Sadie’s Montana Trilogy

by Linda Byler

  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.”

  Chapter 3

  SADIE 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.

  “Dunno.”

  “He’s… just lying there. Do you think he’s dead?”

  “Well, no. We didn’t hit him very hard. He sort of slid and went down before we hit him.”

  “He’s likely starving. He could be dying right here.”

  “Dunno.”

  Jim knelt in the swirling snow, bent low, and laid a hand on the horse’s cheekbone. Sadie stood, holding her arms tightly against her waist, and wondered how a horse’s face could be thinner than normal.

  Horses don’t have a lot of flesh on their faces. The softest part is the smooth, velvety nose, always whooshing warm, sweet breath into your face. Horses don’t have bad breath like humans. That’s because they eat clean hay, oats, corn, and fresh, sweet grass in pastures. They don’t eat greasy bacon and aged cheese and Twinkies and whoopie pies and potato chips that leave their stomachs sour and make gas rise to the top, and then cause them to belch the way people do.

  This horse’s face was thinner than most, its large eyes sunk into huge cavities. He looked like a skeleton with a head much too large for the scrawny, protruding neck, almost like the drawings prehistoric men etched on cave walls.

  The snow kept coming from the sky, a whirling, grayish-white filled with icy little pings which stung Sadie’s face. She watched as Jim felt along the horse’s painfully thin neck, then down to its shoulder, before touching its pitiful ripples of bone and hide that was its side.

  “He’s breathin’.”

  “He is?”

  Sadie knelt in the snow by the horse’s head, watching for a flicker—any sign of life—from this poor, starved creature. Slowly she reached out to touch the unkempt forelock, still very thick and heavy in spite of his weakened state. She lifted it, letting the heavy hair run through her fingers, and murmured, “Poor, poor baby. Whatever happened to you?”

  Jim rose a bit stiffly, then reached in his coat pocket for his cell phone. Sadie stayed by the horse’s head, speaking soft endearments, willing this emaciated creature to life.

  Jim was muttering to himself, clumsily pressing buttons too small for his large, calloused finger, repeatedly pushing the wrong one, growling over and over before finally stoping, his eys narrowing.

  “Hey. Yeah, Jim here. I’m bringin’ the Amish girl to the ranch. A half-dead horse jumped out in front of us. He’s down. Ain’t responding.”

  There was a pause.

  “Huh-uh. No. Dunno. Just… No! Somebody bring a trailer. What? Up on Butte Road. Where? So there’s no trailer?”

  Jim paced, went to the truck for a pair of gloves, still talking, listening, talking.

  “Listen. I ain’t stayin’ here all day. Either Jeff brings a trailer or I’m callin’ the boss.”

  Jim hung up angrily. Sadie hesitated, then stood up and faced Jim.

  “You go get the trailer. I’ll stay here.”

  “No you ain’t.”

  “Yes, I’m not afraid of this horse. I’ll stay here. Just go. Hurry.”

  “Listen, little girl. You ain’t stayin’ here by yerself.”

  “Yes, I am. I will. No one will go by here that’s dangerous. We can’t let this poor, sick horse lying in the middle of the road. Someone else will hit him. I’ll be fine. Just go.”

  Jim stared at Sadie, then shook his head.

  “All right. I’ll go fast. Be back soon. But…”

  “No, Jim. Just hurry.”

  The truck roared to life, eased carefully onto the road, and disappeared around an outcropping of overhanging rock. The snow kept falling around Sadie and the horse. Little swirls piled up in the strangest places, as if the snow was trying to wake up the inert form on the cold ground. It settled into crevices in the animal’s ears, which were so soft and lifeless, and formed tiny drifts in the soft, black hairs. The long, sweeping eyelashes even held tiny clumps of cold particles, making the horse appear to have no spark of life. It looked completely dead.

  Sadie shivered, then knelt again.

  “Come on, come, boy. Wake up. Don’t die now.”

  She kept talking, more to instill confidence in herself than to elicit a response from this bony, wasted form. Even if he was still breathing, he was indeed a very sick horse—probably too sick for anyone to try and revive.

  She straightened as she heard the unmistakable sound of a vehicle, though muffled, the way vehicles sound in the snow. Probably someone I know, Sadie assured herself in spite of her thudding heart.

  A large, red cattle truck came plowing around the bend, much too fast on road conditions like this.

  Irritation replaced fear, and Sadie stayed in the exact same spot, knowing the truck’s occupants would see her much better than one thin horse half covered with snow.

  Suddenly it registered in her brain that the road was icy, and she might very easily be hit. She began flailing her arms, screaming without being aware that she was, jumping, and shouting. She was in danger of being swallowed by this monstrous red cattle truck.

  Suddenly, the driver saw her but applied the brakes too hard. The truck slowed, skidded, zigzagged, righted itself, and came to a lopsided halt with its two left tires in a ditch by the side of the road.

  Everything went quiet except for the jays screaming in the treetops and the sighing of the cold wind in the alders. The truck door slammed and a very irate person plodded in front of it, his beefy, red face supporting his battered Stetson, which he pushed back before yanking it forward over his face again.

  “And just what do you think you’re doing, young lady? Don’t you know this is a very good way to get killed?”

  Sadie met his angry gaze, then lowered her eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I…well… Look.”

  She waved her arms helplessly, gesturing toward the still form on the road, now almost covered with snow.

  “What the…”

  He smashed his Stetson down harder until Sadie thought his hat would hide his whole head completely and just sit on his shoulders. But somehow she guessed he could see because he said the same thing again.

  “What the…?”

  He bent lower and asked, “What’s wrong with him? He ain’t dead, is he?”

  “I think he’s dying.”

  “How are you going to get him off the road?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She explained what happened, about Jim leaving, and assured him he’d soon be back for her and the horse. The beefy man whistled, then motioned to the truck, moving his arm to indicate that he wanted the rest
of the occupants out.

  “Mark, get over here.”

  Sadie watched a tall person jump down from the truck. Not really jump, more like bounce, or pounce like a cat. He was huge—tall and wide with denims and very dark skin. His steps were long and lively, and he reminded Sadie of a horse one of her uncles owned in Ohio. He seemed to be on springs and hardly ever held still long enough to… well, hold still.

  She thought he was Mexican, except Latinos generally were not this tall. She wondered if he was Italian with that dark skin. Or Indian. Or maybe white but just spent a lot of time in the sun.

  He didn’t smile or say hello or even notice her. He just stood there beside the beefy man and said nothing. He was wearing a navy blue stocking hat. Everyone wore Stetsons or leather, wide-brimmed hats of some sort here in Montana. The English did, anyway. English is what the Amish people called other people who were non-Amish. This was because they spoke English.

  His clothes were neat and very clean—too clean to be an ordinary cowpuncher. But why was he wearing a stocking hat?

  “What do you think, Mark?”

  Mark still said nothing but lowered his huge frame easily and felt along the horse’s neck, flanks, and ribs. He lifted the soft muzzle and checked his teeth, then rubbed his ears.

  “Did you call a vet?”

  He straightened as he said this, then turned to look down at Sadie with eyes so brown they were almost black and fringed with the thickest, blackest lashes she had ever seen. His cheekbones were high, his nose perfect, and his mouth made her knees turn to jello, so that she lost her voice completely.

  Oh, it was sinful. It was awful. She felt deeply ashamed. She also felt as incapable of changing one thing about her emotions as a seagull feather trying to change direction as it hovered on the restless waves of the ocean. Then to her horror, she felt the color rise in her face. She was sure it was noticeable to both men.

  Sadie adjusted her head scarf, lowered her eyes, then raised them to his, summoning all her courage to keep his gaze.

  “I…”

  She was so flustered she couldn’t speak, so she brushed miserably at a stray lock of hair before lifting her eyes again.

  Then he smiled.

  Oh, he smiled the most wonderful smile. His white teeth turned her knees straight back into the shakiest sort of jello—the kind you got out of the refrigerator before it was fully set, and which Dat laughingly dubbed “nervous pudding.”

  “I guess you don’t have a cell phone, seeing you’re Amish and all.”

  Sadie shook her head.

  There was a whooshing, snorting sort of sound. Mark whirled, the heavy-set man exclaimed, and a soft cry escaped Sadie’s lips. They all turned, but Sadie was the first one to reach the horse’s head. She knelt in the snow murmuring, running her hands along the smooth planes of his face. There was another whooshing sound, and he tried to raise his head before letting it fall back weakly.

  “Let’s get him up.”

  Sadie looked up, questioningly.

  “How?”

  Mark didn’t answer. He just kept looking at Sadie with the strangest expression in his eyes, almost as if he was about to cry. Sort of. Not really, though. More like his eyes softened, and he caught his breath before she asked the same question.

  “How?”

  “Just… Okay, Fred. You help lift his hind end. You…,” His eyes questioned her.

  “Sadie.”

  “Okay, Sadie. You stay at his head. Keep talking. Are you used to horses?”

  “I live here. Yes.”

  “Here we go.”

  The horse was black and white with black lashes circling deep blue eyes, now filled with a strange sort of despair and terror. His eyes opened wider, and he lifted his head again, making soft grunting sounds as he reached forward, trying to get his hooves beneath him.

  “Come on, sweetie pie. Come on, you can do it.”

  Sadie was completely unaware of the fact that she was speaking in her accustomed Pennsylvania Dutch dialect.

  “Doo kannsht. Komm on. Komm. Vidda. Vidda.”

  Mark lifted at the shoulders, urging, pushing. Fred lifted, strained, and fussed as his face grew more and more red. Sadie watched as the horse lay back down, completely at the end of his strength. She shuddered as he laid his head down in the snow and closed his beautiful eyes.

  Sadie forgot her shyness, her thoughts focused only on this horse and the fact that she wanted him to live. She had always wanted a paint. Maybe, just maybe, she could have this one if she could get him to survive.

  “If we just let him lie down, he’s going to die!”

  “Whose horse is he?” Fred asked.

  “I have no clue.”

  “I don’t know if he’s gonna make it,” Fred announced.

  “Well, we can’t just stand here and let him die,” Sadie said, her voice conveying her desperation.

  “We need a vet.”

  Mark said this bluntly but quite meaningfully. It was just a fact and had to be carried out.

  Fred got out his cell phone and, with nimble fingers for a man his size, called one of the local veterinarians. Then he snapped his phone shut and, grumbling, returned to the truck.

  Mark put his hands in his pockets, turned to Sadie, and was about to speak, when a vehicle came rattling from the opposite direction. It was Jim, pushing the old truck to the limit.

  He slowed, rolled down the window, and yelled to Sadie.

  “Get in.”

  Sadie’s eyes opened wide.

  “The boss is all up in the air. Bunch o’ extra men and not enough help in the kitchen. Said I’m supposed to get you down there straightaway and let this bag of bones die. Probably some diseased old mustang from out on the range.”

  He swung his grizzled head.

  “Get in.”

  A lump rose in Sadie’s throat. She wanted to stay so badly, just like when she was a little girl and had to leave the playground because the bell rang just when it was her turn to go down the slide.

  “Jim, please. I can’t go and leave this horse.”

  “You better if you want your job.”

  Her shoulders slumped dejectedly, her upbringing stirring her conscience. She knew her family needed the weekly paycheck she brought home from Aspen East, but she couldn’t walk away from this horse either. Indecision made her feet falter, until she turned back to the horse without thinking. Quickly, anything, please, please, please let’s do something for this horse.

  “I…I don’t know who you are and I may be asking too much, but if this horse survives, would you let me know? We’re Amish, so you’ll have to leave a message on our phone, but… Oh, I’m sorry, do you have a pen and paper?”

  “I do.”

  Mark produced his wallet, extracted a business card and a pen, and she said, breathlessly, “761-4969.”

  He wrote down the number and looked up.

  “Just…if it’s not too much bother, let me know.”

  “All right.”

  With one last glance at the broken form on the ground, Sadie hurried to Jim’s old truck, got in, and slammed the door. She didn’t look back.

  “Who’s that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “City slicker, that one. Beanie. Humph.”

  Jim had no use for anyone covering their ears in cold weather, Sadie knew. She didn’t care who wore a beanie and who wore a Stetson or Amish straw hat or whatever, she was sick in her heart about that horse.

  Why was it always the same? If she felt any connection at all with a horse, it was taken away. She would never see or hear from that Mark person, and like Paris, this sick animal would disappear and that would be that. It was just the way life was.

  Oh, my, but that Mark.

  Just wait ’til I tell Leah.

  It was a secret the girls shared, knowing Dat would snort and Mam would rebuke them. They talked about who was good-looking, who was available for marriage, who they would accept, and who they wouldn’t. Amish or
not, all girls talked and giggled about this subject. Sadie and Leah endlessly tried to figure out what Mam meant when she said, “You don’t go by looks.”

  Of course you went by looks. They never told Mam this, but it was a universal truth. The way a courtship began was with physical attraction. Even birds chose just the right one by the beautifully-colored plumage or the best song or the most intricate dance. It was the same way with katydids and bats and frogs and squirrels and every living thing on God’s earth.

  That was the way it was.

  But Sadie wasn’t sure if she would tell Leah about Mark after all. She wanted to laugh and giggle and talk and dream, but, somehow, this was not like the other times. This seemed to be something more dangerous. Also more embarrassing. And more hopeless. It was truly horrible. Whoever heard of one’s knees becoming weak from looking at another person?

  Oh, it was awful.

  She glanced over at Jim, almost sure he could tell what she was thinking. Instead, he was frowning, shifting his wad of chewing tobacco from one cheek to another, which always made Sadie swallow hard.

  So she looked out the window to her right and watched the snow swirling and the trees and the hillside being converted from dull browns and earthy sage-green to a pristine winter wonderland.

  Sadie truly loved Montana. The scenery was absolutely breathtaking almost the whole year-round. Her favorite season was the long winter because of the skiing, sledding, and snowboarding. Another favorite pastime for the youth in Montana was piling on a huge inner tube from a tractor and being pulled with a sturdy rope attached to the saddle of a horse. A good horse lunged through deep snow, easily pulling a person on an inner tube until they were completely covered with snow, like a peanut butter cracker dipped in chocolate—only it was white. And there was nothing that quite matched the exhilaration of riding a horse on an endless sweep of sparkling snow, especially if the horse had been bored from standing in his box stall and was aching to run.

  Sadie’s thoughts returned to the day as they approached the magnificent entrance to Aspen East.

  Elaborate brick pillars rose on both sides of the wide driveway with scrolls of beautiful ironwork across the top. Bronze statues of cattle were cemented into the brickwork—truly a testimony to a local artist’s talents. Heavy trees bordered the driveway, bent with the weight of the snow, and the long, low ranch house came into view.