Wild Horses (14 page)

What was it about Sadie that brought on these emotions, these feelings he had long forgotten? He was in awe of her—if any such thing was possible for the great Richard Caldwell. Could it be that this is how fathers felt when they had grown-up daughters? How would he know? He and Barbara never had children. She never wanted them.

Shortly after they were married, he knew. She had no time for babies. They cried, took up all your time, and in this day and age, who knew if they would even turn out all right?

Parenting was hard. Barbara thought it would hardly be worth the effort, even with one child.

He didn’t know how he felt about having children. He guessed he always figured there would be an heir to his ranch, an acquisition he had obtained in his 30s. And now, almost 20 years later, he was old. His wife was much younger, but just not the type to have children.

He shrugged, passed a hand across the sleek surface of the Mercedes, and thought about having a son. He would teach him to ride and buy him a miniature horse.

Richard Caldwell laughed, covering his weariness with humor. What else could he do?

Surely he was not in love with Sadie. Falling in love? No. Flat out no. Sadie was too pure, too good, almost angelic. Besides, how could he defile something that reminded him of home? Somehow she gave him that same cozy feeling he had from a snowy, white tablecloth set on a cheap, wooden table that held his mother’s breakfast of homemade pancakes—a stack of three, dribbling melted butter and sweet, sticky home-cooked syrup. No, Sadie was not the type of girl that brought the wrong kind of emotions to his head. Not at all.

He just wanted to see if she could handle this Nevaeh. He was afraid he would come to regret letting her try to ride. He doubted the whole situation—and the outcome.

Sliding his huge frame over a bit, he peered through the glass. Well, she was up. Looked as if she had a bit of a problem now, though. Didn’t that Nevaeh just stand there now? Refused to budge. Typical horse with no brains. Should have let him die.

He slid back from the window when Sadie’s gaze swept the house and garage. Still she sat, relaxed, looking around. The horse pawed the snowy ground with one forefoot.

Richard gasped.

Now he was going to throw her! She had better get off.

He had to restrain himself from leaving the garage, walking out and grabbing that stubborn horse’s bridle. The beast was going to hurt Sadie.

The forefoot pawed again. The head lowered, then flung up. Sadie leaned forward, loosening the reins when he lowered his head, gently gathering them when he raised it.

Still she sat.

Now she leaned forward again, patting, stroking, playing with the coarse hair of the mane, talking. On and on, until the tension in Richard Caldwell’s back caused him to swing one shoulder forward painfully.

Now Nevaeh was prancing—a sideways dance that could have easily unseated a lesser rider. He saw the leg of the jeans. The boots. The skirt adjusted in a modest manner. So that was how she rode.

Nevaeh’s two forefeet came up in a light buck. Sadie leaned forward, still talking, still relaxed.

Now he was definitely going to throw her. She’d be hurt.

Richard Caldwell sagged against the silver bumper on the Hummer and clenched his fists. Why didn’t she get that stubborn piece of horseflesh moving?

Now they stood quietly again.

Nevaeh shook his head back and forth. He snorted. He dug the snow with one foot, sending a fine spray back against the stable wall. He shook his head and snorted again.

Oh, great. Just great. He was a balker, culled from the herd for his stubborn behavior … running loose. No one could handle his obstinate conduct.

Just when Richard Caldwell thought he would pop a vein in his head, the horse stepped out. He was cautious, but he stepped out, the beginning of a walk.

And so they walked. They moved around the circular driveway twice. Nevaeh was still prancing sideways, still snorting, but moving along.

Now Sadie was turning the reins against the side of Nevaeh’s neck, first one way and then the other, testing her beloved horse’s response to the rein.

Perfect.

Richard breathed again.

Sadie’s head came up, her back straightened, and she nudged Nevaeh ever so slightly. Then she leaned back into the saddle, relaxed, prepared. Nevaeh broke into a slow trot, followed immediately by a slow canter, a sure-footed, springy, graceful motion that took Richard Caldwell’s breath away.

What a horse! Unbelievable! Still too thin, the hair still coarse in spots, but, like an unfinished painting, emerging beauty.

The horse and rider disappeared behind the barn, and Richard Caldwell slowly made his way out of the garage and into the kitchen, looking for his wife, Barbara. He didn’t typically share with others—often keeping feelings to himself—but this time he just had to talk to someone about this remarkable Sadie and her horse.

He encountered Dorothy waving a soiled apron and yelling for her poor, hapless husband, Jim, while black smoke poured from the broiler pan of the huge commercial oven. Carefully, Richard Caldwell backed out, knowing it was up to Jim to quench that volcanic outburst. He backed into his wife and expertly steered her away from Dorothy’s angry screeches and into the safety of the living room.

They sat together on the leather sofa and he told her, with eyes shining, about Sadie and Nevaeh.

He stopped when he saw the icy, cold glint in her eyes.

“You have no business monkeying around out in the stables with that pious little Amish do-gooder. On the outside, that’s what she looks like, but on the inside, she is no different from any other 20-year-old looking for a husband with money,” she told her husband.

On and on her voice grated, hurling selfish words, hurting, imagining the worst.

The powerful emotions that welled up in Richard while watching Sadie with that horse contrasted greatly with Barbara’s sordid accusation. They were vile, worldly, dirty, and horrible—words that were as untrue as they possibly could be.

Springing up, Richard Caldwell restrained his wife.

“Stop!” he thundered.

She stopped. She cowered. She had never heard her husband speak to her in that tone, ever.

Then, he softened and opened up. He told her many things he should have spoken before, how both of them had no idea what goodness was, or purity or selflessness.

“She’s like a daughter. I think I believe in some sort of God when I watch her with Nevaeh.”

Barbara’s mouth hung open in a ghastly way as she listened to her big, rough husband. She didn’t know he was capable of talking like this. What had gotten into him?

“And, Barbara, why did we choose not to have children?” he finished, his eyes soft, the crows-feet at the corners smoothing out the way they sometimes did.

“You chose,” Barbara whispered.

“I thought it was you,” Richard Caldwell said, quietly, calmly.

“It wasn’t.”

The sun slipped below the barn, casting shadows across the opulent living room, and still they talked. They rang for coffee, for a light dinner. They turned on lamps and continued talking.

Later, when Dorothy came to the living room to remove the dishes, she saw a most unusual sight—Barbara’s hand resting on her husband’s shoulder, his arm around hers.

“Well, I’ll be dinged. Lord have mercy. A miracle has occurred,” she whispered, stepping back lightly in her Dollar General shoes.

S
ADIE TUCKED THE LAP
robe securely around her knees, shivering in the buggy, her breath visible in small puffs of steam.

Glancing sideways, she checked Ezra’s profile. Hmm. Not bad.

He had asked to take her to the hymn-singing again on Wednesday evening, which was a source of some discomfort—like a cut on your finger. It annoyed you if you bumped it or got salt in it or put it under hot water.

The thing was, she liked Ezra—especially the new and improved version of Ezra. He was a good friend, and she was comfortable with him. She had absolutely no reason at all not to go back to him, date him regularly, and succumb to the love she felt sure God was already supplying.

Love was a strange thing. It could be elusive, like the wildflowers in spring that grew in great clumps on the ridges, turning into purple, yellow, and white splendor. All you wanted to do was be there among the flowers, spreading your arms and running to them through the soft, spring winds. Then you would fling yourself down on the soft hillside, your senses soaked with the smell of those beautiful flowers.

But often when Sadie climbed the ridge to pick great armfuls of wildflowers, the earth was still slick and wet with patches of snow hidden among sharp thistles. The black flies, mosquitoes, and a thousand other flying creatures either bit or sat or buzzed or zoomed toward her, causing her to flail her arms wildly between grabbing handfuls of columbine. The flowers were never nearly as beautiful as they were from a distance.

The thought of Ezra was better than Ezra himself, which was awful to admit even if it was true. He was so pleasant, attractive, a good Christian, and had oh, so many other good qualities. Her parents silently pleaded with her to accept him, marry him, and be a good wife, fitting of their culture.

Aah, why? What kept her from doing just that?

“Sure is getting colder.”

The sound of Ezra’s voice jerked Sadie back to reality.

“Yes, it is. It’ll be snowing again soon.”

“That’s one nice thing about Montana—we always have a white Christmas.”

“Always!” Sadie agreed joyously.

Christmas was a special time in Amish homes and had always been as long as Sadie could remember. It was filled with gifts, shopping, and wrapping packages. Christmas-dinner tables were loaded with all sorts of good food from old recipes, handed down from generation to generation.

There were hymn-singings, too, where voices blended in a crescendo of praise to their Heavenly Father for the gift of his Son born in the lowly manger. The songs of old, printed hundreds of years ago in the old land and in the German dialect, were still sung together with thankful hearts.

When Sadie turned 16 and was allowed to go to the youth’s singings, the songs were never as meaningful as they were now. Youthful hearts were like that. They were more interested in who sat opposite, which boy was most handsome, who started the songs, and whether the snack served at the close of the singing was tasty or just some stale pretzels and leftover pies from church that day.

Sadie suddenly realized that Ezra was having a hard time holding his horse to a trot. His arms were held out in front of him, rigid, a muscle playing on the side of his face. The buggy was lurching and swaying a tiny bit, the way it did when the horse is running faster than normal.

Sadie watched Ezra, aware of his arms pulling back, his gloved hands holding the reins more firmly.

“Don’t know what’s getting into Captain. He better conserve his energy. We’ve got a long way to go.”

Captain’s head was up, his ears forward. He was not just running for the joy of it. He was wary. Scared.

“Ezra, I think Captain senses something.”

Ezra’s jaw was clenched now. With a quick flick of his wrist, he wrapped the reins around his hands to be able to exert more pressure on them without clenching his fists.

“Nah, he’s just frisky.”

Sadie said nothing, but watched Captain’s ears and the way he held his head in the white-blue light from the buggy. Captain’s ears flickered back, and the muscles on his haunches rippled, flattened, as he leaned into the collar.

Ezra shook his head.

“Guess he’s getting too many minerals. There’s a hill up ahead, that’ll slow him down some.”

“Are we… Are we on Sloam’s Ridge?”

“Starting up.”

Now Sadie watched the roadside. The pines and the bare branches of the aspen and oak were laden with snow—picture-perfect. Shadow and light played across them in the moonlight and highlighted the steep embankments on either side.

Captain was slowing his gait, the long pull up the ridge winding him. Ezra unwrapped the reins from around his hands, shook one and then the other, took off the glove, flexed his fingers, and laughed.

“He sure wants to run!”

Then she saw them. She swallowed her fear, said nothing, and leaned forward. Was it her imagination? Straining her eyes, she searched the pines. There! There was a dark, moving shadow.

There. Another!

“Ezra!”

“Hmmm?”

“I think…we’re… We might be followed.”

“What?”

“There!”

Sadie pointed a gloved finger, her mouth drying out with the certain realization of what had caused Captain to run.

“In the woods. Up that bank. Horses are there.”

Her heart pounded, her breath came in gasps.

“Captain knows it.”

“I don’t see anything,” Ezra said quite calmly.

“I think it would be safer for us to stop the buggy, get out, and try to hold Captain. We think … my mother saw … and I think I did, too … a herd of horses here on the ridge two weeks ago. Well, not this one—on the one they call Atkin’s Ridge. It’s the one closer to our home.”