Eyes of Silver, Eyes of Gold (4 page)

At the back of her mind, through her own horror and wretchedness, she was aware that Meeks and O’Brien had finally let go of Cord. Not just the Meeks brothers and O’Brien, but most of the mob were now kicking his lifeless body, missing nothing from the back of his head to his legs. There was no longer any doubt that they meant murder and that Cord had been mercifully beyond feeling for some time now.

After the eternity of pain and terror, she heard Charlie Meeks’ voice, laughing as if it had all been a fine joke, “Just like I said, Wells, a bride and a widow in the same day. Enjoy your honeymoon, tough man.”

Then men were mounting their horses, riding away, but Anne continued to huddle on her knees in the mud, her empty stomach racked with spasms. Footsteps approached, and she heard Reverend Pratt, shrill-voiced with his own fear.

“Edward, they’ve killed him. He’s dead!”

Her father was filled with vindictive fury. “He should have been hung. His family won’t buy him out of this.”

“But you said you believed her.”

“It doesn’t matter! You heard Detrick. No decent man will have her.”

If Pratt replied, Anne didn’t hear it. Her father forced her head up by the chin until she was looking through swelling, slitted eyes into his enraged face.

“You brought this on yourself, daughter. Honoring thy father as commanded would have spared us all this disgrace.” Edward sounded like an old testament prophet full of righteous wrath.

“You are filthy in every way and I won’t have you on a horse with me. You get yourself cleaned up and consider how you’re going to convince me to allow you back under my roof.”

Dropping her head, Edward walked away, mounted his horse, and he and Pratt rode off after the others.

* * *

Chapter 3

WHEN HER TORMENTED STOMACH FINALLY
quieted, Anne raised her head and looked numbly around. She saw the mountains looming to the west, blue-black and white capped. The fall sky was so bright a blue it hardly seemed real, and the fat, gold cottonwood leaves rustled softly in the background as they swirled to the ground. Nature herself seemed to be trying to deny the death scene only a few feet away. Cord’s face was no longer distinguishable, just a bloody mask. His clothes were soaked with dark red patches, sticking to his flesh. The wind ruffled his hair, emphasizing the stillness of his body.

Her vision blurred from swelling eyes and stinging tears as she crawled to Cord’s body. She stared at his bloodied face, wishing she could reverse time, have run from this place when she woke up this morning. He was dead because she had asked him for help. No matter how unintentionally, she had caused his death by bringing her trouble to his doorstep.

A tiny movement caught her attention. She gasped in disbelief as she saw it again, a drop of blood running from his nose and dripping down into a wet spot on the ground. Did dead men bleed? Her hand quivered as she forced it out and touched his arm. His body was warm and his flesh was not stiff, but elastic, alive.

Anne fell into a sitting position beside Cord’s body with a thump. What on earth was she going to do now? Surely he was dying anyway, but she couldn’t just leave him on the muddy ground, and how, dear God, how, could she move him?

For long moments Anne fought against giving way to hysteria. Guilt, grief, fear - she was immobilized by her own emotions. The day was only chilly, but the ground was cold and wet. Laying here, the exposure would finish killing him. Moving him in any imaginable way would further damage his internal organs. Frank Bennett lived within a few miles of here, but she had no idea in which direction and no strength to go for help. She rested her forehead on her hands, closed her aching eyes and began to pray.

“Dear God, please help me,” she whispered. “Tell me what to do, give me the strength to do anything at all.”

Slowly Anne pushed to her feet. She stood very straight, taking deep breaths of the clean fall wind, waiting for the weakness to pass, then bent, hooked her hands under Cord’s upper arms, and began to pull. She dragged his body across the yard toward the house foot by foot. It was not as impossible as she had feared, almost but not quite beyond her. Her back felt as if it were breaking from the effort, the awkward position, and Samuels’ earlier attentions long before she got to the porch.

The two low porch steps were more formidable obstacles than any mountains. Just getting Cord into the house was a triumph, but now what? She could never get him into a bed without help. The memory of the vicious kicks to his back as he lay in the yard came to her, and she knew she couldn’t leave him on the hard floor either. Two doorways off the main room led to bedrooms, one unused and the other obviously Cord’s.

Anne pulled the mattress from Cord’s bed to the floor, thinking to drag it to the main room, close to the stove, but the cumbersome thing wedged itself between the bed and the wall. She decided not to waste time or strength trying to move it.

Dragging Cord into the bedroom and onto the mattress was not as hard, but Anne collapsed in relief beside him when it was done. A faint gurgling sound made her sit up, pull herself together, and listen intently. Cord’s head was straight now, not bent toward his shoulder as it was in the yard and when she dragged him. In seconds she realized what she had done, he was drowning in his own blood. She turned his head gently, then fought another wave of nausea as a thin, steady stream of blood began to run from his nose.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I am so sorry….”

How long would it take a man to bleed to death from such a steady drip? Furious with her own weakness, Anne gritted her teeth. He was probably going to die no matter what, but she was not going to be the cause by sitting here weeping, giving up.

Anne searched the house for anything she could use. She found no medicines but tore clean sheets for bandages. She wasted no time trying to get Cord’s clothes off in the usual way. She just picked up the sharpest knife in the kitchen and began cutting. She had never seen a naked man before, and as she cut, she chided herself for her own ridiculous feelings of embarrassment. He was unconscious and dying, and she was dithering.

The sight of the body she was exposing cured that silliness instantly. What she was seeing now could bear little resemblance to a healthy, unclothed male.

“I am not going to faint. I am not going to cry. I am not, I am not.” She chanted the words over and over under her breath, as if enough repetitions would make them true.

Every time her stomach threatened to start heaving again over the sight of the injuries, she walked out of the bedroom, breathed deep and counted until calm again. Three times she got past a hundred.

Cord’s injuries were so severe there were great fevered swellings. The bruises weren’t black and blue but an angry reddish purple and in many places blood looked to be pooled under the surface as if it would pour out if the skin were slit. Raw wounds covered his back, and there was blood in his hair. If she had not seen him shot, she would not have even noticed the bullet wound. The bullet had gone through his side just below the ribs and was at least not in him.

Anne fetched a pail of icy creek water and kept cold compresses on the worst of the swellings as she worked on the wounds. She washed every inch of him, using lots of soap, and emptying the basin often.

Cleaning the dried blood from Cord’s face she bit her already scabbed lower lip, for there was no question the gash across one cheekbone needed to be stitched. Before her courage failed, she scrubbed out the cut, searched the house until she found a needle and thread, and put in a row of uneven stitches with shaking hands.

Not knowing what else to do for him, she rolled his inert body one way and then the other a last time to remove the damp, stained sheet and get a clean, dry one under him, made sure his head was tilted so he was could breathe, and folded a towel over the pillow to absorb the blood. She tucked blankets over him gently and smoothed the black hair.

“If I could start this day over, yesterday over….” How useless that was. He couldn’t hear her, and she couldn’t turn back time.

In the kitchen, Anne tended to the stove, then forced herself to drink a cup of milk. Her stomach didn’t rebel. In fact the nausea and light headedness seemed to be passing.

Lengthening shadows gave notice the dreadful day would soon end. The animals outside were oblivious to human tragedy and had their own needs. Maybe Cord raised horses on this corner of the Bennett Ranch, but it looked more like a farm. Two cows grazed in a nearby pasture. There were pigs in pens leading off the far side of the barn, and chickens pecked around another pen. It would be easier to deal with the livestock in daylight.

Hours later, Anne trudged back into the house with the pail once again partially filled with fresh milk. This time it was milk she herself had gotten out of cows made uncooperative by her clumsiness.

The lamplight showed Cord exactly as she had left him, still breathing slowly and shallowly. After covering him with another blanket against the cooler night air, Anne smoothed his hair again and stroked his swollen cheek lightly just under the line of crooked stitches, wishing desperately she knew more to do for him.

Weary beyond bearing herself, Anne couldn’t leave Cord alone through the night. She borrowed another one of his shirts for a nightgown, bundled herself tightly in a quilt so she could not accidentally bump him, and lay down beside him. Soft light from the lamp she left burning could not stop the darkness in her mind. Exhaustion battled with nonstop reenactments of the terrors of the day. Enraged faces appeared and disappeared through a red haze, and jeering voices echoed.

After a while she reached one arm out from the quilt, burrowed it under the blankets and found Cord’s hand. Whether she was giving or taking comfort she couldn’t have said. Soon after she finally fell asleep.

* * *

Chapter 4

BRIGHT SUNSHINE STREAMING THROUGH THE
bedroom windows brought Anne awake the next morning, stiff, sore, and afraid of what the day might bring. Her first movement brought a loud moan to her lips. After a second attempt, she managed to sit up.

At first it seemed there had been no change in Cord’s condition at all. He lay peacefully in the same position, shallow breaths coming regularly. Checking him more carefully, she realized the blood on his upper lip was dried, and there was no fresh blood soaking the towel under his head. Before her spirits could lift over this improvement, she discovered he was lying in a pool of reddish fluid, certain evidence of how terrible the internal injuries must be.

As she washed and scrubbed and replaced the linens and placed cloths under his hips, pessimism rose unbidden and unwanted. All the scrubbing and worrying and praying in the world was not going to make any difference. He was going to die.

Finished with everything she knew to do for Cord, Anne went to the unused front bedroom to dress. She glanced in the mirror over the bureau and immediately felt worse. No force of will was able to straighten her spine. She was hunched over like an old woman. Black, blue, and purple bruises covered her face so completely she did not recognize herself. Her lips were not just swollen but scabbed where they had split, and Cord’s shirt hung down on her bony shoulders, exposing skin broken with ugly bite marks and more bruises. If he ever wakes up, the sight of me will scare him to death she thought bitterly.

Strangely enough, as the day passed, Anne found peace descending on her. Caring for the livestock was easier. The dog ventured out from under the porch and lined up with the cats for a share of fresh milk. Anne chose to consider the fact that the dog had no wounds as a small victory.

It took quite a bit of sweet talking and the lure of grain in a bucket, but in the end Anne talked the horse Meeks had threatened to shoot into letting her get a hold of the rope still dragging from his halter. She put him back in the corral with his fellows, made sure there was enough water in the trough, and filled the hay rack in the corral.

The night before she had just turned away from the sick colt in the barn, unable to deal with more misery. The young horse looked close to death. This morning she managed to force half a dozen lumps of sugar down the unwilling rack of bones. Hugging, petting, and whispering to the little animal, she promised him life would be good again if he just got better. It crossed her mind to question that herself, but she pushed the thought aside.

She found a metal tub large enough for a bath at the side of the house, and a few well worn woman’s garments folded away in a chest in the front bedroom. The clothes probably belonged to Cord’s sister, Marie, who had married and left Mason years ago. Anne laid out clean undergarments, a dark brown skirt, and a pale yellow waist. Pumping water until her arms ached and keeping herself awake while the water heated were wonderfully worthwhile. The bath and borrowed clothes left her feeling truly clean for the first time since her father had locked her up.

That night Anne again wrapped herself in the quilt and settled for the night beside Cord, holding his hand. She idly speculated whether the changes inside herself were forever, for she felt different, stronger, than two days ago. Just as she began to feel drowsy, the hand in hers tightened. Her eyes flew open only to see Cord’s head straightened and eyes half open.