A Promise of Thunder

by Connie Mason

  Grady spoke softly in the Lakota language to his mount as the tension grew. He knew only seconds remained before the sergeant of the Third Cavalry would fire the shot that would signal the maddest rush ever made in the country’s history. He glanced behind him, searching the faces of his fellow racers, trying to judge his chances of beating the competition.

  Then he saw her and spat out a curse that made those beside him turn and stare. Had nothing he said gotten through to the little witch? Her husband had been buried but one day before and she should be home mourning him instead of trying to compete with men twice her size. He compared her to gentle, submissive Summer Sky and found her lacking. Storm Kennedy was too forward, too brash for Grady’s liking, too independent and reckless. Her stubbornness appalled him.

  The crack of the carbine scattered his thoughts. Reacting instinctively, he dug his heels into Lightning’s flanks. The sturdy pony lived up to his name as he sprinted into the lead. Behind him horses were bucking and pitching, throwing one of the riders almost immediately, before the line had fairly been broken. But the unfortunate man was equal to the occasion, and immediately stuck his stake into the ground, staking his claim to a quarter section of the finest farming land in the strip.

  Behind Grady the ground shook with the reverberation of hooves and heavier equipment as buggies and wagons thundered over the hundred-mile-wide racetrack. Along the Santa Fe tracks trains kept pace, crammed with humans as never before. The platforms and roofs were black with homesteaders, and so many hung out of the window they were in danger of spilling out.

  Storm cracked her whip above the team’s head, appalled when she saw wagon after wagon overturning, strewing disappointed settlers across the prairie. Sheer grit and fierce determination kept her hands steady on the reins despite the fact that her arms felt as if they were being pulled out of their sockets. She had no idea which land would be best to claim, but decided that any land along the Santa Fe would be considered desirable. But each time she found a likely looking spot she was disappointed to find others ahead of her, already hammering in their stakes and setting up makeshift tents until more permanent dwellings could be raised.

  Unwilling to accept defeat, Storm left the tracks, turning slightly north toward the river, where she knew from gossip that prime tracts existed. She had no interest in town sites, only in farmland. That was a decision she and Buddy had made before they started the trip to Oklahoma.

  Swirling, choking dust rose up to sting her eyes and clog her throat, but Storm gritted her teeth and held on for dear life as the wagon bounced and bumped over terrain so rough the wagon was in danger of breaking up. After ten grueling miles she spotted the river up ahead. She noted the thick, lush grasslands surrounding it, the stand of trees lining the bank, and immediately fell in love with the spot. It was everything she and Buddy had hoped for, and it looked as if no one had arrived before her. But as she drew closer she saw that she was wrong, and groaned in despair. Already a makeshift tent had been set in place, and rope and stakes marked the boundaries.

  Reining in the team, Storm stared in disbelief at the man who was bending over one of the stakes. Grady Stryker! Would he always be around to make her life miserable?

  Grady raised his eyes to study the newcomer, struck dumb when he realized it was Storm. He had expected her to give up long before now, yet he couldn’t help but admire her fortitude and endurance. Evidently she was stronger than he gave her credit for.

  “I should have known you’d get here ahead of me,” Storm bit out furiously.

  “And I should have known you’d ignore my advice and not give up this foolishness,” Grady replied. “If you had your eye on this particular spot, then you’re too late. I’ve already staked my claim. And in case you’re interested, all available land bordering the river has already been claimed.”

  Gazing past Grady, Storm took careful note of the stakes already in the ground. If her eyes weren’t deceiving her, there were two sets of stakes. “Looks like someone got here before you. Is that your tent?”

  “No, but I’m not worried. Only a ‘Sooner’ could have gotten here before me, and his claim doesn’t count. There are laws against those who jumped the gun. You’d be wise to return to town, Mrs. Kennedy. You don’t belong here.”

  Storm glared at him furiously. How dare the despicable half-breed tell her where she belonged or didn’t belong? She had as much right to this land as he did. Casting her gaze farther afield, Storm saw that no stakes were set out on the land adjacent to that which Grady had claimed. It was inferior to the grassy knoll bordering the river, but still offered good potential. And better yet, no one had arrived to claim it. Jumping down from the wagon, she fished in the wagonbed for a stake and mallet, walked a short distance past the boundaries marked by Grady, and pounded in her own stake. Then, savoring her triumph, she turned and sent him a saucy grin.

  Grady threw up his hands in defeat. There was nothing more he could do to convince Storm of the danger existing for a woman trying to eke out a living on her own in a new land, where men had to claw and fight for survival. But when she failed, and fail she must, he’d be there to buy up her land. His blue eyes were troubled as he watched Storm ride away to lay stakes along the borders surrounding her quarter section. Then he turned away to mark off his own boundaries, carefully pulling out the stakes he’d found already in place when he’d arrived.

  “Turn around real slow, mister, if ya wanna live to see tomorrow.”

  Grady froze, turning slowly to face the speaker. The man, mounted atop a skinny gelding, was in his middle years, poorly dressed in threadbare denims and flannel shirt, wearing boots that had seen better days. His hat was battered beyond redemption and a growth of whiskers covered his pock-marked face. The shotgun he held was pointed at Grady’s middle.

  “Who in the hell are you?”

  “I’m the man what owns this claim. Name’s Fork. Lew Fork. Them are my stakes yer pullin’ up, Injun.”

  The dull red of anger crept up Grady’s neck as he let the insult slip by. “There’s only one way you could have arrived here before me, Fork, and that’s by jumping the gun. If you’re one of those ‘Sooners’ you’ll find yourself in a heap of trouble. I suggest you get out of here while the getting’s good. I can draw and shoot faster than you can pull the trigger on that shotgun.”

  Fork snorted derisively, but the sound ended abruptly when he noted the calm confidence in Grady’s chilling gaze, the steadiness of his hand poised mere inches above his gun, and the stance that marked him as an experienced gunman. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his hand was suddenly no longer steady. Never had he seen a man more poised or sure of himself, a man whose expression conveyed utter contempt and disdain—a man not afraid to defend himself or his property. Fork backed down in the face of such overwhelming odds, but being a sneaky man, he had already decided how best to deal with the situation.

  “Yer bluffin’.”

  A muscle twitched at the corner of Grady’s eye. “Try me.”

  Slowly Fork lowered the shotgun. “All right, mister, you win. But I ain’t forgettin’ this or the fact that you done me outta my land.” Backing down left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “The land was claimed illegally; it was never yours. Now throw down your weapon. I’ll give you five minutes to pull up your tent and high-tail it out of here.”

  Sliding from his horse, Fork tossed his shotgun at Grady’s feet. Then he quickly and efficiently dismantled the rough tent composed of two stakes and a canvas and stowed it behind his saddle, glaring murderously at Grady all the while. When he mounted and rode away, Grady made the fatal mistake of turning his back. It was something he never did under normal circumstances, but Fork had appeared so intimidated, Grady hadn’t thought he had the guts to try to outwit him. But he should have known the man was a coward, and cowards were unpredictable. What saved Grady from certain death was his superb sense of hearing. Attuned to danger and trained to listen for the slightest change in the air
around him, he recognized the distinctive click of metal against cold metal. He should have known that a man like Fork would have another gun stashed away somewhere.

  Reacting instinctively, Grady ducked. Thus it was that the bullet meant for vital organs slammed into his shoulder. But Fork assumed the shot was fatal and didn’t stick around long enough to find out. Once the shot left his gun he spurred his mount and rode hell for leather back to town. Since the land was already staked he could claim it any time. He just didn’t want to be around when the body was found.

  Storm heard the shot and lifted her head from her back-breaking task, recognizing the sound immediately. She shaded her eyes with her hand as she scanned the surrounding land. She saw nothing suspicious, only other racers flying by to claim what was left of the land. Nor was there another shot. Still, she couldn’t shake off the premonition that something was amiss.

  Unable to pinpoint the cause of her distress, Storm took another stake from the wagon and drove it into the ground. She’d been at it for quite a while and still had a ways to go before she’d reach the place from which she started. When she finished she’d have the full 160 allotted acres staked out. Then all she had to do was erect a crude shelter and file her claim in Guthrie.

  Who said a woman wasn’t as capable as a man! She couldn’t wait to prove to that opinionated half-breed that she had done exactly what he said she couldn’t.

  It was dusk when Storm arrived back at the place where she had started and prepared to erect her crude dwelling according to the rules. It didn’t need to be fancy, just something to prove the land was occupied. She glanced over at the adjacent land, noting that Grady hadn’t yet erected his tent. Then she saw something that froze the blood in her veins.

  Through the settling dusk she saw the figure of a man rise unsteadily from the ground, stagger clumsily, then fall. Common sense told her not to interfere with something that was none of her business, but her conscience demanded that she take a closer look. What if the “Sooner” had arrived on the scene and Grady Stryker had shot him? What if the man she saw was Grady himself? What if—There was no sense speculating, Storm decided as she climbed aboard the wagon, picked up the reins, and set the horses into motion. Placing her shotgun—the one Buddy had insisted she always keep nearby—beside her on the seat, she crossed the short distance to Grady’s land.

  She heard him groan before she stopped the wagon. She knew instantly that it was Grady by the size of the long, lean frame sprawled on the ground. She was out of the wagon in a flash, stepping over the boundary markers and falling to her knees beside him. There was blood everywhere. On his clothes and soaking the ground beneath him. Panic-stricken, Storm felt as if she had leaped backward four days to the nightmarish moment when she had knelt beside a dying Buddy.

  “Can you stop the bleeding?”

  Grady’s voice brought her abruptly back to reality. She couldn’t think of one reason why she should help a man like Grady Stryker. He had brought her more pain than she had ever known and disrupted her life from the first moment she set eyes on him in Guthrie. He might not have pulled the trigger of the gun that had killed Buddy, but she held him fully responsible for the accident.

  “Storm, snap out of it. I asked if you can stop the bleeding.” His voice was harsh with pain.

  “I—I don’t know. How serious is it?”

  “How in the hell do I know! You tell me.”

  Gingerly Storm turned him over, looking for the point of entry. She spotted it immediately, high on his left shoulder. The bullet appeared to have cut cleanly through the flesh, exiting on the opposite side.

  “It doesn’t look too bad, if we can stop the bleeding. The bullet went clear through.” When she continued to stare at him, as if mesmerized by the sight of blood, Grady lost his temper.

  “Dammit, lady, I’m apt to bleed to death before you make up your mind to help me. You are going to help me, aren’t you?”

  Lost in the vivid blue of his eyes, Storm nodded and began tearing strips from her petticoat. “Who did this to you? How many are there out there waiting their turn to prove themselves a faster draw?”

  Stifling a groan, Grady said, “That damn ‘Sooner’ showed up. I figured I’d scared him off, but he was smarter than I gave him credit for. The minute I turned my back on him he fired.”

  “You’re not as smart as you thought if you didn’t disarm him first,” Storm said with a hint of censure.

  Grady didn’t answer. It took all his concentration to keep from crying out as Storm stripped off his shirt and pressed folded strips of torn petticoat against his wound to staunch the bleeding.

  For some unexplained reason she found the sight of his bare chest strangely unsettling, and her hands shook clumsily as they touched his taut flesh.

  “Don’t you know how to be gentle?” Grady chided when she pressed harder than he thought necessary.

  “Only when it pleases me,” Storm said sweetly. “I have no reason to treat you gently, or even to help you at all. Not after what you did to Buddy. He—” She paused to steady her voice. “He was my best friend.”

  “I thought you said he was your husband.”

  Storm flushed. “Yes, of course he was my husband. But he was also my friend.”

  Grady grew quiet as Storm worked over him, affording her a few moments of private recollection. It was true, Buddy had been her friend long before he had become her husband. She had loved him like a brother, and when it came time to marry, she could think of no one she’d prefer for a husband. But even though she had shared his bed for over a month, she still couldn’t think of him as anything but her dearest friend. She accepted his timid lovemaking, enjoyed it up to a point, but never could discover what all the fuss was about. Making love was nothing special, certainly not the earthshaking experience she had been led to believe. It was a duty she had performed more for Buddy’s sake than her own.

  Yet their marriage would have been a happy one, blessed with children, laughter, and a warm regard for one another. What more could a woman ask for? She missed Buddy fiercely, for he had been her companion and friend most of her life.

  Storm eased Grady into a sitting position and wound the last strip of material around his chest to hold the compress in place. Only a small amount of blood stained the bandage, and Storm hoped the worst of the bleeding had been staunched. Fortunately for the half-breed, the bullet hadn’t hit anything vital, and he should recover with no ill effects.

  “Can you sit a horse?” Storm asked as she helped him to his feet. “Or should I take you back to town in the wagon?”

  “I’m not going back to town tonight.”

  “Are you crazy? What if infection sets in? Are you prepared to handle a fever?”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you live up to your name?” His face wore the faintest of smiles.

  “All the time, but that doesn’t change things. You should be seen by a doctor and report the ‘Sooner’ to the authorities.”

  “Tomorrow is soon enough. If I were you, I’d see to erecting a tent. I’m sure there are claim jumpers about, and if there is no dwelling on your claim you’re liable to find it taken from you.”

  “What about you? Will you be all right tonight?”

  “Do you care?”

  His question startled her. By rights she should feel no compassion for the half-breed gunslinger. All her conscience required was that she discharge her Christian duty, which she had already done, and leave him to his own devices. Intuition told her he was a hard, bitter man who had built a protective shell around his heart. Something had made him the kind of man he was today. Did being a half-breed have anything to do with it? she wondered curiously. Yet Storm sensed a brooding sadness in him that begged for compassion and understanding. She might hate what the man had become, but she felt a strong, compelling attraction for the kind of man he could be once he mended his wicked ways.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Grady repeated softly. “Do you care what happens to
me?” Why was he pursuing this line of thought when he knew damn well Storm had good reason to despise him?

  Her skin looked so soft and velvety, he longed to reach out and stroke her cheek. She was so close he could smell violets wafting from the thick blond strands of her hair. Grady had thought all feelings of tenderness long buried, but somehow this young widow had stirred memories that suddenly emerged from the ashes to disturb and titillate him.

  Drawn into the electric blue of his eyes, Storm had to shake herself to escape his spell. She heard his question and found it offensive.

  “I don’t care a fig about you, Mr. Stryker. I helped you because my Christian upbringing demanded it. I still think you’re a violent man who courts danger.”

  The brief softening of Grady’s features abruptly hardened into an inscrutable mask. He must have been crazy to think Storm Kennedy would consider him anything but an uncivilized savage. Next time he’d know better than to deal civilly with the woman. Over three years ago he had chosen the kind of life he wanted to lead. What made him think he could or should change now?

  Because of your son, his conscience whispered. Certainly not because of a golden-haired witch with the face of an angel.

  “Perhaps you should return to your claim, Mrs. Kennedy,” Grady said dully. “According to the rules you must erect a shelter.” His shoulder hurt like hell and he felt weak as a kitten from loss of blood, but he’d be damned if he’d ask Storm for any more than she was willing to give.

  Storm shot him a quelling look. “You’re right, there’s still much to be done.” She started walking back to the wagon, turned suddenly, and asked, “What about your tent? Can you manage on your own?”

  “I can manage. It’s only a flesh wound. I’ve had worse.”

  Storm nodded and continued on her way. The provocative sway of her hips and a flash of shapely ankles held Grady mesmerized, and he forced himself to look away. He had no damn business desiring Storm Kennedy, no business at all. She was a part of the white society he held in contempt. And she was so different from Summer Sky, he wondered why he was drawn to her.