A Promise of Thunder

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 stoodnow, 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 voluminousnightdress 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