"I-I don't know. How serious is it?"

"How in the h.e.l.l do I know! You tell me."

Gingerly Storm turned him over, looking for the point of entry. She spotted it immediately, high on his left shoulder. The bullet appeared to have cut cleanly through the flesh, exiting on the opposite side.

"It doesn't look too bad, if we can stop the bleeding. The bullet went clear through." When she continued to stare at him, as if mesmerized by the sight of blood, Grady lost his temper.

"Dammit, lady, I'm apt to bleed to death before you make up your mind to help me. You are going to help me, aren't you?"

Lost in the vivid blue of his eyes, Storm nodded and began tearing strips from her petticoat. "Who did this to you? How many are there out there waiting their turn to prove themselves a faster draw?"

Stifling a groan, Grady said, "That d.a.m.n 'Sooner' showed up. I figured I'd scared him off, but he was smarter than I gave him credit for. The minute I turned my back on him he fired."

"You're not as smart as you thought if you didn't disarm him first," Storm said with a hint of censure.

Grady didn't answer. It took all his concentration to keep from crying out as Storm stripped off his shirt and pressed folded strips of torn petticoat against his wound to staunch the bleeding.

For some unexplained reason she found the sight of his bare chest strangely unsettling, and her hands shook clumsily as they touched his taut flesh.

"Don't you know how to be gentle?" Grady chided when she pressed harder than he thought necessary.

"Only when it pleases me," Storm said sweetly. "I have no reason to treat you gently, or even to help you at all. Not after what you did to Buddy. He-" She paused to steady her voice. "He was my best friend."

"I thought you said he was your husband."

Storm flushed. "Yes, of course he was my husband. But he was also my friend."

Grady grew quiet as Storm worked over him, affording her a few moments of private recollection. It was true, Buddy had been her friend long before he had become her husband. She had loved him like a brother, and when it came time to marry, she could think of no one she'd prefer for a husband. But even though she had shared his bed for over a month, she still couldn't think of him as anything but her dearest friend. She accepted his timid lovemaking, enjoyed it up to a point, but never could discover what all the fuss was about. Making love was nothing special, certainly not the earthshaking experience she had been led to believe. It was a duty she had performed more for Buddy's sake than her own.

Yet their marriage would have been a happy one, blessed with children, laughter, and a warm regard for one another. What more could a woman ask for? She missed Buddy fiercely, for he had been her companion and friend most of her life.

Storm eased Grady into a sitting position and wound the last strip of material around his chest to hold the compress in place. Only a small amount of blood stained the bandage, and Storm hoped the worst of the bleeding had been staunched. Fortunately for the half-breed, the bullet hadn't hit anything vital, and he should recover with no ill effects.

"Can you sit a horse?" Storm asked as she helped him to his feet. "Or should I take you back to town in the wagon?"

"I'm not going back to town tonight."

"Are you crazy? What if infection sets in? Are you prepared to handle a fever?"

"Did anyone ever tell you that you live up to your name?" His face wore the faintest of smiles.

"All the time, but that doesn't change things. You should be seen by a doctor and report the 'Sooner' to the authorities."

"Tomorrow is soon enough. If I were you, I'd see to erecting a tent. I'm sure there are claim jumpers about, and if there is no dwelling on your claim you're liable to find it taken from you."

"What about you? Will you be all right tonight?"

"Do you care?"

His question startled her. By rights she should feel no compa.s.sion for the half-breed gunslinger. All her conscience required was that she discharge her Christian duty, which she had already done, and leave him to his own devices. Intuition told her he was a hard, bitter man who had built a protective sh.e.l.l around his heart. Something had made him the kind of man he was today. Did being a half-breed have anything to do with it? she wondered curiously. Yet Storm sensed a brooding sadness in him that begged for compa.s.sion and understanding. She might hate what the man had become, but she felt a strong, compelling attraction for the kind of man he could be once he mended his wicked ways.

"You didn't answer my question," Grady repeated softly. "Do you care what happens to me?" Why was he pursuing this line of thought when he knew d.a.m.n well Storm had good reason to despise him?

Her skin looked so soft and velvety, he longed to reach out and stroke her cheek. She was so close he could smell violets wafting from the thick blond strands of her hair. Grady had thought all feelings of tenderness long buried, but somehow this young widow had stirred memories that suddenly emerged from the ashes to disturb and t.i.tillate him.

Drawn into the electric blue of his eyes, Storm had to shake herself to escape his spell. She heard his question and found it offensive.

"I don't care a fig about you, Mr. Stryker. I helped you because my Christian upbringing demanded it. I still think you're a violent man who courts danger."

The brief softening of Grady's features abruptly hardened into an inscrutable mask. He must have been crazy to think Storm Kennedy would consider him anything but an uncivilized savage. Next time he'd know better than to deal civilly with the woman. Over three years ago he had chosen the kind of life he wanted to lead. What made him think he could or should change now?

Because of your son, his conscience whispered. Certainly not because of a golden-haired witch with the face of an angel.

"Perhaps you should return to your claim, Mrs. Kennedy," Grady said dully. "According to the rules you must erect a shelter." His shoulder hurt like h.e.l.l and he felt weak as a kitten from loss of blood, but he'd be d.a.m.ned if he'd ask Storm for any more than she was willing to give.

Storm shot him a quelling look. "You're right, there's still much to be done." She started walking back to the wagon, turned suddenly, and asked, "What about your tent? Can you manage on your own?"

"I can manage. It's only a flesh wound. I've had worse."

Storm nodded and continued on her way. The provocative sway of her hips and a flash of shapely ankles held Grady mesmerized, and he forced himself to look away. He had no d.a.m.n business desiring Storm Kennedy, no business at all. She was a part of the white society he held in contempt. And she was so different from Summer Sky, he wondered why he was drawn to her.

Thunder and Storm.

The names implied power, wrought by the tremendous forces of nature, uncontrollable, wild, unpredictable. Combined they made men cower and the earth shake.

Thunder and Storm.

The fury they unleashed created havoc in both the heavens above and the earth below.

Grinning crookedly, Grady decided Storm needed Thunder to bring forth the fire. Perhaps Wakantanka was right. Thunder could only exist in the bosom of Storm's soul. But everyone knew Storm would be weak and ineffective without Thunder. Taming a Storm might be more rewarding, certainly more entertaining, than allowing it to pa.s.s by in the night.

Chapter Three.

Storm had her makeshift shelter erected before the inky blackness of night descended over the prairie. She and Buddy had prepared well, having purchased stakes, canvas, and supplies to last them several months, or until the land started producing. Buddy had used an inheritance from his grandmother to finance their trip, and there were still sufficient funds left in the bank in Guthrie to build a snug cabin on her new land.

Using some of the extra stakes, Storm built a fire and started coffee boiling. She was famished, having eaten nothing since early that morning. Rummaging in the back of the wagon, she found a tin of beans, another of fruit, and some hardtack. The next day, when she went to Guthrie to file her claim, she'd buy bacon, eggs, flour, sugar, and the other supplies necessary for her survival.

In a very short time she was seated before the fire, shoveling beans into her mouth and thinking how lonely it was without Buddy. He had been her constant companion for so long, the loss sent a sharp pang through her innards. She hadn't really cried or had a chance to mourn Buddy since his death, and when tears appeared suddenly she didn't try to stop them. She let them course down her cheeks, finding solace in the healing flood. When it was over she knew she could continue, with or without Buddy. She would always mourn her husband, but she had never been one to dwell overlong on the injustices of life. Life simply went on.

When she and Buddy had struck out for Oklahoma, she had eagerly welcomed the challenge of pioneer life, and not even Buddy's death would make her give up the dream of owning one of the last tracts of free land in the country. Abruptly, Storm's thoughts wandered in another direction. She wondered if the half-breed had managed a fire and a meal. When she glanced over toward his claim she saw nothing but dark stretches of land for as far as the eye could see. The moon and the stars provided the only light, except for that projected by her meager campfire.

Storm didn't want to worry about the half-breed, didn't even want to think about him, but somehow his image intruded upon her thoughts. It was difficult to hate a man who was wounded and helpless. Although helpless hardly described Grady Stryker, Storm realized that he couldn't have entered the race as fully prepared as she and Buddy had been, for to her knowledge his decision to homestead had been one made on the spur of the moment. He probably had no food or even a spare blanket to keep him warm during the coolness of the night.

Suddenly Storm came to a decision. She filled a tin plate with the remainder of the food she had prepared, picked up the coffeepot, and started walking the short distance to Grady's claim. Since it was full dark and she had to pick her way carefully, it took fifteen minutes to reach his roped-off claim. Stepping over the barrier, she saw that Grady had indeed erected a shelter. Upon closer inspection she saw that his tent consisted of a shotgun stuck into the ground as a tent pole and a blanket stretched over it and staked down on all four sides. There was absolutely no way he could stuff his tall, lean frame into the small enclosure. Setting the plate and coffeepot on the ground 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 stood now, 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 G.o.d, 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 b.u.t.tocks. 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 voluminous nightdress 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 your mother a captive?"

"Captive?" Grady's laughter vibrated the air around them. "Those who know my parents say my father is the one held captive by my mother."

"But how-"

"You ask too many questions, Storm Kennedy."

And look much too lovely in the moonlight, he thought, but did not say aloud.

"Thank you for the food, but I think you should leave. Aren't you afraid of being here alone with me? I'm a renegade. If you aren't afraid, you should be."

"I'm not afraid of you," Storm retorted, "but I'll be all too happy to go. If you'd kindly leave me alone for a few moments, I'll clean up and be on my way."

"If I recall, your land does not border on the river."

"That's why I'm asking permission to cross your property to reach the water." She hated being beholden to the half-breed, but there was no help for it.

"I'll have to think about it."

"Are you always so disagreeable?" Storm asked, stomping her foot furiously.

"I am when dealing with White Eyes. For the most part they are untrustworthy, prejudiced, and dishonest."

"Your mother is white," Storm shot back.

"My mother lives far away on a ranch in Wyoming. Leave her out of this," Grady said tightly. "Most whites are evil."

"And most Indians are dirty savages. You don't even have a proper Indian name."

"I am called Thunder by the People."

"Thunder," Storm repeated softly. The name conjured up visions of violence, mayhem, and destruction-it fit him perfectly.

"My parents named me Grady. When I left the People to live among the White Eyes I a.s.sumed that name."

"You left the-I don't understand."

"There is nothing for you to understand," Grady said tersely. "You may cross my land to the river whenever it pleases you." He turned to leave with an abruptness that startled Storm, as if he couldn't wait to be rid of her. The bandage she had tied around his chest shone stark against his bronzed flesh, yet she hadn't thought to ask him about his wound.

Let him suffer, she thought; it would serve him right for being so darn ornery. Had he learned no manners at his mother's knee?

Kneeling at the river's edge, Storm plunged her hands into the cool water and proceeded to wash her hands, face, and neck, unaware that Grady had turned to watch her as she unfastened the top b.u.t.tons of her blouse and dribbled water between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Moonlight beamed down benevolently upon her, turning her hair into a halo of pure gold as she bent forward. Grady couldn't recall when he had seen a more entrancing sight or witnessed anything quite as s.e.xually arousing as Storm, raising her face to the stars, splashing water on her face, neck, and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. And what made it even more provocative was the fact that she wasn't even aware of what it was doing to him.

Grady smiled in spite of himself, envisioning what it would be like to quench his l.u.s.t in the cradle of Storm's loins. He wondered if she would be as tempestuous, wild and untamed, as her name implied. Those forbidden thoughts made his flesh rise and harden with a need he had thought subdued long ago. He had wanted no woman in his heart but Summer Sky; now, suddenly, he was overwhelmed with desire for a white woman named Storm who had whirled into his life with all the fury of a tornado.

Shaking his dark head in denial of what his flesh was demanding, Grady spun on his heel and stomped away. When Storm pa.s.sed by his crude tent a short time later, Grady was just finishing the plate of beans and bacon she had left for him.

"If you're finished, I'll take the plate." Her voice was cool.

Grady handed her the plate and coffeepot. "Thank you, it was very good." He hadn't realized just how hungry he had been until he had picked up the fork. Tomorrow he'd have to see about getting some supplies out there and building some sort of shanty to serve as a dwelling. Getting them out to his claim was going to be a problem unless. ...

Storm took the plate and coffeepot from Grady's hands and started the trek back to her own claim. "Storm, wait."

Storm paused, uncomfortable with the idea of the half-breed using her first name. "Was there something you wanted to say to me?"