A Promise of Thunder

despite the warm April day. She wanted to run after Grady, to throw herself at him, beg him one last time not to meet Bull, but she did none of those things. When she heard the thunder of hoofbeats pounding against the ground she knew it was too late. Hardening her resolve, she wiped her eyes and walked into the cabin and into the bedroom.
    Storm decided not to pack everything she owned, hoping against hope that Grady would change his mind before sundown. After stuffing several items of clothing inside an old carpetbag she spent a few extra minutes gathering her keepsakes, which she packed in the carpetbag with her clothes. She experienced one terrible moment when she found Grady’s will, but it served only to strengthen her resolve to leave. Then she stood in the center of the room, staring at the bed and remembering how wonderful it was between her and Grady. But it was too late now—too late. Obviously Grady didn’t care enough for her to give up the violence she abhorred.
    “So you are really leaving,” Laughing Brook said when Storm came out of the bedroom carrying the valise. Tim was standing nearby, listening to every word. When he heard that Storm was leaving his face screwed up into a frown.
    “Are you going away, Storm? Are you going to watch Papa kill that bad man?”
    “I can no longer live here, Tim.” Storm decided not to lie to the boy. He was too astute not to realize the truth.
    “But I thought you were Papa’s wife.”
    “I am, but your father seems to have forgotten it. He is more concerned with revenge than he is with his family. But this is my choice, Tim, you mustn’t blame your father.”
    “Don’t you like me?” Tim asked soulfully.
    “Oh, Tim, don’t ever think that. I’ve come to love you a great deal.”
    “Then why are you leaving?”
    “It’s something I must do for my own peace of mind. You have Laughing Brook and your father. You don’t need me.”
    “But I do, Storm, I do need you. Laughing Brook is leaving soon, Papa has said so.”
    “I will stay as long as you need me, Little Buffalo,” Laughing Brook assured him. “Let her go; we don’t need her. You are more Indian than white. Once she leaves, your father will realize his place is with the People.”
    Storm turned away, unable to respond to Laughing Brook’s logic. Leaving Grady would be difficult, but she couldn’t live with the knowledge that other nameless men from his past could show up in Guthrie one day and challenge him. It would be like living with a bomb ready to explode. She had lost one husband because of a senseless gunfight and couldn’t survive losing another loved one in the same way. She shouldhave known better than to think Grady could give up his violent ways.
    “Good-bye, Tim,” Storm said as she walked out of the cabin. Determination alone kept her chin high and her eyes dry. After renting a hotel room in town Storm had no idea what she would do. Divorce was a possibility and would bear some thinking about. If she and Grady eventually did divorce, she wanted her homestead back.
    Since she considered the wagon hers, Storm hitched the horse and drove to Guthrie. She arrived an hour before sundown, the time set for the shootout between Grady and Bull. She checked into the hotel immediately, trying to keep her eyes from straying in the direction of the livery where Grady was to meet Bull. She was given a room on the second floor and deliberately avoided looking out the window of the small room, but she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking as she placed her meager belongings in the drawers and hung her dresses in the wardrobe provided. Only when her small chore was done did she walk to the window and note the position of the sinking sun in the sky.
    Sundown.
    Suddenly she was propelled by a nameless terror she had never known before. She found herself rushing out the door and down the hallway. Racing down the stairs and through the lobby, skirts held high so she wouldn’t trip. Into the street, where her legs churned vigorously; gasping for breath, her face flushed, Grady’sname became a litany on her tongue. People turned to stare at her, at her flashing ankles, at her blonde hair streaming in disarray down her back, but their curiosity went unheeded. Storm was beyond caring. All that mattered was that she reach Grady before the shooting began. If he was wounded, or God forbid, killed, he’d go to his death thinking she didn’t care about him.
    The livery was just yards away,