Wild Horses (8 page)

She yanked on the door to the phone shanty, clicked her flashlight on, picked up the telephone receiver, and punched numbers to check messages.

There were three.

The first one from the blacksmith who would be there on the 14th. The second from Mommy Yoder, who said her cat died the night before and her chimney caught fire, but the Lord had been with her. The cat was buried and the fire put out without the fire company having to come. She had tried to tell Ammon the wood was too green, but Ammon was still the same as he always was and didn’t dry his wood properly and if their house didn’t burn down someday she’d be surprised…

Dear, dear fussy Mommy Yoder. She ate tomato sauce with dippy eggs for breakfast, and called oatmeal “oohts,” and was round and soft and cuddly. She was a treasure, talking nonstop in her eccentricity. She always had a story to tell, like the first time she went into the drive-thru at the bank and that round canister went flying up the pipe. She just knew the end of the world was near.

As the third message came on, headlights wound their way slowly up the drive.

Her heart took a nose dive and fear enveloped her. She hung onto the phone shelf, lowered her head, and prayed for help. She knew she must confront her father.

“Hey,” a deep voice said, “this is Mark Peight.”

She bit down hard on her lip, holding the receiver against her ear as tightly as possible.

“The horse was seen by a vet. He has a chance. He’s at Richard Caldwell’s stables. I’ll be by to check up on him.”

That was it. No good-bye, no wishing anyone a good day, still no information on whose horse he was or why he was there or anything—just a few clipped sentences. Definitely Mark.

But the horse had a chance!

A chance!

Oh, praise God!

Tomorrow morning could not come soon enough. But first, she needed to talk to her father. Things didn’t seem quite as hopeless as they had before her heart was filled with joy about the message. Surely if there was hope for the dying horse, there was hope for all kinds of situations—Mam’s included.

As Sadie walked out into the snow, Dat was paying the driver and Mam was stepping carefully onto the sidewalk. Sadie hesitated until Mam closed the kitchen door before calling to Dat. She had startled him, she could tell, but he found his way through the snow to Sadie’s side.

“Sadie.”

“Dat. I was checking messages, but…I really need to talk to you about Mam.”

“Why?”

Instantly Dat was alert, defensive.

“She’s … she’s … there’s something wrong with her, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s … she’s acting strangely, Dat.”

There was a slight pause before he stepped close, thrusting his face into hers, only the thin, swirling snow between them.

“Sadie, if I ever catch you saying anything like that to anyone in this community … I … I … don’t know what I’m going to do. Never, ever, mention Mam to anyone, do you hear me? There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s just tired.”

“But … but Leah heard you arguing.”

“Leah didn’t hear anything. Do you hear me?”

His large hand clamped like a vice on her forearm, and he shook her slightly.

“You do hear me, don’t you?”

Sadie nodded dumbly, her feet like dead weights in the snow, her body shivering as a chill swept through her. As Dat turned on his heel and walked away, Sadie leaned against the rough boards of the barn and thought her heart would break in two.

M
AM WAS IN THE
kitchen at six o’clock the following morning, frying bacon in her good Lifetime pan, her hair neatly in place beneath her covering, a fresh white apron tied around her waist. Dat sat at his desk in the adjoining room, his gray head bent over a few papers spread before him.

So normal. A fresh start. Last night was all a bad dream which would soon evaporate like a mist, Sadie thought.

“Good morning!” she said.

Dat returned the greeting, avoiding her eyes, and Mam turned, the spatula dripping bacon grease, and smiled.

“Good morning, Sadie.”

Sadie sliced the heavy loaf of whole wheat bread, then spread the thick slices in the broiler part of the gas oven to make toast as Mam broke eggs into another pan.

The ordinary silence was deafening this morning, taut with undiagnosed worries and fears. Sadie desperately wanted to chatter needlessly, the way families do, comfortably knowing their words are accepted, considered worth something of importance. Not until now had she ever thought of the pure luxury of such simple things.

But they had the snow, the heat from the great woodstove, the smell of bacon—the usual parts of their lives that bound them together.

She cleared her throat.

“I … guess you heard about the horse, huh?”

“What horse?” Mam asked without turning.

Sadie told them of the previous day’s excitement, but her words banged against the wall, slid down, faded into the hardwood floor, and became nothing at all.

Dat was still poring over his papers, and Mam made a sort of clucking sound with her tongue, which could mean a series of warnings or wonderment or amazement. Or she may have done it completely out of habit from listening to four daughters and their views of life in general.

Sadie tried again to part the curtain of indifference.

“Did the chiropractor help you, Mam?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Sadie poured the rich, purple grape juice into short, heavy glasses and then sat down. She pulled her chair up to the table, and Dat, Mam, and Sadie bowed their heads, their hands folded in their laps, for a silent prayer before they began eating their breakfast.

Dat lifted his head, looked questioningly at Sadie, and lifted one eyebrow.

“Where’s Leah?”

“Asleep, I guess. She has off today.”

“The reason I ask, I saw someone walking down the driveway at one o’clock last night. Was it you? Do you know anything about it? Definitely a dark coat, scarf, and a skirt. The snow had stopped before then, but I still couldn’t see clearly enough to tell who it was.”

“It wasn’t me,” said Sadie. “And why would Leah be walking in the snow at that hour? That’s creepy. Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.” His tone was brusque, his manner brushing off her question like bothersome dust.

Mam bowed her head, shoveling bacon onto her plate with studied movements. Suddenly she raised her head. Sadie noticed the grayish pallor, the dark circles, the shadows beneath her eyes that made her appear so sad, so…almost pitiful.

“It was me. I … sometimes when I wake at night, my thoughts seem like real voices, and they all cram into a tiny space, and I can’t quite sort them out the way I should. So I thought perhaps my head would clear if I walked in the snow for awhile, Jacob.”

“But I thought you were there in the bed beside me.”

“Oh, I just propped up a few pillows so it looked like I was there so you wouldn’t worry.”

Dat frowned. Mam turned to Sadie.

“You’ll probably think there’s something wrong with me, but, Sadie, I saw something in the faint light of the half-moon and the stars. The snow wasn’t blowing anymore, and over on Atkin’s Ridge, just about at the tree line, there were animals sort of milling about in and out of the trees. At first I thought they were elk, then long-horned cattle, then… I’m not sure if they were horses or not, but it was something.”

Sadie looked into her mother’s eyes. There was an earnestness and sincerity—no reason for her to doubt what Mam saw.

“Wow, Mam! Weren’t you afraid?”

“I turned back,” she said with a soft laugh.

Sadie hesitated, then dove headfirst into the unknown waters, realizing the danger but hurtling in nevertheless.

“Mam, why are your thoughts so crammed together? Is there anything anyone could do to help sort them out? Would you like to talk about it?”

“No.”

“But, Mam, we… Leah and I…

There she was, diving deeper, lungs straining, desperately needing strength to accomplish this tiny, if not insignificant, step toward finding out how Mam felt.

“Leah and I are worried.”

“I’m fine.”

“She’s fine. You and Leah keep to yourselves. Mam is fine.”

Sadie bowed her head, rose to the surface, gulped air, and came up with absolutely nothing. She nodded. Mission not accomplished.

“Well,” she said, falsely cheerful, “Jim will soon be here.”

Mam got up and went to the corner cabinet to begin taking down her countless bottles of ginseng, St. John’s Wort, brewer’s yeast, Lifespan supplements, and liquid Body Balance—her usual morning ritual of bolstering her faith with those hopeful little bottles.

Sadie turned away, wanting to flee.

Hurry up, Jim.

Down at the ranch, things were normal. Dorothy bustled about, shaking her head at the pools of water gathered on her spotless kitchen floor. Why couldn’t the men have enough common sense to dry their feet when they came barreling inside?

Sadie had barely hung her coat on the hook before the kitchen door swung open and Richard Caldwell entered, thumping his hat against his legs.

“Sadie!” he thundered.

Please help me, God.

She finished hanging her scarf over her coat collar, fought to calm herself properly, then smoothed her apron over her hips and turned to face him.

“Yes?”

“Somebody told me you want that horse they brought in yesterday.”

“The…the dying one?”

“They didn’t bring in any other one.”

“Is he still breathing?” Sadie clasped her hands, her eyes shining, her feet refusing to stay on the floor as she stood on her tiptoes.

“I really don’t know. But if you want him, you’ll have to take him out of here.”

“But…I don’t know if my father will allow it. I’m sure there will be medical, I mean, veterinary bills to pay, and my…father doesn’t like horses much.”

Why did Richard Caldwell always do this to her? Why did she stumble over words and flounder about like a half-dead fish and say stupid things that made no sense at all when he was around?

“Well, if you want that horse, it’s yours. I don’t want him. I have no idea where he came from, and I sure don’t want to become involved. That old Fred Skinner has a way with words, or he wouldn’t have dumped that horse off in my stables.”

Sadie bounced a bit, her eyes still shining bright blue.

“That’s very nice of you, Mr. Caldwell. And I do thank you. I just need to get permission from my father.”

“Come with me and we’ll go see the horse.”

Sadie fairly danced over to the hook to get her coat, trying to conceal the excitement that kept bubbling over.

Dorothy confronted her then, like a ruffled, banty hen, her eyes flashing, hands on hips.

“And just where do you think you’re prancing off to with all this breakfast to be done, young lady?”

Richard Caldwell’s booming laugh rolled across the kitchen, bringing a giggle to Sadie’s throat, which she suppressed just in time when she saw how upset Dorothy became. Her eyes popped some serious sparks as she turned and wagged a short finger beneath Richard Caldwell’s face.

“Now don’t you laugh, Richard Caldwell. It’s not funny. I ain’t young anymore. I got all these hands to feed and yer gonna go gallivanting all over creation with my best help. I ain’t puttin’ up with it!”

Sadie knew no one ever spoke to Richard Caldwell like that, except feisty little Dorothy. Sadie hid a wide grin, then ducked her head as she unsuccessfully tried to hold back a joyous bubble of laughter.

“Now, Dorothy. Now, now. We’re just going to the barn to see this horse. We’ll be back in two shakes.”

Dorothy harrumphed disdainfully, turning away to mutter to herself as Richard Caldwell held the door for Sadie.

The fresh, cold air smacked Sadie’s face, and the wide, blue sky with its white, brassy sunshine filled her heart with its sheer beauty. She flung out her arms and skipped like a small child.

Snow was like that. It was so cold and so white that even the sun and the blue sky blended together to make everything more cold and white and awesome. She wanted to fling herself on her back and make snow angels the way she used to back home in Ohio, but she knew better. She couldn’t do that—she was walking to the stables with her boss, Richard Caldwell.

She stiffened when she felt his big hand touch her shoulder and stay there.

“Sadie, you’re a good girl. I appreciate your work here at Aspen East. This horse is a gift, and I hope you have many happy days together.”

Sadie was speechless. She could not have spoken one word to save her life, so she stopped walking and turned to face him, hoping to convey her thanks somehow.

Richard Caldwell was not a man given to flowery compliments or words of praise. It just wasn’t his way. But there was something about this girl’s dutiful demeanor, her faithfulness, that touched a chord in his heart.

With hairbrush stopped in mid-air, Barbara Caldwell parted the curtains for a better view. Her breathing grew rapid, and her steely, gray eyes flattened into lines of hatred. Then she flung the gilded hairbrush against the wall, creating a slight dent in the scrolled wallpaper before the brush hit the carpeted floor.