by Linda Byler
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.
Chapter 10
SADIE 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 c
ame 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.”
“There are no wild horses in this area. Here among the Amish? Someone would capture them.”
Sadie opened her mouth to reply but had no chance to utter a word. Captain lunged and her body flew back as the seat tipped, then settled forward again. Sadie grabbed the lap robe, stifled a scream, and opened the buggy door on her side to see better.
Here was a figure! A crashing sound! There, oh my!
“Ezra!” she screamed. “We must stop Captain! We’re almost at the top of the ridge. These horses are following us. He’ll break! He’ll panic! Ezra, please stop.”
Ezra was holding onto the reins, staying calm.
“He won’t run away. He has more sense than that.”
“The top of the ridge is just ahead. There’s a wide bend, then straight down. The embankment to the left is hundreds of feet down. Please Ezra!”
She had to physically restrain herself from reaching over, grabbing those reins, and making him listen. If those horses emerged from the woods, if there was a stallion among them…
Sadie felt the hot bile in her throat. Her eyes watered and her nose burned, but she had no sensation of crying. It was raw fear.
The top of the ridge! Oh, dear God.
Despair as Sadie had never known sliced down her spine, like the ice water with which Reuben loved to attack his sisters. Now she was crying, begging, pleading with Ezra, but they kept traveling around that long bend, straight toward the dreaded embankment.
A horse! The clear, dark form of a large, black horse appeared beside the buggy. Two! They were on each side of them, streaming down from the woods with hooves clattering, manes whipping in the moonlight. Horses everywhere—black species of danger. Light in color to deep black—a whirl of hooves, wild eyes, lifted heads. They pounded on.
Now they surrounded the buggy.
Ezra yelled out as he lost control. Captain broke into a frenzy, lunging, rearing, coming down, and galloping on. The buggy was swaying, bouncing, careening left, then right.
The black horse in the lead was so close, Sadie could have touched him.
“Ezra!” she gasped. “Just try to stay…”
Her words were torn from her mouth as she felt the buggy whipping to the right. Captain was running neck and neck with the huge black horse, downhill now, completely out of control.
Sadie felt a certain pity for Captain, but inside she felt terror and a horrible fear as the black horse came closer, his mane whipping, his long forelock flying, his mouth open, reaching, reaching.
It wasn’t fair. Captain didn’t stand a chance. He was at a severe disadvantage with the blinders on each side of his head and with being hitched to the cumbersome buggy. He strained into the collar and gave everything he had, every ounce of sense and power he owned, but it was not enough. He was so loyal, and it made Sadie sad, this knowledge of how far a good horse would go to protect his beloved master.
The black horse reached out, his long, yellow teeth extended. His jaws reached the top of Captain’s mane and he bit.
Sadie’s world exploded as Captain went down. There was a sickening, ripping sound as the shafts broke, parting with the buggy, and they were thrown to the left.
She remembered Ezra’s yell of disbelief, her own hoarse screams, the buggy beginning to fall, and then she was hurled into a cold, white world filled with jagged pain.
Glass was sharp; rocks cruelly insensitive to human forms thrown against them. There was a roaring in Sadie’s ears, and she felt as if her head was severed from her shoulders. She screamed and screamed and screamed. The pain was excruciating, but she remained conscious.
The buggy! Oh, Lord have mercy! It rolled and crashed and tumbled.
Ezra!
Mercifully, then, everything went gray. A white, hot explosion inside her head turned her knowing into a blessed nothingness. She guessed she was dying now. So peaceful.
Something hurt. It was annoying. Why didn’t it stop?
Then she slipped into that softness again. It was so peaceful there, reminding her of the memory foam pillows her mother loved so much and told everyone about. If you laid your head on Mam’s pillow, it was firm and soft and supportive all at the same time. It seemed impossible, but wasn’t. Sadie’s whole body was made of memory foam. That was nice.
Ouch.
Shoot! It hurts. Stop that, Reuben. That ice is cold.
Reuben wasn’t made of memory foam. Just her. At least, her legs were made of memory foam. That was nice. Nothing hurt there.
Oh, it was so cold. She needed to stop Reuben from pouring that ice on her neck. Why was her voice so quiet? She was suffocating now. Great swells of horrible, dark ink enveloped her, wrapping her in murky, stinking arms.
Get away from me. I can’t breathe! Get away.
Fight, Sadie. You have to fight this.
She was stuck on the bottom, held tight by the inky, black mud. She was clawing, clawing, gasping, using all her strength. Memory foam was better.
Just let go. Let it go. You don’t have to breathe. Just lay back.
A great and terrible nausea gripped her. She clawed, swam, up, up, her lungs like a balloon with too much air. They would surely pop.
Someone smacked an icy rag against her face.
Stop smacking me, please. I have to throw up. Don’t smack me like that.
She burst to the top, retching, her face hitting the side of the cold gray rock. She tried gasping for great, deep, breaths of pure air to banish the black ink forever, but the horrible retching completely overwhelmed her.
Blood!
She tried sitting up, raising herself a bit. Where was all that blood coming from? If she could only stop heaving, throwing up, but her body wanted to rid itself of all its stomach’s contents.
All right. Think now.
She regained consciousness, of this she was certain. She just couldn’t see anything but blood. The ink was still there.
Raising one hand, she slowly brought up her arm. One arm. Okay. She touched her face, then recoiled in horror. The ink was everywhere. No, it wasn’t ink. She wiped weakly at her eyes now. Over and over, tiredly, back and forth, back and forth.
Clear the ink.
Grayish light was her reward.
Keep working.
Painfully blinking.
Why was a blink so excruciating?
Aah, now she could see white. And black. Stones. Rocks. Snow. Snow everywhere.
She reached to the top of her head with a shaking hand. It was still sticky from the ink that had stayed on her head when she burst through it. She brought her fingers down.
Red! Blood. It was coming from her head, falling into her eyes. She had a gash in her head. Oh, it was so cold.
Where were her legs? She better check.
Reaching down, she found one. The other. Was that her foot? Way out here? Turned like that? She better fix it.
Willing her foot to move, she felt a stab of pain unlike anything she had ever known. A scream escaped her, only it wasn’t really a scream, more like a hoarse moan, as she laid her head against the gray, cold stone and fought to stay out of that horrible hole—that place she had been and clawed her way out.
Breathe now. Slowly. You can do this. Count. Just count and bear the pain.
Women were created to bear children, so pain was not unfamiliar or unbearable. It was certainly not going to put her back into the ink. She was afraid if she went there, she would never be able to claw her way to the top again. It had taken every ounce of life and energy she could muster to get out, so she had better focus on staying conscious.
That was important.
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All right. Leg broken, yes. Gash in head, yes. Nausea, yes. Might have a smashed stomach.
It was very cold. She might die.
How long did people live in the cold? And survive? She tried to think of books she had read. No clue. She guessed as long as one breath followed another, she would live.
She thought of Mam, Dat, Leah, Rebekah, Anna, and Reuben, all at home, all happy and secure in the knowledge that she was being taken to the singing by the beloved Ezra.
Where was he?
Where was Captain?
A shiver of fear.
The horses? Where were they? Oh, that black stallion—as dark and sinister as the devil himself. But still, he was a stallion. Protecting his mares. Keeping his turf.
Dear God in heaven, my leg hurts so terribly. Please help me. Send someone to find me. I’ll die out here. Wolves will smell my blood. Or mountain lions. I heard they introduced the wolves back into the wilds of Montana to manage the elk herds. Smart. Unlucky for ranchers.
Her thoughts wandered away from her prayer.
Where was the buggy? Was she at the bottom of the embankment? Or halfway down?
Leaning away from the gray rock, she tried to assess her surroundings.
Oh, that blood in my eyes. I have to stop it somehow.
Her breathing stopped completely, but her heart beat on as the howl of a wolf split the air in two with that mournful, undulating wail of the wild. One clear howl brought chills and fear of the awesome creatures into Sadie’s world of pain.
Momentarily, she surrendered.
Okay, this is it. Tumbled down a cliff, half dead, and wolves will finish me. No one will ever know what happened. Posters tacked on telephone poles in town—at the post office, the IGA. Missing. No picture. She was Amish. Just information.
No, they would find her. They would!
Another howl hit a high note, joined by more voices now and more long, drawn-out calls of the wolves.
I must get out of here. I have to try.
She leaned forward, her hands clawing the snow, searching for a handhold, anything to propel herself forward. Blood spurted, a fresh, warm stream flowed down her forehead and into her eyes.
I must stop this bleeding first. With what?
