Wild Horses (3 page)
He ground the gears of the pickup, frowned, and uttered an annoyance under his breath.
“These gears are never where they’re supposed to be.”
Sadie smiled to herself, knowing the gears were right where they needed to be. It was the hand that was more adept with a horse’s bridle that was the problem.
“Twelve inches,” he said, shifting the toothpick to the other side of his mustache.
“What?”
“Of snow.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
Sadie knew the cold and snow meant more work for her down in the valley at Aspen East Ranch. She was one of the girls who helped prepare vast amounts of food each day for the 20 ranch hands, give or take a few. There were always newcomers, or someone moving on, but the number of men never varied much.
Sadie kept the lovely old ranch house clean as well. There was always something that needed to be cleaned after the food was prepared.
The furniture was rustic, the seating made of genuine leather. Valuable sculptures were placed carefully to complement the costly artwork on the wall behind them. The lighting was muted, casting a warm, yellow glow from the expensive lamps. Candles flickered and glowed in little alcoves built into the rooms. Sadie especially loved to clean the rooms filled with art, expensive objects bought from foreign countries, and the fine rugs on the wide plank floors which were all aged and worn to smooth perfection.
Aspen East Ranch was owned by a man named Richard Caldwell who came from a long line of wealthy cattlemen from the west. He was a man of great height and massive build. His stentorian voice rolled across the rooms like a freight train. Once, Sadie almost knocked an expensive item off a shelf while dusting with a chamois cloth and a can of Pledge Furniture Polish, her body automatically recoiling at his first booming yell.
Everyone snapped to attention when Richard Caldwell’s voice was heard rolling and bouncing through the house, and they tried to produce exactly the response he demanded. Patience was not one of his virtues. If the poor, hapless creature he needed was out of earshot at the moment he opened his mouth, woe to that unlucky person. It felt, as Jim once said, like being “dragged across coals.”
Richard Caldwell frightened Sadie, but only at first. After the can of Pledge almost went flying out of her nerveless fingers, her initial shock was over. Sadie’s eyes stopped bulging and returned to their normal size, and her heartbeat stopped pounding and slowed considerably when that enormous man entered the room. Now she could face him with some semblance of composure.
But she still always felt as if her covering was unbalanced, that her breakfast was clinging to the corner of her mouth, or that there was something seriously wrong with her dress whenever Richard Caldwell appeared. His piercing gaze shot straight through her, and she felt as though she never quite passed his intimidating inspection.
Sadie had been helping at the ranch for almost three years and he could still unnerve her, although she had glimpsed a kindly heart on more then one occasion.
He teased her sometimes, mostly humorous jabs at the Amish ways. Then he would watch her like an eagle, observing her struggle to keep her composure yet answer in the way she knew was right.
“That thing on your head,” he would say, “What’s it for?”
Sadie blushed furiously at first, appalled as the heat rose in her cheeks, knowing her face was showing her discomfort. After stumbling clumsily and muttering a few words about her mother wearing one too, she asked Mam what she should say if he kept up his relentless questioning.
One day, when almost nothing had gone right and she was completely sick of all the menial tasks, Richard Caldwell’s booming questions irritated her. When he pulled on the strings of her covering and asked again why she wore that white thing on her head, she swiped at an annoying lock of brown hair, breathed out, straightened up, and looked Richard Caldwell straight in the eye.
“Because we are committed to the ways in which the Bible says we should live. God has an order. God is the head, then man, and after that his wife is subject to her husband. This covering is an outward sign of submission.”
Richard’s eyes turned into narrow slits of thought.
“Hmmm.”
That was all he said, and it was the last time he mentioned “that thing on her head.” Sadie had been a bit shaky after that outburst of self-defense, but he always treated her a bit more respectfully than he had previously. Her fear shifted to confidence, making her job less nerve-wracking.
Richard Caldwell’s wife, Barbara, on the other hand, was a formidable figure in Sadie’s life—a person to be feared. It wasn’t her voice as much as the sheer disapproval that emanated from her cold presence.
Her clothes were impeccable; the drape of the expensive fabric hiding the well-endowed figure, making her appear regal. Scary to Sadie.
She did not accept Sadie, so she knew it was Richard Caldwell who hired her, not Barbara. She was only tolerating Sadie for her husband’s sake.
It was always a humbling experience to be with the Lady of the House. Whether she was cleaning, dusting, or running the vacuum, it was always the same. Sadie felt violated, silly even, knowing Barbara held only derision for the Amish and their strange ways.
Sadie always thought that if there was a true version of a woman of the world, Barbara was it: no children, no interest in cooking or cleaning, no need to care for anyone but herself.
Much of her time she spent either buying clothes or arranging them in her enormous walk-in closet. Shoes, hats, jewelry, it was all at her fingertips to be tried on, shown off to her friends, given away, or sent back if things weren’t quite up to her taste.
But Sadie knew it was not up to her to judge Barbara or condemn her. She was just being Barbara, the wife of a wealthy ranch owner. Sadie simply did her best to stay out of the way.
She loved her job, she really did. She always felt fortunate to have the beautiful old ranch house to clean and admire, and she liked being a part of the atmosphere—the hubbub and constantly-changing, colorful world that was Aspen East Ranch.
Amish children were not educated beyond eighth grade, spending their eight years in a one-room parochial school, learning the basics of arithmetic, spelling, reading, and English. They also learned German. Their first language was Pennsylvania Dutch, a dialect related to German with a sprinkling of English that kept changing through the years.
So for the short time between age 15 and marriage, most girls took jobs, normally cleaning, cooking, babysitting, quilting, or sewing. They handed the money they earned over to their parents, except for a small allowance.
When a young woman married, her parents provided most of the young couple’s housekeeping necessities—furniture, bedding, towels, dishes, and almost everything else. The gifts from the wedding completed their household needs.
Sadie often wondered how it would be to put her entire check in the bank and then have money of her own to do anything she wanted. She understood, having this knowledge instilled in her at a young age, that money, and the earthly possessions it could buy, was not what brought true happiness to any person. Rather, money was the root of all evil if you let it control your life.
No, she did not want a lot of money, just enough to buy another horse like Paris. But she had to admit to herself that she had never connected with another horse in the same way, not even close. She could never figure out why.
Horses were everywhere here in Montana; on the hills, in trailers, in barns, being ridden. Everywhere Sadie looked, there were horses of all colors, shapes, and sizes, but not one of them interested her.
Dat bought a riding horse for the girls, but in Sadie’s heart, he was just the same as a driving horse. She treated him well, fed him, patted his coarse forelock, and stroked the smooth, velvety skin beneath his mane, but she never wanted to bathe him or braid his tail and put silky, pink ribbons in it.
She still harbored that longing for just the right horse. Once, she had watched a black and white paint being led from a trailer. He bounced and lifted his beautiful head and something—she didn’t know what—stirred in her heart but only for a moment. It wasn’t Paris, and it wasn’t Ohio with Eva and the creek and the alfalfa fields.
Mam said it was because Paris was a part of her youth, and she’d never be able to recapture that youthful emotion that bound her to the palomino. It was time for Sadie to grow up and stop being dreamy-eyed about a horse named Paris. Whoever heard of a horse named Paris anyway, she said. But that was how Mam was, and Sadie still knew, at the age of 20, that Mam just didn’t understand.
Mam and Dat didn’t understand about breaking up with Ezra, either.
Ezra was a fixture in the Montana community. He was 26 years old, a member of the church, and concerned about keeping the Amish
Ordnung
and not being swept up into the worldly drift. A too-small covering, a fancy house, pride in the amount of money one made—those kinds of things seriously worried him.
Worried him and those around him until Sadie felt her head beginning to bow and her eyebrows elevating with these exact same worries. Her life stretched before her in one long, tedious blend of worries, concerns, cannots, and do nots, until she felt like screaming and jumping up and down and rebelling. She wanted to tell Ezra that there was
not
a black cloud hanging over every little thing—that God made roses bright red and daisies white and yellow instead of gray and black.
She did not mean to be irreverent, she really didn’t. She just hated the feeling of having a wet blanket thrown over her head and suffocating her freedom and her breathing whenever she spent time in his company.
Being Amish was not hard, and certainly it was no burden. It was a way of life that was secure and happy. When Richard Caldwell asked her if she’d like to take his new Jeep out for a spin in that semi-mocking manner of his, she could truthfully say no. If you don’t know any better and are taught to be content, nothing is a hardship—nothing within reason—and Sadie didn’t feel that her life was squashed down, flat, heavy, or drained of happiness.
The teachings of her parents were a precious heritage handed down for generations and a firm foundation that allowed for happy freedom of spirit. Honoring her parents and respecting their wishes brought peace and a secure, cuddly feeling like a warm, fuzzy shawl you wrapped up with in the wintertime.
Sadie often thought about this. What if she would have rebelled and refused to accompany her parents to Montana? It would have been unthinkable, but still… So far, no husband and no horse. She wasn’t sure which one she longed for more. Probably a horse.
Every husband was apparently a little like Ezra. Sadie sometimes caught Mam compressing her lips into a thin, straight line when Dat said something was too fancy. Like French doors. Mam had her heart set on them so she could look at the awesome, gently rolling, wooded hillside while she ate at the dining-room table. Dat had snorted, saying he didn’t know what kind of fancy notion she got herself into now. French doors were too English. But in the end, Dat smiled and agreed, saying Amish houses could have French doors, he guessed. Mam had laughed and her eyes shone and Sadie could tell she was very happy.
So husbands could be a bit intimidating, especially if they were too weird about a lot of different subjects. Horses were easier. If only she could find one.
Jim gripped the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes, hard, drawing Sadie back to the present. She grabbed at the dash, nearly slamming against it, a scream rising in her throat.
“What the…?” Jim yelled.
Sadie struggled to regain her seat, her eyes wide with fear. Through the swirling whiteness outside, a dim, shadowy form leapt in front of the truck, slid, and went down—way down—as Jim struggled to keep control of the careening vehicle. Sadie screamed again as the tires hit the form on the road and bumped to a stop.
Her hands crossed her heart as if to contain the beating, and her eyes searched Jim’s, wild with questions.
“I’ll be danged if it ain’t a cow,” he muttered, jerking on the door handle.
“Sh…should I…” Sadie asked, her voice hoarse.
“Come on out. We’ll see what we got.”
S
ADIE GRABBED FOR THE
door handle, then hesitated. A cold blast of air from the opposite side of the truck caught her head scarf, and she was shaken to reality.
What had they done?
Struggling to stay on her feet in the ice and snow, Sadie held on to the side of the truck, straining to see what had gone down, what had been so big, so unexpected, what had so suddenly disappeared in front of the truck.
She heard Jim’s low whistle. In the same instant, she saw the thick, heavy hairs of…
“Well, it ain’t a cow.”
Sadie stood and stared. She had never seen a horse as thin and gaunt as this. In fact, she had never seen
any
animal as thin as this—a skeleton covered with hide and a shaggy black and white coat.
“Skinniest horse I ever laid eyes on.”
“Is he…hurt?” Sadie ventured.