A Promise of Thunder Page 4

  Thunder and Storm.

  The names implied power, wrought by the tremendous forces of nature, uncontrollable, wild, unpredictable. Combined they made men cower and the earth shake.

  Thunder and Storm.

  The fury they unleashed created havoc in both the heavens above and the earth below.

  Grinning crookedly, Grady decided Storm needed Thunder to bring forth the fire. Perhaps Wakantanka was right. Thunder could only exist in the bosom of Storm’s soul. But everyone knew Storm would be weak and ineffective without Thunder. Taming a Storm might be more rewarding, certainly more entertaining, than allowing it to pass by in the night.

  Chapter Three

  Storm had her makeshift shelter erected before the inky blackness of night descended over the prairie. She and Buddy had prepared well, having purchased stakes, canvas, and supplies to last them several months, or until the land started producing. Buddy had used an inheritance from his grandmother to finance their trip, and there were still sufficient funds left in the bank in Guthrie to build a snug cabin on her new land.

  Using some of the extra stakes, Storm built a fire and started coffee boiling. She was famished, having eaten nothing since early that morning. Rummaging in the back of the wagon, she found a tin of beans, another of fruit, and some hardtack. The next day, when she went to Guthrie to file her claim, she’d buy bacon, eggs, flour, sugar, and the other supplies necessary for her survival.

  In a very short time she was seated before the fire, shoveling beans into her mouth and thinking how lonely it was without Buddy. He had been her constant companion for so long, the loss sent a sharp pang through her innards. She hadn’t really cried or had a chance to mourn Buddy since his death, and when tears appeared suddenly she didn’t try to stop them. She let them course down her cheeks, finding solace in the healing flood. When it was over she knew she could continue, with or without Buddy. She would always mourn her husband, but she had never been one to dwell overlong on the injustices of life. Life simply went on.

  When she and Buddy had struck out for Oklahoma, she had eagerly welcomed the challenge of pioneer life, and not even Buddy’s death would make her give up the dream of owning one of the last tracts of free land in the country. Abruptly, Storm’s thoughts wandered in another direction. She wondered if the half-breed had managed a fire and a meal. When she glanced over toward his claim she saw nothing but dark stretches of land for as far as the eye could see. The moon and the stars provided the only light, except for that projected by her meager campfire.

  Storm didn’t want to worry about the half-breed, didn’t even want to think about him, but somehow his image intruded upon her thoughts. It was difficult to hate a man who was wounded and helpless. Although helpless hardly described Grady Stryker, Storm realized that he couldn’t have entered the race as fully prepared as she and Buddy had been, for to her knowledge his decision to homestead had been one made on the spur of the moment. He probably had no food or even a spare blanket to keep him warm during the coolness of the night.

  Suddenly Storm came to a decision. She filled a tin plate with the remainder of the food she had prepared, picked up the coffeepot, and started walking the short distance to Grady’s claim. Since it was full dark and she had to pick her way carefully, it took fifteen minutes to reach his roped-off claim. Stepping over the barrier, she saw that Grady had indeed erected a shelter. Upon closer inspection she saw that his tent consisted of a shotgun stuck into the ground as a tent pole and a blanket stretched over it and staked down on all four sides. There was absolutely no way he could stuff his tall, lean frame into the small enclosure. Setting the plate and coffeepot on the ground before the tent, she called his name.

  She heard his tethered horse snort softly in response, but Grady was nowhere in sight. She was ready to return to her own claim when the sound of rippling water caught her attention. Since she had wanted to wash up before she retired, she headed in the direction of the river, wishing she had been one of the lucky ones to claim land bordering the water. As things stood now, she’d be forced to negotiate with the half-breed for her water until a well could be dug.

  The moon lit her way as Storm walked across the lush prairie, happily aware of the fact that she had claimed a piece of prime farmland. Though she didn’t know a great deal about farming or raising animals, she was determined to learn. Surely she wasn’t the only woman to claim a piece of Oklahoma for herself, nor was she the first woman pioneer whose man was killed before he could realize his dream.

  Storm stumbled upon Grady quite suddenly. He was poised at the edge of the water, his back to her, nude except for a breechclout covering his loins. He looked like an ancient heathen god, standing as tall and straight as a towering spruce. His stance emphasized the strength of his thighs and the slimness of his hips. Moonlight danced along the ropy muscles of his biceps, highlighting his shoulders, a yard wide and molded bronze. In fact, he was gilded bronze all over, even the taut mounds of his buttocks. His midnight hair shone with glistening pearls of water, as if he had just emerged from the river. Storm’s breath lodged in her throat as she stared at him, fascinated by the pagan splendor of his powerful body.

  He was the closest thing to an unclothed man Storm had ever seen. She and Buddy had never undressed before one another. They had discreetly shed their clothes in private, and when they made love, Buddy, in order to protect her sensibilities, had raised her voluminous nightdress without looking. Though Storm had never seen her husband without his clothes, she knew he had looked nothing like Grady Stryker. Was there a man anywhere on earth the equal of him?

  Grady tensed, sensing that he wasn’t alone. In the past his keen senses had served him well, but this time he detected no menace, felt no danger from the intruder. He had bathed in the river to cool his feverish body. Then he silently communed with the moon and river, both of which the People worshiped as givers of life. He had heard the nearly silent footsteps and stood ready to spring, until the sweet scent of violets wafted to him on the breeze.

  “Have you come to bathe, Mrs. Kennedy, or merely to watch me?”

  A startled squeak escaped from Storm’s lips. “How—how did you know I was here?”

  “My reflexes have been honed to recognize danger no matter what its guise,” Grady said, turning to face her. “Had I not recognized the scent that lingers on your skin and on your hair, I would have attacked you. Next time announce yourself.”

  “I—came upon you suddenly and—and—” Her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth as she stumbled over the words. “I wasn’t spying,” she finally spat out.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I brought you something to eat, and when I didn’t find you, I decided to wash up before I returned to my claim.”

  “You brought me food?” Grady asked, incredulous.

  She was grateful the darkness hid her flushed face. “If you want it,” she said, shrugging. “You couldn’t have carried many supplies on your horse.”

  “You’re a strange woman, Mrs. Kennedy—Storm.” He grew pensive, then asked, “Why do you have an Indian name?” He left the water’s edge, and her eyes fell unbidden to the bulging muscles of his thighs and the intriguing way they flexed with each step he took. He didn’t stop until he stood close enough to feel her soft breath against his cheek.

  Her lips went suddenly dry and she had to lick them before she could speak. “It’s not an Indian name, not really. I was born during a violent storm and my parents thought it appropriate to name me Storm.”

  “It is the same with the People.”

  “Why do you have blue eyes?” Storm asked before she realized what she was saying.

  Grady’s features turned grim, as if recalling something painful from his past. But to Storm’s surprise, he answered readily enough. “They come from my mother. She is a white woman.”

  “You look like a savage.”

  Grady’s eyes turned flinty. “Looks are often deceiving.”

  “Was y
our mother a captive?”

  “Captive?” Grady’s laughter vibrated the air around them. “Those who know my parents say my father is the one held captive by my mother.”

  “But how—”

  “You ask too many questions, Storm Kennedy.”

  And look much too lovely in the moonlight, he thought, but did not say aloud.

  “Thank you for the food, but I think you should leave. Aren’t you afraid of being here alone with me? I’m a renegade. If you aren’t afraid, you should be.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Storm retorted, “but I’ll be all too happy to go. If you’d kindly leave me alone for a few moments, I’ll clean up and be on my way.”

  “If I recall, your land does not border on the river.”

  “That’s why I’m asking permission to cross your property to reach the water.” She hated being beholden to the half-breed, but there was no help for it.

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Are you always so disagreeable?” Storm asked, stomping her foot furiously.

  “I am when dealing with White Eyes. For the most part they are untrustworthy, prejudiced, and dishonest.”

  “Your mother is white,” Storm shot back.

  “My mother lives far away on a ranch in Wyoming. Leave her out of this,” Grady said tightly. “Most whites are evil.”

  “And most Indians are dirty savages. You don’t even have a proper Indian name.”

  “I am called Thunder by the People.”

  “Thunder,” Storm repeated softly. The name conjured up visions of violence, mayhem, and destruction—it fit him perfectly.

  “My parents named me Grady. When I left the People to live among the White Eyes I assumed that name.”

  “You left the—I don’t understand.”

  “There is nothing for you to understand,” Grady said tersely. “You may cross my land to the river whenever it pleases you.” He turned to leave with an abruptness that startled Storm, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. The bandage she had tied around his chest shone stark against his bronzed flesh, yet she hadn’t thought to ask him about his wound.

  Let him suffer, she thought; it would serve him right for being so darn ornery. Had he learned no manners at his mother’s knee?

  Kneeling at the river’s edge, Storm plunged her hands into the cool water and proceeded to wash her hands, face, and neck, unaware that Grady had turned to watch her as she unfastened the top buttons of her blouse and dribbled water between her breasts. Moonlight beamed down benevolently upon her, turning her hair into a halo of pure gold as she bent forward. Grady couldn’t recall when he had seen a more entrancing sight or witnessed anything quite as sexually arousing as Storm, raising her face to the stars, splashing water on her face, neck, and breasts. And what made it even more provocative was the fact that she wasn’t even aware of what it was doing to him.

  Grady smiled in spite of himself, envisioning what it would be like to quench his lust in the cradle of Storm’s loins. He wondered if she would be as tempestuous, wild and untamed, as her name implied. Those forbidden thoughts made his flesh rise and harden with a need he had thought subdued long ago. He had wanted no woman in his heart but Summer Sky; now, suddenly, he was overwhelmed with desire for a white woman named Storm who had whirled into his life with all the fury of a tornado.

  Shaking his dark head in denial of what his flesh was demanding, Grady spun on his heel and stomped away. When Storm passed by his crude tent a short time later, Grady was just finishing the plate of beans and bacon she had left for him.

  “If you’re finished, I’ll take the plate.” Her voice was cool.

  Grady handed her the plate and coffeepot. “Thank you, it was very good.” He hadn’t realized just how hungry he had been until he had picked up the fork. Tomorrow he’d have to see about getting some supplies out there and building some sort of shanty to serve as a dwelling. Getting them out to his claim was going to be a problem unless. …

  Storm took the plate and coffeepot from Grady’s hands and started the trek back to her own claim. “Storm, wait.”

  Storm paused, uncomfortable with the idea of the half-breed using her first name. “Was there something you wanted to say to me?”

  “I told you earlier that you could cross my land to use the river whenever you liked. Perhaps in return you could accommodate me?”

  Storm stiffened, her face twisted into a mask of shock and dismay. “Accommodate you, Mr. Stryker? In what way?”

  “We both need to go to Guthrie tomorrow to file our claims and we both need supplies. Perhaps you’d be good enough to carry some of my supplies back in your wagon since we are going to be neighbors.”

  Immediately Storm relaxed, realizing she had jumped to the wrong conclusion. But she’d be a fool to trust the half-breed renegade. Obviously he hated whites, and his hatred extended to women as well as men. He seemed to hold white women in as much contempt as he did white men. Curiously, she wondered what had happened in his past to turn him against the white race. He was intelligent and well educated, and he spoke English as well as she did, better even. Yet something had turned him against all white men and their ways.

  Grady Stryker was secretive concerning his past. All she knew about him was that he was born in Wyoming on a ranch, hated whites, and could handle a gun like a pro. And he was heart-stoppingly handsome in a rugged way that brought shivers to her flesh.

  “It’s a deal,” Storm agreed. “Though it boggles my mind to think of a man like you settling down on a farm, we are going to be neighbors, and it would behoove us to help one another. But don’t get the wrong idea, Mr. Stryker. I still hate you for what you are and the way my life has changed because of you. If Buddy were alive today, we would have been here first to claim land on the river. Good night, Mr. Stryker. I’ll be by for you in the morning.”

  Grady was waiting for Storm early the next morning when she drove the wagon past his claim. Dressed in skintight buckskins and moccasins, he had his long ebony hair tied back with a leather thong. He must have been wearing his spare shirt, for there were no telltale holes where the bullet had entered or exited his flesh. In fact, he gave little sign that he had been wounded at all. Was the man not human? Did he not feel pain like other mortals? Though the wound hadn’t been life threatening, it surely was serious enough to cause him distress. Yet there he was, looking as hale and hardy as he had the first time she saw him in Guthrie.

  “I’ll tie Lightning to the back of the wagon and ride beside you,” Grady said as he led his saddled horse over to the wagon.

  Lightning and Thunder, they made a good pair, Storm thought, fascinated by the blatant play of muscles beneath Grady’s buckskins as he moved gracefully to the rear of the wagon. And where did Storm come into the scheme of things? Had their meeting been preordained? Thunder and Storm. She shook her head at such a silly notion. Their meeting had been purely coincidental, and unhappily for her, an unforeseen tragedy. When Grady leaped into the wagon beside her, the brief pressure of his leg pressing against hers sent a shudder through her body.

  “Are you cold? Perhaps you should have worn a jacket.”

  She was dressed in a split skirt and blouse, and if it weren’t for the half-breed sitting beside her, she would have been perfectly comfortable. His presence confused her, made what she had felt for Buddy seem tame.

  It made her angry.

  “I’m fine,” Storm snapped as she slapped the reins against the horses’ rumps. “I just don’t want you to think our being neighborly is anything but a mutual need for survival. Until I can get my well dug I’ll need to use the river that flows through your land. And you’ll need—”

  “You may not be willing to provide what I need,” Grady said with slow relish. His blue eyes, so incongruous in his dark face, blazed with an unholy light.

  Storm gasped, stunned at the sexual innuendo inherent in his words. “You, Mr. Stryker, are an unprincipled rogue. How dare you speak to me in such a suggestiv
e manner. If Buddy were alive you wouldn’t dare—”

  “I said nothing to offend you,” Grady said, quickly defending himself. His innocent stare made her want to give him a thorough tongue-lashing. “Don’t you think we should be on a first-name basis after all we’ve shared?”

  “What we shared is the tragic death of my husband, Mr. Stryker. If you don’t stop badgering me, we can forget all about the cooperation between us. I’ll bargain with another homesteader for water until my well is dug.”

  “Don’t get your dander up, Storm,” Grady said, trying not to smile, but failing miserably.

  Why was he feeling more lighthearted than he had in years? He couldn’t recall when he’d smiled last or bantered with a woman as lovely and provocative as Storm Kennedy. It felt good, damn good. Perhaps abandoning his renegade life, settling on his own land and making a home for his son was the wisest decision he had ever made. If he could accomplish that much, there was hope of reconciling with his parents, he reasoned. And he had Storm Kennedy to thank for it.

  Storm’s mouth snapped shut, swallowing the angry retort on the tip of her tongue. Arguing with the half-breed was like swimming against the tide. Though she got in a few good strokes, she seemed to get nowhere with him. Until several days ago she had never even known men like Grady Stryker existed.

  It was ten miles to Guthrie, but to Storm they seemed like a hundred. Grady appeared not to notice her sullen silence as he kept up a lively conversation extolling the many qualities of the land they had claimed and the endless possibilities of farming such fertile land. Finally, it got to be too much for Storm to bear.

  “What does an Indian know about planting and raising animals?” she snorted in disgust. “Your life is filled with violence and killing and wreaking vengeance on white settlers.”

  He turned from his contemplation of the landscape to stare at her. “I wasn’t always a renegade. There was a time,” his eyes lost their sparkle, his face hardened and his voice grew taut, “when the land meant everything to me. A time … But all that is in the past. I no longer have a home, unless I can make a go of this land I have claimed. I don’t even have the peace of mind I crave. One day another drifter will arrive to challenge me and there will be another gun battle. And after that another, and another, until …” His shoulders lifted in grim reminder that his life was precarious at best.