It wasn’t thunder.
It wasn’t the scream of the wind either, though that Wyoming wind could strip paint off a barn and make a grown man pray under his breath.
Fear sounded like a horse kicking its stall in the dark when the temperature dropped so fast the water buckets iced over in less than an hour.
Fear sounded like the old house groaning under snow.
Fear sounded like Grandpa Eli Mercer saying my name in that low, steady voice that meant things had gone from bad to serious.
“Caleb.”
I looked up from the kitchen table where I was pretending to do algebra and actually drawing a new tack room layout in the margin of my workbook.
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