Distant Thunder Read online

  Distant Thunder

  Lisa Bingham

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1992 by Lisa Bingham

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition January 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-197-3

  More from Lisa Bingham

  Temptation’s Kiss

  Silken Promises

  Silken Dreams

  The Bengal Rubies

  Eden Creek

  To my father, my first hero.

  Prologue

  Southern Pennsylvania

  March 15, 1865

  It rained for three days. Thunder rumbled like cannon fire, lightning cracked and spit in the darkness. Then, when the storm’s fury had weakened, the horizon lay bruised and swollen beyond the moist green hills.

  Through it all, the stolid shape of the Benton House Memorial Orphanage stood bravely against the glowering sky. The tempest had passed. The crisp rays of dawn glinted on the new windows, and the house stared vacantly into space, waiting for the first of its charges to appear.

  Sunlight trickled through the whipped clouds, illuminating the war-hardened face of a nine-year-old boy who emerged from the trees bordering the road. For several silent minutes he studied the hollow building before him. The set of his shoulders grew rigid, a manly stance for one so young.

  “We’re here, Annie,” he said, speaking to the infant nestled in his arms. He held the tiny baby with a tenderness that belied his early years. “See how pretty it looks? They’ll take good care of you. You’ll see.”

  The infant didn’t respond. Forcing back the panic that gripped him, the boy edged onto the dirt path. Hiking the blanket-clad body a little more tightly against his chest, he hurried down the puddle-strewn road leading to the front steps.

  The tang of wet lumber and varnish lingered in the air around him. Rising on tiptoe, the boy reached for the brass knocker. By stretching as high as he could, he managed to flick it with his finger, causing it to rap on the anchor.

  While he waited for someone to answer, he surveyed his surroundings with the practiced eye of an army scout. He noted the cleanliness, the order. And though he couldn’t be sure, he thought he heard someone humming. Annie would be safe here. No one would harm her again.

  Inside the house, the melody paused and he caught the sound of approaching footsteps. The door opened with the barest of squeaks, and the most beautiful lady he had ever seen stepped onto the porch.

  “Yes?”

  For a moment he couldn’t speak. He could only stare at the woman’s shining toffee-colored hair. An angel. God had sent an angel to help his baby sister.

  The boy’s hands trembled as he drew the dirty blanket away from Annie’s face. “Please, can you help my sister?” he asked, his voice proud yet containing a thread of pain.

  The woman touched the fluff of golden hair spilling over the baby’s forehead. Gentle fingers traced the pale infant features and shattered jaw. She shook her head, her eyes filling with grief. “I’m sorry …”

  She didn’t need to say anything more. He’d known all along. He just hadn’t wanted to believe.

  Bowing his head, he rested his cheek next to that of his sister. He tried one last time to capture her sweet baby scent. Then he straightened and looked up at the woman, attempting to speak past the crushing weight that had settled in his chest. “May I borrow a shovel, then? And just a tiny piece of land … ?”

  Beyond the dull pewter gleam of Simpson Pond, a jagged valley butted against the tumbling winter-dead hills, as if God had grasped a handful of earth and thrown it to one side, leaving a gouging scar. It was here that Jonathan Hurst had built a home for his bride and his children.

  In the cool morning air, a writhing fog rose from the water and snaked through the trees toward the squat one-room farmhouse, painting the breeze with the dank smell of mold. And death.

  Until that day war had remained a distant sound of thunder, a dull flash of lightning. While Union forces pummeled a beleaguered Confederacy hundreds of miles to the east, a band of deserters had raided the tiny farm, closing in upon it like a pack of wild dogs. When their thirst for blood had been slaked, the dissenters fled, leaving their victims to stiffen in the early-morning gloom.

  In the trampled grass next to the house, Jonathan Hurst and Erin, his bride, were separated in death as they had never been in life, their bodies torn, their warmth seeping into the greedy earth. And beside them, crouched in the mist, knelt a four-year-old child, eyes wide, red hair streaked with mud. She paid no heed to the blood that stained her clothes or the cold that gripped her body. She could only gaze into nothingness, her lips forming the words that had become a dirge and a prayer: “Mama. Mama. Mama …”

  Mr. Macauley, from the next farm, was the first to stumble upon the scene. He’d heard the gunfire and had come to the Hurst farm as fast as his bowed legs would carry him. But as soon as the red-haired child saw him, she began to scream so fiercely he was forced to back away. Not knowing what else to do, Mr. Macauley summoned Father Gregory. The good father received the same inauspicious welcome.

  Ruminating aloud over the situation, Mr. Macauley smacked his age-pursed lips together and regarded the priest helplessly. “What’re we gonna do? We can’t have her gettin’ hysterical like that, poor mite.”

  “Get some womenfolk and a wagon. Perhaps they can calm her enough to take her away from this place.”

  “Where they gonna take her, Father? What with the war an’ all, times is hard. Not many people got grub for their own kin, let alone another mouth.”

  Father Gregory squinted up at the murky patch of sun struggling through the frayed clouds. “Benton House. They’ll take her.”

  Four hours later, the wagon rumbled to a stop in front of the orphanage. Drawn by the sound of hoarse screaming, a boy peered from inside the doorway. While the adults tried to calm a wild red-haired little girl, he watched her with unaccustomed interest.

  A feeling of kinship came over him. Her cries were filled with grief and fury, bewilderment and frustration. He understood her anger. He knew just how she felt.

  Heedless of the grown-ups who were trying to approach her much the same way a lion tamer would approach a wounded cub, Daniel Crocker strode straight toward her. Climbing onto the hub of the wagon, he swung his leg over the side rail. The little girl was so intent upon the people gathered around her that she didn’t note his presence until he laid a hand on her head.

  Her tirade stopped. Their eyes met—his an icy blue, hers a deep moss green.

  “I know.” They were the only words he said. Then, kneeling in the straw, he awkwardly put his arms around her shoulders.

  She clutched at him, her body shaking with great silent sobs. But she didn’t cry. In a cracked voice she whispered one word over and over again: “Mama.”

  Chapter 1

  Denver, Colorado

  January 5, 1885

  Susan Hurst pushed back a strand of auburn hair and clutched her wrapper to her throat. If anyone found her wandering the halls of Saint Francis Academy so late at night, questions were bound to be asked. But right
now Susan had too many unanswered petitions of her own to worry about such an event.

  She paused only once in her trek. At the doorway of the primary dormitory, she leaned inside to peek at her charges. A dozen tousled heads rested serenely upon feather pillows. Muttered snatches of dream-talk filtered into the air, a sniffle, a grunt.

  Susan envied their state. It had been weeks since she’d slept through the night. Not that she’d had bad dreams—to the contrary, in fact. Actually she would have preferred the nightmares. At least then she would have a reason for being afraid to lay her head on her pillow and surrender herself to the sweet stuff of her imagination.

  Leaving the girls to their slumber, Susan ran down the hallway to the steps beyond. Without a candle to lead her, she found the corridors black as pitch. But her feet knew the way through the twisted hallways that led from the living quarters of the academy past the cloister to the small private chapel nestled deep in the heart of the building.

  Fourteen years ago Susan had come to Saint Francis as a student. After four years of schooling, she had stayed to begin her novitiate. But time had a way of catching up to a person. Susan could feel the future looming in front of her, forcing her to make decisions that would bind her irrevocably to a life that had become as familiar as breathing.

  The door to the chapel swung open on well-oiled hinges, giving no clue to Susan’s errand. Once inside, she hesitated, staring up at the elaborate stained-glass window behind the altar. Moonlight filtered through the tiny jewel-sized panes, bathing the room in muted color.

  During the day Susan had no problems dealing with the choices she’d made. She had been happy at Saint Francis. Very happy. She felt a bond with the sisters that went beyond that of mere co-workers; she adored her students and her work. So it had only been logical to begin her novitiate with the intent of some day joining the order. Whenever she’d felt qualms, Susan had told herself that she had ten years to consider taking her final vows. Then she had ignored the passage of time with a desperate glee.

  In the space of a few weeks her grace period would expire. Each tick of the clock pounded into her conscience with such force she couldn’t deny that something was missing—some deeper devotion. Thoughts of officially joining the sisters caused a heaviness to grip her chest.

  In the daylight she could push the foreboding aside, telling herself that such feelings were natural. A permanent step like this deserved careful consideration. She was acting as normal as a bride-to-be with last-minute jitters.

  But at night she couldn’t thrust away her fears. She couldn’t forget that she would be marrying not a mere mortal but the church. And she couldn’t ignore the fact that her commitment was a little strained. A part of her wanted … more.

  Susan sank to her knees, seeking answers in front of the altar just as she had every night for the past few months. The dark shadows of the chapel pressed heavily upon her shoulders, cloaking her in an inky chill that sank into her bones. The stones of the nave were icy, their surface worn to a glossy smoothness by the penitent worshipers who had knelt in this same spot hundreds of times over the past twenty years.

  Locking her hands together in fervent supplication, Susan Hurst began, “Holy Mary, Mother of God.” But the vaulted ceiling swallowed the words whole, leaving a gaping emptiness. She doubted that heaven had even heard her plea.

  Sighing, she rubbed her forehead and ran her fingers through the loose silky auburn tresses that hung unbound to her waist. Above her, the serene visage of the Virgin Mary looked down with guarded eyes.

  The restlessness in Susan’s heart swelled another degree. Why hadn’t God answered her prayers? Why hadn’t He taken away the longings? If she was to become a member of the order, she had to eradicate these half-formed yearnings from her heart. She knew that. Yet, she fought a wayward spirit that wanted things it could never have—in or out of the order.

  Sister Mary Margaret had once told her that God’s children gave energy to those wishes and desires they pondered the most. So for the past month, Susan had tried to think solely of her duties and her students. But she couldn’t seem to stop the phantoms that came to her once she slept. Sweet passionate demons that made her body tremble and her arms reach out for … what?

  A cool draft drifted across the floor at her feet, piercing the loose weave of her wrapper. A bout of shivering racked her body, and she stood. Hugging her arms tightly to her chest, she tried to warm herself as best she could. Saint Francis became as cold as an icehouse each night, trapping the winter’s bite deep in its thick, irregular walls. Nevertheless, the rugged rock structure would soon become her home, so she’d best become accustomed to it. Something akin to panic gripped her at the very thought, and she stumbled closer to the statue, touching the Virgin’s feet. “Holy Mary, Mother of …” The familiar prayer locked in her throat. “Holy Mary …”

  Drawing back, Susan searched the shadows, seeking a measure of comfort. For years she had been coming to this altar, craving the balm it offered her aching spirit. But lately that peace was getting harder and harder to find. She couldn’t stop the burgeoning mixture of anger and dissatisfaction that churned in her chest.

  She whirled to challenge the blackness around her. “I don’t belong here! Can’t you see that?” The echoing ricochet of words on stone mocked the fervor with which they’d been spoken. A weary defeat colored her added confession. “But I don’t belong anywhere else, either.”

  She stabbed the air with an accusing finger. “Why? Why? Why am I cursed with these … these feelings? Why am I tormented with thoughts of a man’s arms and a man’s touch when you know I can never … can never …”

  When she couldn’t even force herself to say the words, Susan ran down the aisle, her hair flowing behind her like a brilliant auburn pennant. At the last row of pews, she turned to confront the shaft of moonlight spilling through the stained glass and casting a pale pattern of stardust onto the floor.

  “You did this to me. You killed my parents and my childish illusions. Now all I want is an answer. Either give me back my life or give me the serenity I need to surrender my future to the church.”

  Her only reply was silence. But Susan Hurst had become quite good at waiting. Maybe God wasn’t ready to tell her now. He would, one way or the other. Only three weeks remained until the orphanage reunion, which would see her home to Ashton for a brief respite. Susan could only be grateful that the reunion would be held in Wyoming and not in Pennsylvania. Years ago, the headmistress of the Benton House Orphanage had married and moved the institution west, away from the crowded cities. Since many of the children had come with her at the time, most of them still lived within a few hundred miles of Ashton in the Wyoming Territory.

  She intended to enjoy herself, to relax, and to think things through.

  After the celebration, if Susan had not received some kind of sign that heaven was opposed to the idea, she would return to Saint Francis and take her vows.

  Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory

  January 7, 1885

  The pounding on the door could have roused the dead, but it barely pierced the haze clouding Daniel Crocker’s brain. Moaning, he rolled onto his stomach, dragging a pillow over his ears; but the blasted racket continued, offering him no choice but to get up and answer the door.

  One hand reached blindly toward the bedside table, patting the unfamiliar assortment of items—lamp, key, matchbox—until he encountered the smooth contoured shape of his Peacemaker revolver.

  “Go away.” There was no need to shout or raise his voice. The pure rage that sizzled in the careful intonation of each syllable conveyed his foul mood clearly enough. Stuffing the pillow in a ball under his cheek, he held the Peacemaker at arm’s length and sighted down the barrel with one fever-reddened eye. The steadiness of his aim and the hard cast of his jaw belied the weakness of his body.

  “Mr. Crocker?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Crocker, I know it’s you,” a boyis
h voice called through the panels. “I saw you come in late last night. I’d recognize you anywhere. I’ve seen the pictures.”

  Daniel didn’t answer. The gun didn’t waver. Except for the steely gleam that entered his ice blue eyes, he showed no reaction.

  “Mr. Crocker?” the voice came again, more hesitant this time.

  “Who wants him?”

  “Well, nobody—that is to say, I’ve got no business with you personally … I mean I’ve got a telegram for you, but I don’t intend no harm.” The person on the other side of the door waited a full ten seconds then tentatively added, “Please?”

  Damn. Daniel released the hammer and set his revolver on the nightstand. Moving as gingerly as he could, he eased upright from the bed.

  His head pounded. Cupping his aching side, he took a quick indrawn breath when the action pulled at the blood-caked strips of cotton wrapped around his waist.

  Retrieving the revolver, he padded to the door. The mirror over the bureau eloquently testified that, except for the stained bandages, he was naked. However, the freezing air had little impact on his skin. He’d been fighting a fever for over a day now. Even the cold January weather couldn’t seem to shake it loose.

  “Mr. Crocker?” The wavering summons was followed by a soft tap. “I don’t want to bother you, but—”

  “Who are you?”

  “Jordie. Jordie Davis. I work with Mr. Smythe down at the telegraph office. I do all his running. I’ve also got some medicine Doc Goddard ordered for you. He said to bring it straight here.”

  “Stand back.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  Before the boy had a chance to speak again, Daniel opened the door and leveled the gun at a spot in the center of the boy’s forehead. Jordie Davis stared at him with eyes as round as marbles. Swiftly Crocker checked the hall in either direction then pinned the boy with a penetrating glare. “What do you want?”