Just one more small rise in the road, and the farm came into view. The barn was still standing, as was the house and the windbreak beyond it.
“Maybe it missed us,” she breathed, feeling the smallest stirring of relief as she turned in the drive. “Maybe it’s not so bad.”
The lilacs were haggard but still rooted in the front yard. There was a torn tree limb across the driveway, and she got out to drag it to the side. While the rain had slowed to a trickle, the temperature had dropped and a stiff, cold wind caused her to shiver as she got back behind the wheel.
As she pulled up to the garage, it became apparent the farm’s buildings hadn’t been totally spared. There were a few toothy gaps in the barn roof where shingles had peeled away, exposing the wood underneath. The upstairs bathroom’s storm window had been shattered by hail. More ragged balls of ice, some as large as golf balls, littered the yard. Twigs and sticks were everywhere, but she didn’t care. Picking them up would take hours of backbreaking work, but it could have been so much worse.
But oh, the garden. Melinda’s elation drained away as she sidestepped the hailstones and downed branches to reach the back porch door. What that morning had been healthy and strong was now wind-whipped and bedraggled, the beans’ fence bent over and nearly touching the ground, the tomato cages crumpled and teetering under the weight of their plants. It was just as well the rhubarb season was long past, as the top-heavy leaves were shredded and limp.
An indignant squawk made Melinda jump. Two of the black-and-white hens, their feathers fluffed in irritation, were huddled in the drooping lilies next to the back steps. She peered around the garage toward the coop. Three of the run’s wood posts were askew, a torn gap visible between two of the wire panels.
“So you escaped, huh? And you don’t like it much out here, do you?”
The chickens just clucked and squirmed closer to the house’s foundation. Melinda didn’t see any other hens in the yard, and wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad sign. Hobo, the cats and the sheep would all be in the barn, safe. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
She dropped her things on the back porch bench and anxiously flipped the ceiling light’s switch. If the power had ever been out, it was back on. She pawed through the overstuffed closet and pulled out a flame-orange sweatshirt, then folded its cuffs up to meet her wrists. With her phone stuffed in a front pocket she reached for a flashlight, encouraged that the first one she picked up made at least a faint beam on the wall. She couldn’t imagine she would need it, but its weight in her hand made her feel ready, prepared.
She wanted to try Angie again, and call Ed and Mabel. But first, she had to assess the damage. She pulled the sweatshirt’s hood up against the wind and closed her eyes in despair as she trudged past the garden, hail stones crunching under her sneakers.
“Hobo!” she called in the direction of the barn. “Come on out, Hobo! Help me look around.”
There were only a few shingles missing from the chicken coop’s roof and the main door was still bolted. A round of agitated clucks answered the creak of the door’s hinges as she entered, and four pairs of eyes caught in the gray light from outside. One of the more skittish hens hopped down from her roost and ran for the far wall, her neck working in nervousness.
“That means two more of you are still missing.” Melinda studied the gloomy corners to make sure she hadn’t miscounted. She slid the cover over the chickens’ access to the run, then latched the main door securely behind her.
The shabby little building between the coop and the machine shed was now a heap of splintered wood, its broken roof held up only by whatever junk Horace had stashed inside. Melinda wandered into the windbreak, stepping carefully in the shaggy, wind-flattened grass. A brown-tipped evergreen that was probably dead before the storm appeared to be the only tree down. She was circling back past the machine shed, which seemed unscathed except for a few torn shingles, when her phone rang in her pocket.
“Melinda! Are you all right?” She could hear the fear in Kevin’s voice. “I heard about the tornado.”
Her shoulders relaxed. She didn’t feel so alone anymore. “I’m fine, I’m OK. It missed Prosper, and Swanton, too, thankfully. I was at the store when the storm came through. I just got home and, well, it could be worse. I’ll start with the house ...”
Kevin wasn’t worried about the small shed. The Schermann family was already organizing to come out to the farm that weekend and clean up, and he would track down someone to repair the bathroom’s storm window and replace the outbuildings’ missing shingles. “I’m glad to hear it’s not too bad. The last two hens might be hiding in the windbreak. They’ll come out when they calm down and get hungry. Other than a few runaway chickens, sounds like the animals came through just fine.”
Melinda stopped short, stared toward the barn. Hobo hadn’t come out. She’d been so busy examining the chicken coop, then Kevin called, and …
“Well, I think so. I mean, I’m sure they’re OK.” She tried to keep her voice light. “It’s just that I haven’t seen anyone else yet. But I haven’t made it to the barn.”
Kevin didn’t seem concerned. “The sheep and cats and Hobo are all smart enough to head for shelter. And there should be some wire in the grain room to close that gap in the chicken run. I’ll call Horace and let him know you’re holding your own out there. If he’s been anywhere near a TV this afternoon, he must be worried.”
Melinda passed the concrete pad where the windmill used to stand and craned her neck to see the peak of the barn’s roof. How many storms had this structure stood tall against over the past century? It would take time to clean up, but Horace had been lucky.
“No, we’ve all been lucky,” she said softly, patting the main barn door’s flecked red paint as she slid the metal latch to the side. The barn’s familiar, comforting smell was still there, just as it had been that morning.
“Hobo! Where are you? Storm’s over, buddy, you can come out now.”
There was no answering bark, no echo of padded feet coming her way. And no sheep, either, she realized as her eyes adjusted to gloom. Only an uneasy silence.
“They have to be in here.” She flipped the light switch and hurrying down the aisle. “Here, sheep! Here, Hobo!” She rapped her fist on the metal lid of the grain barrel, checked the lambing pens in the back of the barn. Nothing.
The haymow offered no sign of Hobo or the cats. She called again, her now-shaky voice reverberating through the cavernous space. Downstairs once more, she could see that Hobo’s flap-covered door in the north barn wall was clear of debris.
“Don’t panic, it’s been a long day,” she whispered to herself, but her mind was already racing. “The ewes have probably gone back outside since I got home, I just didn’t see them. Maybe Hobo got over a fence and in with the sheep, and he’s outside, too.”
Melinda passed through the gate into the sheep’s feeding area, pausing only to make sure the metal latch was soundly locked. She hurried out the east pasture door and circled through the lot, nearly stumbling over the gopher holes hidden in the unevenly chewed grass. The rough wind racing in from the west carried off her shouts to Hobo and the sheep.
Only a few bushes lined the fence rows, but several gnarled evergreen trees had long ago banded together in the far southwest corner of the pasture. Several light-colored shapes were moving among the low-hanging branches.
“At last!” She ran back into the barn for a bucket of oats. “Hobo must have herded the sheep into that little grove.” There were two rope halters hanging on a nail next to the inside gate and she pulled one down, hoping she wouldn't have to figure out how to use it.
She ran across the pasture, her heart pounding in her ears, then eased her pace as she neared the patch of trees. She needed to approach the sheep slowly, casually, to have any hope of keeping them together. And if Hobo got too excited, he could cause the whole flock to bolt. If she could get one of the ewes to follow her, the others sh
ould fall in behind.
Another line of inky black clouds was dropping in from the west, heavy with rain and possibly hail. She had to hurry.
“Here, sheep! Here, sheep!”
Finally, one of them sent back a distressed “baaaa” in return. Melinda counted twelve fuzzy charcoal heads turning in her direction, but there was no sign of Hobo. She scanned the wild grasses growing tall around the pasture’s perimeter, looked carefully under all the trees in the grove, called him again.
“He’s not here. He’s not out here!” In this far corner of the pasture, away from the shelter of the farm yard, Melinda felt small and alone, frightened by the vast stretches of hail-beaten fields and ominous skies. There was a threatening strength in the cold wind as it stung her face and uncovered hands.
She couldn’t call anyone for help, not now, when all her neighbors were dealing with the same problems, or worse. She set down the oats bucket and the halter, tightened the hood on her sweatshirt and briefly warmed her hands in its pockets. “I’ll have to find Hobo later. Right now, I need to get these sheep inside.”
The ewes were pacing back and forth, nudging each other, their eyes wild. By the terror etched on their faces, Melinda realized the sheep may have never made it to the barn, had possibly rode out the storm in the thin shelter of these scraggly trees.
“Ladies, I need you to come with me,” she announced in a careful, low voice, gently shaking the grain bucket. “Let’s all go back to the barn. I’ll set out a good supper and you girls can rest. I’m home now.”
But I wasn’t home in time to protect you, she thought with a pang in her chest. Or Hobo. Or the chickens or the cats. She told herself that Sunny and Stormy were surely tucked away in the haymow, their tails puffed with fear but otherwise safe, and pushed all those other thoughts aside.
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” she cooed to the sheep, shaking the grain bucket again, not knowing what else to try.
Annie, always the bossy one, began to bellow, her nose leading her toward the bucket but her wary eyes catching sight of the halter in Melinda’s other hand. Melinda hid the halter behind her back and Annie relaxed.
“So you don’t want to see the rope, is that it? Annie girl, I know you’re smart. How about you help me out here?” She shook the grain again and took a few steps back, but Annie wouldn’t follow. The ewes resumed their anxious chorus and, with a grunt of impatience, Annie joined them.
Melinda would need the halter. She turned her back to the flock and worked the twisted rope in her hands, getting a feel for its rough strength and loosening the loop. Even if she couldn’t get the halter properly fastened on Annie’s head, she might be able to at least get it around her neck.
The sheep began to calm down a bit. They were all watching Melinda, waiting for her next move, looking to her for guidance. She slowly set the bucket down, hiding it in the long grass, careful to not look Annie in the eye and keep the halter behind her back. Annie decided Melinda no longer had anything to offer, and started to turn away.
This was her chance. Just before Annie flanked to the left, she quickly tossed the halter over the ewe’s head. Annie let out a surprised grunt and tried to leap forward, but Melinda held tight even as she felt the burn of the scratchy rope in her palms. Her heart racing and her hands trembling, she managed to tighten the slip rope just enough to keep it around Annie’s neck.
“Annie, shhh. Annie, stand still,” she whispered.
Once Annie realized she couldn’t get away, her breathing slowed and so did Melinda’s. Thunder rumbled away to the west and a large raindrop splashed on Melinda’s forehead.
“OK, let’s get that grain.” Gripping the halter lead in her left hand, she reached over and snatched up the grain bucket, shook it back and forth. “You’re the leader of the pack, Annie. Let’s take everyone home, huh?”
Annie jumped but Melinda pulled on the rope, bringing the ewe up to the bucket. The ewe tentatively set one hoof forward, then plunged her nose into the oats. Melinda let Annie enjoy a good mouthful before taking two steps back. Not only did Annie follow, this time with confidence, but three of the other sheep began to move their way.
“Let’s go, girls, let’s get back to the barn,” Melinda called over the rising wind. “We need to hurry.”
She rattled the grain bucket and more of the sheep came forward. Then she took three steps back and tugged on the rope. Annie walked toward her, the others clustering behind. Four more steps. Five. Then she turned her back on the sheep and pulled, felt the rope go slack as Annie followed.
Shaking the grain bucket again, Melinda called, “here, sheep! here, sheep!” as more rain drops splattered the hood of her sweatshirt. Then the skies opened. She tried to walk as fast as she could without tripping, blinking the rain out of her eyes, comforted by Annie’s weight on the other end of the rope.
The rain slashed at her face until she at last rounded the southeast corner of the barn. With the towering walls offering shelter from the roaring wind and the open barn door beckoning, the sheep began to “baaaa” with excitement.
Melinda hurried Annie inside and tied her halter rope to a fence brace, then scattered the rest of the grain into the feed bunk. It wasn’t much, but enough to encourage the last of the sheep to enter the barn. She counted twelve wooly backs before she reached out into the downpour for the handles of the divided barn door. There was a satisfying slap as the bolt on the top half slid closed, locking the sheep inside. Melinda loosened Annie’s halter so she could slip free and, with an indignant bellow, the ewe joined the rest of the flock.
Melinda was shaking all over, cold rain soaking through her sweatshirt to run down her scalp and through her clothes. But she’d brought the sheep in, and they were safe. She and Annie had done it together.
She leaned against a post, the tears coming in a torrent as the heavy rain drummed on the barn roof. Hobo was out there somewhere, night coming on in a few hours. What if he ran away before the storm hit, and not after? She knew animals could sense the weather and Hobo was a smart, sensitive dog. He could have taken off, trying to stay ahead of the approaching storm, and been caught out in a field somewhere, terrified and alone, with no shelter in sight.
“I have to find him!” She wiped her nose on her sweatshirt sleeve. “I can’t let Horace down. Oh, Hobo, where are you?”
The ewes were silent, watching. Even Annie was still.
CHAPTER 20
The adrenaline rush that helped her get the sheep to safety drained away in the few minutes it took to scoop out their evening ration of grain. She was suddenly so tired. And hungry, too. She’d rest for a few minutes at the kitchen table with a sandwich, then fix the chickens’ run and start looking for Hobo.
But first, one more check of the haymow. No one answered her calls. But just as she doubled back to the stairs, something along the east wall caught her attention. A golden glimmer, just behind a pile of straw bales.
“Kitties? Are you there?”
A second reflective orb became visible as her eyes adjusted to the shadows between the stack of bales and the wall. Then, Sunny’s fuzzy ears. And finally, another set of frightened eyes: Stormy huddled behind his friend.
“It’s OK, it’s OK now.” Melinda crouched down to the level of the cats, who made no move to leave the safety of their crawlspace. “I’ll bring supper up here, just for tonight.”
She fetched a scoop of kibble from the back porch and filled one of the bowls in the grain room, then rinsed and refilled the cats’ water dish. “I’m back now,” she said softly, setting the bowls down near the straw bales. His nose working at the smell of the kibble, Sunny put his paws up on a bale, debating whether he should make the leap.
“I know better than to press my luck with you two,” Melinda cooed. “I’ll leave so you feel safe coming out to eat. I’ll see you kitties in the morning.”
She shivered as she stepped out into the damp yet again and checked twice that the barn door was secure. The rain had slowed but the
wind was still strong. Her cell phone started to ring as she kicked away her sodden sneakers inside the back porch. It was Angie.
“Oh, thank God.” Melinda tucked the phone under her chin as she opened the kitchen door and peeled off the soaked sweatshirt. “Is everyone OK over there? When I tried to get home, I couldn’t get over the bridge by your house.”
“We’re going to lose the barn, but Nathan and I and the girls are all right and that’s what matters.” Angie sounded strangely calm. “It came up so fast. We crawled under the workbench in the basement and rode it out. But what a mess! We’ve got people over here rounding up the sheep and goats and cows. We’re trying to get them settled in one of the sheds, moving stuff around and putting down straw and setting up fence panels.”
Angie took a deep breath, then her voice started to rise in pitch. “The animals are so terrified, and we’re afraid they’ll crash through what’s left of the pasture fences overnight if we don’t get them locked inside somewhere. The barn is just smashed, Melinda, the whole top half is gone.”
“Oh Angie, I’m so sorry. But I’m relieved you are all OK. I tried to call earlier, I was so worried. I couldn’t get Ed and Mabel, either.”
“I talked to them a bit ago, and they are fine.” Angie sniffled, and tried to get her emotions in check. “Just some tree damage. Ed said it sounds like the tornado was west of here, then bended more to the east once it got closer to the blacktop. If it had turned sooner, we all would have been right in the worst of it. How bad is it there?”
“There’s some shingles off the barn and outbuildings, tree branches down all over. Some of the hailstones were as big as golf balls but I think there’s only a few storm windows broken on the house. The garden looks terrible; I’m glad Horace isn’t here to see it. The sheep were hiding in that little grove at the far corner of the pasture, but I got them inside.”
Growing Season Page 20