Read Online Storm Warned (The Grim Series) by Dani Harper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dani Harper
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looked over the storm’s aftermath.
The morning was calm and bright, as if nothing had happened. Blue sky, faint breeze, heat already beginning to build. Chickens were busily feasting on the worms driven to the surface by last night’s rain—but they were doing it amid downed branches, shapeless lumps of wet hay, and sodden piles of debris. He eased down to sit on the only furniture left on the porch—a heavy bench that Uncle Conall had bolted to the wall so it wouldn’t move under his ample frame when he took his boots off at night. The many chairs and tables, the bright profusion of plant pots and window boxes, and even the porch swing, were nowhere in sight, replaced by unrecognizable garbage and a sad scattering of dead starlings. In the house yard, every one of Aunt Ruby’s elaborate flower beds was shredded. Even sadder were the many broken trees—and worst among them were the matching pair of century-old chestnuts. When Liam was six, those magnificent trees had supported a pirate fort and a rope bridge. Now they lay split from crown to root, and he guessed it must be part of one that had speared the house.
Beyond the yard, the farm looked even worse. There was no doubt in his mind now that a tornado had touched down. A trio of forty-foot metal grain bins lay crumpled on their sides like giant beer cans. It was the nature of tornadoes to be destructive. It was also their nature to be bizarrely capricious as to what they destroyed. Last night’s twister had played hopscotch throughout the farm, razing this building and that building to the ground, flattening some things beyond recognition, sweeping away many heavy farm implements altogether—and yet a few structures had been left standing. The house stood, the milking parlor stood, and so did a scattering of equipment sheds. Even the four walls of the main barn stood, although its entire roof was missing.
One good thing was that the goats appeared to have escaped the barn somehow—a large group of them had crammed themselves into the farthest corner of their corral. He’d have to get out there and inspect them one by one, but at first glance it looked like almost all of his milkers were there. They seemed pretty damn calm considering what they’d been through—but perhaps the poor things were in shock. Liam had shut them in the ill-fated building last night, something he always did to keep them safe from predators like coyotes. He hadn’t expected danger from the sky. Thankfully the monster storm had carried the roof clean away, rafters, ceiling joists, and all, and not brought it crashing down on the heads of his herd. In fact, the entire roof structure was mostly in one piece—about a quarter of a mile away in the midst of his alfalfa field. The alfalfa itself was unrecognizable, and the scent of wet, crushed plants hung heavy in the still-humid air. Even from where he stood it looked like an army had trampled the young crop into the ground, leaving a swath of destruction that was nearly half the width of the field.
An army. Had he really seen riders last night? Or had he dreamed it after he’d been clobbered by Aunt Ruby’s five-pound vase?
He shook himself free of those thoughts and focused on the disaster in front of him. A storm was a normal, natural occurrence, and a tornado, while rare here, wasn’t unheard of. The truly strange thing, however, was that there had been no warning, and that made Liam angry. There hadn’t been the faintest indication of bad weather on the local news, no emergency warning message scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen, no annoying sound signal. What the hell happened to the Doppler radar and all that other high-tech shit that meteorologists had at their disposal?
He made his way down the steps—and was compelled to stop and rest on every damn one—then picked his way slowly along the sidewalk stones. Every couple of feet, he had to step over or around something: splintered boards, shapeless blobs of
The morning was calm and bright, as if nothing had happened. Blue sky, faint breeze, heat already beginning to build. Chickens were busily feasting on the worms driven to the surface by last night’s rain—but they were doing it amid downed branches, shapeless lumps of wet hay, and sodden piles of debris. He eased down to sit on the only furniture left on the porch—a heavy bench that Uncle Conall had bolted to the wall so it wouldn’t move under his ample frame when he took his boots off at night. The many chairs and tables, the bright profusion of plant pots and window boxes, and even the porch swing, were nowhere in sight, replaced by unrecognizable garbage and a sad scattering of dead starlings. In the house yard, every one of Aunt Ruby’s elaborate flower beds was shredded. Even sadder were the many broken trees—and worst among them were the matching pair of century-old chestnuts. When Liam was six, those magnificent trees had supported a pirate fort and a rope bridge. Now they lay split from crown to root, and he guessed it must be part of one that had speared the house.
Beyond the yard, the farm looked even worse. There was no doubt in his mind now that a tornado had touched down. A trio of forty-foot metal grain bins lay crumpled on their sides like giant beer cans. It was the nature of tornadoes to be destructive. It was also their nature to be bizarrely capricious as to what they destroyed. Last night’s twister had played hopscotch throughout the farm, razing this building and that building to the ground, flattening some things beyond recognition, sweeping away many heavy farm implements altogether—and yet a few structures had been left standing. The house stood, the milking parlor stood, and so did a scattering of equipment sheds. Even the four walls of the main barn stood, although its entire roof was missing.
One good thing was that the goats appeared to have escaped the barn somehow—a large group of them had crammed themselves into the farthest corner of their corral. He’d have to get out there and inspect them one by one, but at first glance it looked like almost all of his milkers were there. They seemed pretty damn calm considering what they’d been through—but perhaps the poor things were in shock. Liam had shut them in the ill-fated building last night, something he always did to keep them safe from predators like coyotes. He hadn’t expected danger from the sky. Thankfully the monster storm had carried the roof clean away, rafters, ceiling joists, and all, and not brought it crashing down on the heads of his herd. In fact, the entire roof structure was mostly in one piece—about a quarter of a mile away in the midst of his alfalfa field. The alfalfa itself was unrecognizable, and the scent of wet, crushed plants hung heavy in the still-humid air. Even from where he stood it looked like an army had trampled the young crop into the ground, leaving a swath of destruction that was nearly half the width of the field.
An army. Had he really seen riders last night? Or had he dreamed it after he’d been clobbered by Aunt Ruby’s five-pound vase?
He shook himself free of those thoughts and focused on the disaster in front of him. A storm was a normal, natural occurrence, and a tornado, while rare here, wasn’t unheard of. The truly strange thing, however, was that there had been no warning, and that made Liam angry. There hadn’t been the faintest indication of bad weather on the local news, no emergency warning message scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen, no annoying sound signal. What the hell happened to the Doppler radar and all that other high-tech shit that meteorologists had at their disposal?
He made his way down the steps—and was compelled to stop and rest on every damn one—then picked his way slowly along the sidewalk stones. Every couple of feet, he had to step over or around something: splintered boards, shapeless blobs of
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