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Authors: Connie Mason

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“It’s not charity. I’d—” he began.

“Just take your money back. 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 come 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.

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?”

BOOK: A Promise of Thunder
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