A Promise of Thunder

I don’t think—that is—I’m not much of a drinker.”
    “Just a sip, Storm, to please me. Then I’ll be on my way.” He was already pouring the tumbler half full of the aromatic spirits.
    “Very well,” Storm said, accepting the glass he offered. If it meant being left in peace, she’d take just one tiny sip. She held the glass to her lips, intending to drink sparingly, but Turner had other ideas. Grasping the bottom of the glass, he tilted it upward, forcing her to take a huge gulp of the potent liquor. It ran down her throat in a hot, burning gush of molten fire.
    Gasping for breath and sputtering indignantly, Storm flung his hand away. “Why did you do that?”
    “A small drink never hurt anyone, my dear. You’ll sleep all the better for it.”
    Suddenly Storm’s face grew slack and the room spun around in dizzying circles. She clutched at the air in desperate need, finding it appallingly empty. She began a slow downward spiral. Nat caught her before she hit the floor, placing her carefully on the bed.
    “Are you ill, Storm?”
    “I—I don’t know. I feel so dizzy. And I can’t think straight.”
    A slow, enigmatic smile curved Nat’s lips as he pulled a chair up beside the bed and satdown. “You work too hard, my dear. You should have listened to me when I told you homesteading was too difficult for a woman. I have a client who is quite anxious to purchase large tracts of land in the Cherokee Strip. You can leave town tomorrow with enough money to start out someplace new. You should let your family take care of you until you find another husband.”
    His words hardly registered in Storm’s muddled brain, yet she knew she shouldn’t be here alone with him in a hotel room. She tried to rise, to tell him to leave, but nothing worked. Her body refused her commands and her mind had shut down completely.
    “If you’ll sign this bill of sale, Storm,” Nat said, whipping a document out of his pocket, “you’ll receive a fair price for your land. I have sufficient cash with me to pay you immediately.”
    Though Storm couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of Nat’s words, his low, soothing voice was relaxing, and she closed her eyes.
    “No, dammit, don’t go to sleep!”
    Somewhere in the deep recesses of her brain Storm heard the rustle of paper and felt something hard being placed between her fingers. “The bill of sale, Storm, sign the bill of sale! All you need do is sign your name and I’ll let you go to sleep.” Grasping her shoulders, Nat shook her awake. Her eyes flew open.
    She muttered crossly when Nat lifted her into a sitting position and spread a sheet of paperacross her knees. Why wouldn’t he let her sleep? “Sign your name, Storm. If you want to be left in peace, just sign your name. Here,” he said, grasping her hand and placing it in position.
    Sign my name? Storm thought distractedly. If it meant that Nat would go away and let her sleep, she’d do it gladly. But she’d made no more than one downward stroke with the inked pen when the flimsy door gave way beneath a set of massive shoulders.

Chapter Eight
     
    “What the hell!” The chair toppled over as Nat leaped to his feet and spun around. “You!”
    The pen slipped from Storm’s fingers and she stared blankly from Grady to Turner, too dazed to realize what was happening.
    “Your vile scheme won’t work this time, Turner,” Grady growled as he stalked into the room. He took one look at Storm’s glazed eyes and another at the document still spread across her knees and turned on Turner with a vicious snarl. “What in the hell have you done to her?”
    “Nothing. I haven’t touched her,” Turner said, backing slowly toward the door. He had no intention of messing with a man whose reputation with a gun was legend.
    “Are you all right, Storm?” Grady asked. His words were directed at Storm, but his hardblue gaze pinned Turner to the wall.
    “I’m tired,” Storm said petulantly “I want you both to go away so I can sleep.”
    Grady was beside Storm in two strides. Without removing his eyes from Turner, he snatched the bill of sale from her lap, briefly scanned its contents, then tore it into tiny pieces. “If you attempt anything like this again, Turner, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born. If you doubt me, remember that I’m knowledgeable in all the subtle methods of torture used by the Sioux.”
    “See here, Stryker, who appointed you Mrs. Kennedy’s keeper?” Turner asked in an