A Promise of Thunder

by Connie Mason

  “How wonderful,” Storm cried. Buddy’s boyish enthusiasm for this venture had fired her own, and she was as eager as he to claim their 160 acres of land and become landowners.

  Grady knew the odds were against him, but giving up wasn’t his style. He’d faced tougher competition than this during the past months. If he’d killed the man’s brother, it was because the brother had recklessly challenged him. He recalled that day in Dodge City, even remembered what the brother looked like. And as had happened so many times in the past, that face took on the characteristics of the men who had killed Summer Sky. The man had accused him of cheating at cards, drew, and lost. Grady felt no remorse over the death of another nameless white drifter.

  Gathering his wits, Grady turned and dropped to one knee, at the same time drawing and aiming. He knew from the sound of his voice exactly where the man stood—it was an uncanny ability, knowing where the enemy was—and fired off a shot, all in the space of a heartbeat. The man squeezed the trigger an instant later. Already wounded by Grady’s bullet, his arm flew up and the shot went wild. It found its mark in the body of Buddy Kennedy.

  A high-pitched screech was the first indication to Grady that something was amiss, something that had nothing to do with the man lying wounded in the dusty street. Once the danger was past, people began streaming into the open, seeming to converge on one place. Before the crowd cut off his view, Grady had a brief glimpse of a golden head bent over a still figure lying in the street beside a wagon.

  Noting that his friends were already helping the wounded gunman to his feet, Grady gave him no more than a passing glance, holstered his gun, and rose to his full six feet three inches. He had no idea what dire mishap had taken place across the street, but something compelled him to investigate. Stretching his long legs, he strode briskly across the teeming thoroughfare and plowed into the crowd milling around the two figures who appeared to be the center of attention. When people saw who it was they opened up a path for him, allowing Grady a clear view of the scene.

  A young man, younger even than Grady, lay stretched out on the ground. He was so white Grady knew instinctively that he was dead. Blood seeped from a neat round hole in his head, staining the ground beneath him. The blond beauty Grady had noticed earlier was bent over him, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably, her heartrending sobs piercing the air.

  Shock and disbelief nearly paralyzed Storm. One minute she was talking to Buddy and the next he lay dead on the ground. Even in her grief she didn’t need a doctor to tell her that her childhood friend and companion was dead. It was all so senseless, so utterly wrong, that Buddy should die because two vicious men carried their grudge into the streets where innocent passersby could be hurt. Why Buddy? she raged in silent protest. He had so much to live for—so much enthusiasm for life and this new venture they had undertaken.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, burning through the material of her dress. Turning her head, she peered at Grady through eyes misty with tears—and the breath slammed out of her chest. It was him! The half-breed Indian who was the cause of Buddy’s death. Her warm sherry eyes turned glacial, her face hardened, and she deliberately shrugged off his hand where it gripped her shoulder.

  “You!” The word exploded from her mouth like a vile curse. “Murderer!”

  For a moment Grady looked stunned. Then his face cleared as he realized what had happened. He had heard the other gunman fire his weapon, but had given it little thought since the bullet had gone astray. It appeared now that the bullet had struck down an innocent bystander—the woman’s brother? husband?

  “I’m sorry,” Grady muttered. He had difficulty working his tongue around the words. Apologizing was something he rarely did. And when he did, it was never a graceful admission. “I fired only once and my aim was true. It wasn’t my bullet that struck down your …”

  “… Husband. Buddy was my husband. And he would be alive right now if you and your friend hadn’t aired your differences on a public thoroughfare.” Her voice had risen steadily until she was screaming at him.

  “Calm down, lady,” Grady urged. He wished desperately that he had never set foot in Guthrie, Oklahoma, this day.

  “How can I calm down when my husband lies dead? How dare you! What does a savage know about grief?”

  “More than you give him credit for,” Grady bit out as he sought to soothe the distraught young woman.

  “Just go away! Can’t you see you’re making matters worse by just being here?”

  Frowning, Grady stepped aside, allowing a woman to help Storm to her feet. Two men quickly stepped forward to lift Buddy into the wagon and drive him to the undertaker.

  “What are you going to do now, dear?” Grady heard the woman ask as she led Storm away.

  Grady wanted to follow, to ask the blonde’s name, but by then the sheriff was pushing his way through the crowd, and Grady spent the next hour answering questions. By the time the sheriff had interviewed witnesses and satisfied himself that the attack upon Grady had been unprovoked, the beautiful widow was gone.

  On September 13, 1893, absolute chaos reigned in the town of Guthrie. The line to buy train tickets to the new towns of Enid and Perry, where settlers hoped to claim land, was even longer than the day before. But for reasons he himself did not understand, Grady lingered in town, sleeping in the livery when he found no other suitable lodging. For a man without a conscience, he had lost a lot of sleep thinking about the provocative blonde and her dead husband. He wondered what she planned to do now that her husband was dead. Did she have family back East somewhere?

  Try as he might, Grady could not deny the fact that it was his conscience that brought him to the undertaker that bright September morning. A somber man dressed in black greeted him at the door.

  “How may I help you?”

  Grady cleared his throat and glanced around the room filled with wooden boxes.

  “There was a man brought in here yesterday. Young, gunshot. Do you know his name?”

  “Ah, you must mean Mr. Kennedy. The funeral is this afternoon. Are you a member of the family?”

  “No,” Grady said harshly, unwilling to admit he was the indirect cause of the young man’s death. “Has the burying been paid for?”

  “Why, no, it hasn’t,” the undertaker said. His suspicions fully aroused now, the undertaker took a good look at Grady, put two and two together and came up with the right answer. “Why, you’re the man who shot Mr. Kennedy.”

  Grady’s mouth stretched into a grimace. “I don’t shoot unarmed men. Kennedy was killed by a stray bullet. But I’m not here to defend myself, I want to pay for the burying.”

  “Why? The man has a widow.”

  “Just tell me how much,” Grady said tightly. A man of few words, he saw no reason to offer explanations when he couldn’t even explain his reasons to himself.

  The undertaker named a figure. Grady nodded, took the appropriate sum from his money pouch, and placed it in the man’s hand. “Are you sure that’s enough? I want him to have a decent burial.”

  There was a rustle of calico, and then an angry feminine voice asked, “Why should you care what kind of burial my husband has?”

  While Grady and the undertaker were talking, Storm had entered the establishment in time to hear their words.

  Startled, the undertaker sent Storm a sheepish look. “Mr.—er—Mr. …” He slanted Grady a quizzical glance and waited for him to supply a name.

  “Stryker. Grady Stryker.”

  “Yes, well, Mr. Stryker has just paid for your husband’s burying.”

  “What! The man’s a savage; why should he offer to pay for Buddy’s funeral?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” the undertaker suggested. It mattered little who paid for the burial as long as someone did.

  “All right, I will.” She turned to Grady, her eyes dark with fury. “I don’t want your charity, Mr. Stryker.”

  “It’s not charity. I’d—” he began.

  “Just take your money ba
ck. I don’t want it. Buddy and I weren’t rich, but I have enough to pay for his burial.”

  “Now, Mrs. Kennedy, perhaps you should reconsider,” the undertaker offered kindly. “You will need the money to return to your family. Mr. Stryker said he didn’t kill your husband. Can’t you accept his offer as a gift of kindness?”

  “Kindness?” Storm fumed. “Look at the man! Does he look the sort who is accustomed to doing good deeds? He looks like a gunslinger to me. And heaven only knows what he’d want in return for his ‘kindness.’ Give him back his money, Mr. Lucas.”

  Silas Lucas shrugged and handed the money back to Grady. “You heard the lady, Mr. Stryker.” Then, sensing a confrontation, he turned and walked away rather than be privy to the clashing of two explosive tempers.

  “I only wanted to do what was right, Mrs. Kennedy,” Grady said tightly. Truth to tell, he felt sorry for the young widow. Her expressive sherry eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink the night before. He wondered if she even had a place to stay in this crowded town.

  “Your sympathy isn’t appreciated. Save it for someone who needs it,” Storm said. “You hardly look the type to feel regret. If it wasn’t for you, Buddy would still be alive.”

  “I had no idea a man would come gunning for me here in Guthrie,” Grady returned. “Had I known, I would have been more cautious.”

  “A man like you must face death every day,” Storm said disparagingly. “But Buddy wasn’t a violent man. He loved life, he—” Suddenly the burden of Buddy’s death became too much for Storm to bear. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably and she broke into tears.

  If he lived to be a hundred, Grady would never understand what made him pull Storm into his arms and offer the comfort of his strength. She felt so small, so warm and soft, that he groaned in response to the unaccustomed surge of compassion he felt for this small, helpless female. The last woman he’d felt that kind of protectiveness toward was Summer Sky. And this woman was nothing like Summer Sky.

  At first Storm allowed the small intimacy as Grady clumsily patted her shoulder, forgetting for a moment everything but the need to vent her grief over Buddy’s death. Then, slowly, she became aware of the carefully controlled power of the arms holding her and of the hard strength of the body pressing against hers. This man felt nothing like Buddy. The feeling of Grady’s huge body enveloping her was so foreign that for a moment she could neither move or speak.

  “Are you all right?” Grady asked quietly.

  The sound of that low, intense voice was the catalyst that brought Storm abruptly back to sanity. Realizing she was accepting comfort from a man she should despise, she dragged herself from his arms, standing back and staring at him as if he were the devil himself.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  A dull red stained Grady’s neck. “I’m sorry.” It startled him to hear himself apologizing again.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Stryker.” Deliberately she turned her back on him.

  But Grady was not ready to leave. “What will you do now?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I’m making it my business. You’ve accused me of causing your husband’s death so I’m accepting responsibility for your welfare. Do you need money to return to your family?”

  Storm whirled to face him, and Grady was mesmerized by the swirling mass of blond hair that settled around her like a gleaming veil of gold. She was the most provocative woman he had ever encountered, and the most contrary. Summer Sky had never offered a harsh word or argument of any kind in all the years they had known one another.

  “Very well, since you asked I’ll tell you exactly what I’m going to do. I intend to participate in the land rush. I’m going to be right there at the starting line when the signal is given, racing with the rest of the homesteaders to claim a piece of land for myself.”

  Her voice was fervent, passionate, intense with defiant determination. Vaguely, Grady wondered what it would be like to be the recipient of all that passion and intensity. Then, abruptly, the meaning of her words sunk in.

  “You’re what!”

  “You heard me, I’m going to claim the land Buddy and I had staked out for ourselves.”

  “You’re a woman.” His voice was incredulous. “A woman clings to her man. She doesn’t set out to accomplish things women have no business attempting.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I have no man. No one, do you hear me, no one, will stop Storm Kennedy from taking part in the land rush three days from now. Certainly not some half-breed gunslinger.”

  Grady heard nothing past the name Storm had inadvertently supplied him.

  Storm.

  It was as if a sign had been given to him by Wakantanka. His vivid blue eyes grew distant as he recalled that fateful day atop the mountain, when he had sought his vision and Grandfather spoke to him.

  “The peace you seek will come with the Storm. Until you meet and conquer the Storm your spirit will know no rest. Always remember that Thunder is the harbinger of Storm, but Thunder can only exist in the bosom of Storm’s soul.”

  Grady’s face turned white beneath the bronze of his tan, and he stared at Storm as if his life had just been blown to hell.

  Chapter Two

  “What are you staring at?”

  It was a struggle to drag his thoughts away from the prophecy and concentrate on what Storm was saying. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is for a woman to participate in a land rush? In town you’re treated with respect because of your fair sex, but once you join the men at the starting line it will be every man, woman, and child for himself. With one hundred thousand participants, there can’t possibly be enough land to go around.”

  “Why should it matter to you? I’m willing to take the risk and that’s all that counts. It’s what Buddy wanted, and now it’s what I want. When the shot announces the start of the run I’ll be in line, Mr. Stryker.”

  “And should you succeed, you won’t be able to hold on to your land,” Grady snorted derisively. “You’re only a woman.”

  “And you’re a pigheaded, opinionated, half-breed savage,” Storm returned indignantly. “I’m no meek Indian squaw. Too bad you won’t be around for me to prove you wrong.”

  “Perhaps I will, Mrs. Kennedy, perhaps I will,” Grady said tightly. “But don’t expect me to pick you up when you fall flat on your face.”

  “I expect nothing from you. Just leave me alone! If not for you, Buddy would still be alive. Good day, Mr. Stryker.”

  September 16, 1893

  The run was going to be even more unruly than Grady had imagined. Troops of the Third Cavalry were stationed all along the line between Kansas and the Cherokee Strip to try to maintain order, but it would not be easy.

  One of the biggest problems would be the “Sooners”—men who were sneaking into the Cherokee Strip before the starting time. Their claims would not be legal, and there promised to be many a confrontation over land claimed by more than one man.

  At fifteen minutes before noon, the lines at the train station were enormous. The slow movement of tickets had tempers soaring—only 20,000 an hour could be sold. Once the signal was given, trains would leave the station at two- or three-minute intervals. At the other end of the line, in the newly designated towns of Perry, Enid, and Kildare, quarter-acre town sites would be allotted to the first arrivals.

  Grady guided his sturdy Indian pony, Lightning, along the starting line. The horsemen and bicycle riders were at the front, while the buggies and lighter wagons were in the second row, with heavy teams bringing up the rear. It amused him to see a gaily decorated surrey in the second row loaded with four flamboyantly dressed prostitutes, who flirted outrageously with the men around them.

  Exactly when Grady had decided to join in the rush for free land was unclear in his mind. All he knew was that after the confrontation with Storm Kennedy in the funeral parlor, he had done a considerable amount of thinking. And after much soul-searching he had c
ome to the conclusion that he was tired of violence and bloodshed. Perhaps this was his opportunity to forge a new life for himself and his son.

  Grady grew pensive when he recalled his last words with Storm Kennedy, when he had urged her to abandon her reckless plan to run for land. He had seen her only once after their argument, and then only briefly. Though she had maintained a stubborn silence during their encounter, he hoped he had made an impression on her.

  Wheeling his mount into place, Grady knew exactly which piece of land he wanted. He had ridden through the area many times in the past, before it had been purchased from the Indians. About ten miles from Guthrie, the prime piece of acreage Grady had in mind had everything a homesteader could want. Water, rich grasslands, and abundant trees. He had no interest in claiming one of the town sites, but instead pictured Little Buffalo running free and wild on farmland tilled and cultivated by his own hands. It would be a fit legacy to leave his son, something Grady had accomplished on his own.

  Storm Kennedy steadied the team of horses with a firm hand. Her light wagon was in the second row of racers behind the horsemen and bicycles, but she had every confidence in her ability to beat the competition. As it turned out, she wasn’t the only woman racing for land today. Here and there she could see other females, some on horseback, some driving wagons.

  Glancing ahead to the front of the line, Storm saw that the horsemen were bent low over their mounts in anticipation of the signal. Reacting to the tension, she grasped the reins tighter. Suddenly her face drained of all color as she stared incredulously at a particular rider. He sat his horse with the grace of a man born to the saddle. Tall and supple, dressed in buckskins that molded to his body, his lean, lithe frame seemed an extension of his mount.

  The half-breed, Grady Stryker!

  What was he doing here? Storm wondered, stunned by the notion that a drifter and gunslinger would attempt to claim land that by right should go to decent homesteaders.