THE THUNDER WHICH IS SILENCE

Chapter One

He could have worn a proper Wyoming gentleman's clothes - gotten himself all pressed and brushed, with a pearl buttoned shirt, a string tie as perfectly looped as any lariat, and a mirror shine to his courting boots. That would most likely be the more fitting thing to be done when setting out to call at the door of a Prairie Avenue mansion.

He'd brought all those things with him, wanting to do things right so whoever answered that door would know he wasn't just some puncher from the yards. Hadn't she always teased him when he got all gussied up on a Saturday night, wanting to know which pretty girl's heart he was planning to set awhirl? And hadn't he always grinned and said that he was only passing time until the right girl realized what a fine and handsome fella he was?

When it came time, though, he'd decided against all that and worn what suited him best – the dove-gray hat that had sheltered him as faithfully as any roof could ever do, the well-weathered boots that slid into his stirrups as easily as a handshake between old friends – and the work-battered coat that could have told a thousand Shiloh stories if it's stains and mends could speak. It seemed to him that was how she should see him after so many years – if she saw him at all.

~~ / ~~

Agnes Mehan had about run out of even the smallest measure of patience, not that she'd ever been blessed with an overabundance to begin with. There were absolutely no circumstances that would persuade her to be civil to even one more wary-eyed bank detective. It was only God's grace that at least the ferrety Tribune reporters who had plagued the family for nigh on a month had finally left them in peace. She had a household and a staff to shepherd and the Farrell family's beleaguered guests weren't to be badgered any further if she had her say. The housemaids were far too meek to stand their ground. Whoever was resolutely knocking at the front door would get a personal dose of her temper and be sent packing in no time flat.

This particular whoever appeared to be quite a different breed though from what she'd been anticipating. Tall and wide-shouldered, he was, and handsome enough in a raw-boned, rough-edged kind of way, with at least the grace of manners to stand with his hat properly in hand. She'd seen plenty of the likes of him, what with the Chicago beef trade thriving as it was. The truth of it was she rather liked the honest look of western men with their weathered faces and far-away eyes – they reminded her of the boys from back in Camanreagh. Still, this one hardly seemed the sort to be standing at the door at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon unless of course he had an appointment. If that were true, she'd send him off to the Exchange where he should have gone to begin with. She had no doubt that Mr. Farrell was far too sensitive to the young miss's fragile state of mind to be conducting any business at the house even now.

"Young man," she stated "if it's himself you're looking for, you'd best be going to his office. There's no visitors expected here and none being welcomed. If you've been sent here by mistake, I'll ask you to wait here on the porch and I'll write the address for you." She made to shut the door, only to be prevented by a calloused hand offering a gentle but firm resistance.

"Ma'am, you'll pardon me but I'm not here on business, at least not the way you might mean."

There was a quiet certainty in the man's voice that caused Mrs. Mehan to hesitate and study him more closely. Despite the boyish look of him, he wasn't quite so young as she'd first guessed. Mid thirties perhaps, with a faint tracing of lines around his eyes and mouth that spoke of frequent laughter and a generous nature. There was a hint of sadness in his clear blue eyes, though, that she suspected had been earned more than once.

"What is it you're wanting, then, lad. I've told you that the Farrells are not receiving. No one in this house is receiving," the housekeeper asserted.

Releasing his hold on the door, the man reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a neatly folded section of newsprint. Mrs. Mehan could make out an unfamiliar banner that declared the paper to be from somewhere called Medicine Bow and below that a headline.

i"Former Shiloh Owners Involved In Tragic Robbery"i/

"I've come to see Mrs. Grainger and Miss Elizabeth. I'd appreciate if you'd tell them I'm here. Tell them, ma'am that it's…"

Behind her in the entrance hall, Ms. Mehan heard a sound that was half gasp and half sob.

"Trampas… Oh sweet heaven… I never thought…"

Before she could even grasp its meaning, the tall cowboy stepped past her and she turned to see Mrs. Holly Grainger, tears spilling down her cheeks, wrapped in the man's strong arms as he carefully steadied her.

"It's alright, Mrs. Grainger, I've come to take you both home."