A Promise of Thunder (6 page)

“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 suggestive 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.

“I’m sorry for you, Mr. Stryker,” Storm whispered softly.

After that their conversation suffered a natural death. Grady’s mood had changed abruptly from most pleasant to melancholy as he stared moodily at the passing landscape. It wasn’t until they reached Guthrie that either attempted speech again, and then it was only to remark on the state of affairs in the territorial capital.

Proof that the land offered for homesteading was wholly inadequate to the demand was evidenced by the vast numbers of disappointed would-be settlers, literally thousands, who were now rushing out of Guthrie to northern destinations. Every northbound train was almost as heavily loaded as when it had come
in the day before, and thousands of people who returned from the land run empty-handed brought tales of as many more persons wandering around aimlessly all over the Cherokee Strip, looking for unclaimed land that was nonexistent.

Station platforms all along the line were crowded with people who had rushed in and were now looking for a way to get out. The opening of land by the government was over, the Indian land was given away, and still there were thousands of men and women without homes.

“I suppose we’re the lucky ones,” Storm said thoughtfully as she carefully dodged clumps of people milling in the streets.

“I’ll feel better once I file my claim,” Grady said.

The claims office was a madhouse as men rushed to file their claims so they could return to their land and build their obligatory shanties. Officials were so swamped they had to set up makeshift desks outside the main office in order to handle the overflow. It was to one of these that both Storm and Grady headed once they found a place to park the wagon.

The line moved slowly, too slowly to suit Grady, who had a natural aversion to idleness. Even Storm began to chafe restlessly as the sun grew high overhead and the lines grew longer. Several spats broke out in line, most caused by quarrelsome men anxious to get back to protect their land.

Suddenly Grady felt the hackles rise at the back of his neck and he turned slowly, having the distinct feeling that someone was staring at him. Had he been recognized again as one of the renegade Indians who brought terror to the hearts of settlers? Would he always be haunted by the things he had done in retaliation for Summer Sky’s death? Even though his anger and gun had been directed only against those men whose hatred for the Indians made them enemies, his reputation had grown by leaps and bounds until every man, woman, and child had feared Thunder, the Sioux renegade.

He turned slowly, his right hand hanging limply at his side, his fingers flexed. Grady’s eyes narrowed as he immediately identified the man who was staring at him as if he had seen a ghost. It was Lew Fork, the “Sooner” who had shot him when his back was turned. He was standing in line to file a claim.

Storm had no idea what was happening. She saw Fork and Grady facing one another, but since she had never seen the “Sooner” she had no idea who he was.

“I thought you were dead, Injun,” Fork said in a loud voice. “What are ya doing in line? Did ya jump another man’s claim like ya did mine?”

“Get your facts straight, Fork,” Grady said tightly. “Men who jump the gun have no right to claim land.”

“What makes ya think I jumped the gun?” Fork asked belligerently. “Who do ya think people will believe, me or some half-breed Injun?
You got more lives than a cat.”

Goaded beyond endurance, Grady started to reach for his gun, but Storm stopped him. Though her touch was light as a feather he felt the heavy weight of her disapproval.

“Don’t,” Storm said softly. “Killing that man will prove nothing except your superiority with a gun. Let the authorities handle it.”

“Dammit, Storm, that man is the cowardly yellowbelly who shot me when my back was turned.” Never before had he allowed a woman to dictate caution to him. Not even Summer Sky had tried to quell his sudden bursts of temper.

“Let the law handle it, Grady.”

“Go ahead, Redskin, draw,” Fork taunted, realizing he had an ally in Storm. Immediately people began backing away.

“What’s going on here?” The voice held a ring of authority, and Grady recognized the distinctive blue uniform of the military. Guthrie was teeming with soldiers, most dispatched to the territorial capital to keep peace during the land rush. They also had the thankless task of proving or disproving the claims of Sooners.

“The Injun here is tryin’ to claim my land, Captain,” Fork said in an ingratiating tone of voice.

The Captain studied Grady closely, missing nothing about him. Not the dangerous glint in his blue eyes, his swarthy complexion, or the way he carried his gun, strapped to his thigh like a gunslinger.

“Is that true, Mr.—Mr.—?”

“Stryker. Grady Stryker. And no, it’s not true. This man claimed land he had no right to. He couldn’t possibly have reached that particular quarter section before me, set out his stakes, and put up a tent unless he jumped the gun.”

“I’ll attest to that, Captain,” Storm concurred. “I was right behind Mr. Stryker and there was no one ahead of us. When we arrived at the land Mr. Stryker claimed, it was already staked. I left to stake my own claim and when I returned I found Mr. Stryker had been shot in the back.”

“Wounded?” the Captain asked skeptically. He saw no evidence of Grady being wounded as recently as yesterday. “Are you certain, young lady?”

“I dressed the wound myself,” Storm said with asperity. “It should be very easy to prove.”

“I’ll take your word for it, miss.”

“It’s Missus. Mrs. Kennedy.”

“Kennedy. Is your husband the man who was killed in the street recently by a stray bullet?” He slanted Grady a pointed look. “And wasn’t this man involved in the incident?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I’m Captain Stark. Please accept my condolences.” He turned to Grady, trying to recall where he’d heard the name “Stryker” before. “If Mrs. Kennedy is telling the truth, then you have a right to file charges against the man for shooting you, Mr. Stryker.”

“Ain’t my word as good as the Injun’s?” Fork complained bitterly.

“Are you any relation to Blade Stryker of Wyoming?” Captain Stark asked, ignoring Fork as he suddenly made the connection.

“Blade Stryker is my father.”

“I thought so; you have the same look about you. Of course, your mother’s blue eyes are what gave you away.”

“You know my parents?”

“Your father has provided the army with some fine horses over the years. I had the pleasure of visiting Cheyenne and Peaceful Valley just last year. There are few military men who haven’t heard about the secret mission Captain Stryker performed for President Johnson many years ago. It’s quite a story.”

Storm was stunned. It seemed unlikely that this untamed savage came from such upstanding parents. What had happened to turn him into an undisciplined renegade?

“My father is quite a man,” Grady admitted. A pang of regret for the pain his parents had suffered on his account turned his features grim. He was seized by a longing so intense, he turned away to prevent embarrassment.

“Is everything Mrs. Kennedy said true?” Captain Stark asked.

“Now wait a damn minute,” Fork growled. “What about me and my claim? Can’t ya see the man and his whore are lyin’ through their teeth? He probably killed her husband on purpose so’s they could be together.”

With the speed of lightning Grady reached out, wrapping his long fingers around Fork’s
throat. “I ought to kill you for that remark, Fork. I didn’t even know Mrs. Kennedy until that gunman’s bullet killed her husband.” His fingers tightened, slowly squeezing the breath from Fork.

Captain Stark’s quick thinking was the only thing that saved Fork. His arm flew up, abruptly breaking Grady’s hold on the ‘Sooner.’ “None of that, Stryker. I’d hate to have to write your father that you were hanged for murder. Do you want to press charges against this man for shooting you?”

Grady shook his head. “No, let the scum go. Being left without land to claim is punishment enough. But I warn you, Fork, don’t ever show your face anywhere near my land. Next time you’ll not be so lucky.”

Rubbing his throat, Fork glanced at Captain Stark, and when the captain made no move to stop him, he slunk away.

A man at the edge of the crowd stopped him. “Do you know who that half-breed is?” His voice was pitched so low Fork had to strain to hear him. When Fork shook his head, the man continued in a hushed voice. “His Sioux name is Thunder. Most whites know him as Renegade. He’s the fastest gun this side of the Rockies and he carries a grudge against all white men.”

“Why?” Fork croaked.

“Don’t rightly know, stranger, but some believe it involves a woman. The man who draws against him and wins will earn the respect and
gratitude of men like my friend, who challenged him yesterday and lost.”

“What happened?” Fork asked, intrigued.

“It was incredible. I never saw a man draw and shoot so fast. Stryker shot my friend without blinking an eye. If you’d like to get even for what just happened, I’ll take you to my friend. He could use a man like you—one with a grudge against Stryker, or Thunder, or whatever you want to call him.”

Glancing back to where Grady stood talking to Captain Stark, Fork smile evilly. “Take me to your friend. I reckon we got some talkin’ to do.”

While Grady spoke to Captain Stark, a man sidled up beside Storm, tipped his immaculate new hat, and asked, “Are you all right, ma’am? I saw the confrontation between your—er—friend and the ‘Sooner’ and hope you weren’t offended by the man’s rough language.”

Storm stared at the stranger, impressed by his refined speech and manners. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, with sandy hair and hazel eyes, dressed in the latest fashion. The slim mustache gracing his upper lip twitched when he smiled at Storm. He looked like a prosperous businessman.

Taken in by the stranger’s suave manner, Storm’s answer came immediately. “Mr. Stryker hardly qualifies as a friend. I’ve only just met him. And the circumstance of our meeting was deplorable.”

“Ah, yes, the tragic accident involving your husband. How sad for you, my dear. Let me introduce myself. I am Nat Turner, newly arrived in Guthrie to conduct business.” He didn’t mention what kind of business he was involved in, and Storm didn’t bother to ask.