne saw her muddy shoes, high-topped, lace-up, st.u.r.dy walking shoes. Her dress was a loose-fitting gray wool wrapper. Yesterday these clothes had seemed sensible. Now they just seemed drab. It was hopeless. She needed a brush and comb. More than that, she needed a bath and change of clothes.

For that matter, why was she even thinking about trying to charm Cord Bennett into anything? A lifetime of ignoring hate spewing from people like her own father had undoubtedly left Cord as impervious to charm as to everything else. The merest mention of the Bennett name could start her father on a tirade.

"If the Bennetts weren't rich, that mongrel would be locked up by now, or hung."

Mongrel was one of the nicer things her father called Cord, the first child of Jamie Bennett's shocking second marriage to an Indian woman. Even now, more than twenty years after the Sand Creek Ma.s.sacre, hate and fear ran deep. Cord was the subject of that prejudice in all its forms and was as coldly indifferent to that as to everything else. He was seen in town occasionally with the family, but always slightly apart, stony-faced and eerily quiet. He raised horses on this corner of the Bennett Ranch, living and working alone, said to be just getting by as, of course, one would expect of a lazy half-breed.

Anne tried not to credit most of the stories about Cord, but there was no denying that when he was fifteen years old, he had almost killed a grown man. He had been in jail for weeks, and the Bennetts had indeed succeeded in having him released without a trial.

Anne's father wasn't the only one who expressed righteous satisfaction when years later Cord turned on Frank Bennett, coming equally close to killing his half-brother.

Frank ran the Bennett Ranch, but he was often in town. Anne had heard him describe the incident one day in the general store. Frank had still been angry, and he swore there was no reason for the attack.

"He probably likes me as much as he likes anyone. He just can't help himself - I got in his way, and he's mean as a snake."

Cord's other half-brother, Ephraim, was one of Mason's two lawyers and lived in town, but he had been at the ranch the day of the fight. He was the one who had clubbed Cord off Frank. Ephraim didn't mince words either.

"Sometimes I wonder how Pa and Song could have produced him. You'd think even a cougar crossed with a she-wolf wouldn't produce Cord. You'd need wolverine mixed in."

Even though his own family didn't disagree with the rest of the town about Cord in any way that mattered, Anne sometimes wondered if envy of the vast acres of the Bennett Ranch fueled the telling and retelling of stories about Cord.

Being alone with any man under these circ.u.mstances would be highly improper.

Being alone with Cord Bennett at any time, in any place, should be unthinkable. Rousing from her musings, Anne poured herself another cup of coffee. Her empty stomach was long past the point of growling; it was a dull ache. Propriety be d.a.m.ned. No one would ever know she had been here, and maybe she could talk him into helping her. She was certainly going to try.

CORD WALKED TOWARD THE HOUSE with a pail partially filled with fresh milk in one hand and a battered tin with eggs in the other, mentally berating himself for his own foolishness. It was hard to believe a twenty-eight-year-old woman could be running away from home, but from the look of Anne Wells that was the way of it. Last night's rain meant no tracks for searchers to find, except here in the yard, but if she were discovered in his house, there would be h.e.l.l to pay, and he would be the one paying it.

Also galling was the knowledge that if he had found any other woman asleep in his barn he would have waked her with a pail of cold water in the face, frightened her half to death, and run her off the place as fast as she could go. But not Anne. Anne was the only woman in the town of Mason, or for that matter in the whole State of Colorado, he would cross a street to help.

Moreover, sometime during the last hour, he'd given up trying to pretend he felt anything but pure pleasure at the thought of her in his house, waiting for him.

Well, his feelings didn't count for much. There was nothing for it now but to see that she got home or wherever she wanted to go in one piece as fast as possible. Leaving mud-covered moccasins on the porch, he stepped inside, his eyes immediately drawn to her, studying her.

The wonder of it was that every eligible bachelor for miles around hadn't courted Anne Wells. She was taller than fashionable maybe, but her slim five and a half feet was uncommonly graceful. Her femininity came not from an exaggerated full blown figure, but from subtle curves that blended one into the other, inviting the eye to follow. Soft brown hair made a silken frame for her heart-shaped face and huge gray eyes that gave away every thought. Of course, it was the directness of those great gray eyes that most people faulted her for and blamed for her being a spinster.

Anne had always looked to him as fresh as new spring gra.s.s, but now as she raised her head, giving him a trace of a smile, her condition appalled him. A long walk in last night's rain did not explain hair darkened with filth. Her face was so thin the magnificent eyes were light centers in huge black pits. The slightly pointed chin that had always seemed so delicate and feminine was now painfully too sharp, and the smell in the kitchen testified to her thoroughly unwashed state.

"I hope you don't mind that I borrowed your shirt."

It would need one h.e.l.l of a scrubbing. "No." Cord searched for an explanation for the state she was in. "You been sick?"

She looked away evasively. He started to hang his coat and hat next to Anne's things, nearly missing her low-voiced answer.

"No, not sick, not exactly."

He did not push for a better answer but set the pail and eggs on the table, rolled up his sleeves, and started to wash up in the large pan near the stove. Drying his hands, he turned to catch Anne staring at the milk and eggs with a disturbing look of naked hunger.

How could her condition be starvation? Her family was well off. Only Edward Wells himself even pretended profits from his tailor's shop provided any part of the big house or other fancy things. Mrs. Wells had inherited money. Still, there was no mistaking that look.

When Anne finally tore her gaze from the pail and eggs, he said, "I'll cook. You talk."

The house seemed smaller to Anne with him in it. The flutters in her stomach were hunger; they had to be. Her mind darted from one problem to another, trying to think of a way out of telling him what he wanted to know. It was not a matter of washing her family's dirty linen in public. She felt no loyalty of that sort to them at this point. It was more a sense of personal embarra.s.sment, and so she tried to avoid a real explanation.

"Well, I suppose you can tell I've left home. I need to get to Grenerton. I'm going to take the train from there and go to my Aunt Clara in Chicago. Maybe she'll let me live with her again. Would you maybe consider taking me to Grenerton?"

Ignoring her question, Cord asked one of his own. "Are there people looking for you?"

"Yes, probably, but they can't know where to look. I saw the Brower brothers' wagon behind the saloon - it was empty, they must have delivered something to town - and hid under the tarpaulin. I thought if I rode there until the wagon turned straight south I'd be just a few miles from Grenerton."

Cord stopped slicing bacon and gave her a hard look. "You have any idea how much trouble you'd be in if the Browers got their hands on you in the middle of nowhere?"

She knew, but the risk seemed necessary at the time. "Yes, that's why when the rain started and I heard them talking about stopping to fix the tarp to keep them dry I rolled out of the wagon and hid in some bushes by the road until they were out of sight. They actually did stop and fiddle with the tarp." She repeated her request, "Would you help me get to Grenerton?"

Again the answer was another question, "How much money do you have?"

Drat him. Did he have to be difficult? "Enough," Anne stated firmly. "Will you help me? Please?"

He threw the bacon in a large frying pan and started mixing flour, milk, and eggs in a bowl. Anne could see nothing but his back, which was no less expressive than his face.

Finally, he answered, "Maybe. Talk."

So the price of his help was going to be the whole ugly story. With a resigned shrug, she began to talk.

"My father has been upset for years that I'm not married, you know. He thinks having an old maid for a daughter is a reflection on him somehow."

Cord didn't turn around, but said, "He didn't want you married bad enough to favor Elroy Turrell, did he?"

"No. He didn't think a farmer's son was good enough, and I was only eighteen then. It was when I started seeing what he thought was too much of Elroy that he sent me to Chicago - to my Aunt Clara."

Watching him drain the bacon and start eggs frying, Anne was suddenly sure Cord agreed with her father about Elroy, although it would be Elroy's lack of gumption and not his prospects a Bennett would fault.

She distracted herself from the sharp hunger pains that the sight and scent of food were bringing on by studying Cord's back, admiring his easy, efficient movements. It should be funny. She was alone with Cord Bennett, and he was cooking her breakfast. It wasn't funny; it was humiliating. She hated her nerves, her filthiness, and having to tell him, of all people, about her troubles.

And he wasn't going to leave it alone. "You were engaged in Chicago," he prompted.

"Yes, for four years. His name was Richard Tyler, and he was a banker's son. My family was delighted about it. When I broke the engagement, Father was on the first train to Chicago to try to fix things. I never wanted to go East to start with, but Father wanted me to go, and I went. I didn't want to come back then, but he wanted me to come home, so I came - although I don't know why he wanted me back, he was that angry. He went on and on for months about what a disgrace and failure I was - am. He hasn't lectured as much since, but every year he's been a little more desperate than the year before."

She tried to change the subject. "You were gone some of those same years yourself, weren't you? People say you looked like a wild Indian when you got back. Where were you off to?"

He didn't even turn around. "Some people say too much. You aren't saying enough."

Thwarted, Anne wrinkled her nose at his back and continued. "Well, that's the way things have been, and then early this summer, every time I turned around I was b.u.mping into George Detrick. Do you know him?"

"I've seen him around."

"He's a widower, you know, and he's older than my father. His sons are older than I am, and they're - louts."

With an effort, Anne lowered her voice, which had been rising. "I know it's a sin to judge people by appearance, but I can't stand him. He's fat and greasy and has little beady eyes and he smells worse than I do right now all the time. His sons frighten me, and he's arrogant and patronizing and boring, and he keeps trying to pat my hands or arms when he talks to me, and it makes me feel dirty...."