Megan glanced at the overcast sky, her eyebrows furrowing into a cute frown. “I don’t understand why you are so worried about the storm? Mountain storms are fierce—and loud. Here, the rain’s only spitting a little, and the clouds aren’t so dark.”
Bryan shook his head, following her gaze to the west where a worrisome low-lying cloud bank hovered above the prairie. “The worst is yet to come, I’m afraid. Have you ever seen a windstorm? What the Kiowa call mánkayía?” He shifted in the saddle as his horse sidestepped loose scree on the sage-covered path.
“You mean the dirt funnels on the prairie?” She laughed. “Believe me, I’ve seen them.”
“Yes, but the ones I’m talking about are a thousand times larger with so much wind strength, everything in their path is destroyed. You may have heard it
