Sadie’s Montana Trilogy

by Linda Byler

  They decided it would be best to drop Daniel off at the sale. He would tell Anna and her family what happened while Sadie took Paris on home.

  “Aren’t you afraid to drive home alone?” he asked.

  “No. They won’t be back. It’s only a mile or so.”

  She desperately needed time alone to clear her head. The staggering thought that Mark Peight could be the sniper completely did her in. It had to be the same truck. It was, wasn’t it? How could she even begin to understand this complex person, this result of two terribly dysfunctional parents? Or was even this a fabrication, a lie, told in the most convincing manner?

  She prayed, “Dear Lord, you’re going to have to show me the way. I’m in a maze, lost, can’t make any sense out of this. I felt your leading, I did. Now I don’t know anymore.”

  She needed space, she needed her family. She needed, above all, the calming presence of her Lord and Savior. Hadn’t he said his yoke was easy, his burden light?

  As Paris plodded up the driveway, her neck stretched out in weariness, Sadie sang softly,

  His yoke is easy. His burden is light.

  I’ve found it so. I’ve found it so.

  His service is my sweetest delight

  His blessings overflow.

  Peace wrapped her in its loving arms. She cried with joy and thanksgiving as she bathed her beloved Paris, wiped the harness and put it away, then fed the horse a double portion of oats and corn and a block of the best hay. Sadie kissed Paris’ nose and told her goodnight, walked into the house, and collapsed on the sofa, where her family found her a few hours later.

  “I don’t care what you say,” Dorothy said forcefully, steam enveloping her face and shoulders as she unloaded the commercial dishwasher. “You’re going to keep on messing around with them horses until you get yerself kilt, and I mean it.”

  It was Monday morning after the lavish breakfast had been served. Sadie cleaned the floor, swishing the foam mop across the ceramic tile, cleaning corners longer than necessary just to hide her smile.

  “But…” Sadie began.

  Dorothy turned, a stack of clear plates in her hands, and shook her head from side to side, her eyes snapping.

  “Hm-mm. Don’t ‘but’ me. I ain’t listening. If’n yer parents had a lick of common sense, they’d take that crazy gold horse and sell her for … for dog food. She ain’t safe! Now a well-trained horse would not have bolted like that. What n’ na world was you thinking in the first place, hitchin’ ’er up like that?”

  Sadie kept mopping back and forth, scrubbing at a stubborn spot on the tile. Then she straightened, pushed back a stray lock of hair, and faced Dorothy with her hands on her hips.

  “Paris is well trained. Any horse would bolt with that sound of a rifle, gun, whatever it was, being fired. It was an … an accident, a weird thing that happened.”

  Dorothy’s eyes flashed.

  “An act of God, you mean. That’s what you get for prancing around with a stranger from … oh, wherever. Did you ever think for one moment about what Mark thought when he saw you?”

  Rebellion rose in Sadie’s throat, a sort of thickening, causing her voice to become harsh.

  “I don’t care what he thought. I’m not seeing Mark Peight. I don’t ever want to date him either. He’s a coward and a … a … Oh, he makes me so mad! Why can’t he come to the house and ask me out for an official Saturday night date? Huh? Answer that, Dorothy!”

  Dorothy didn’t answer, her lips set in a firm line. She put a large stockpot on the shelf, yanked her apron down, smoothed it across her stomach, and reached for her large, purple mug.

  “Sit down!” she barked.

  “No! I’m not finished mopping.”

  So Dorothy sat and slid off her shoes, putting her feet up on a low bench, revealing the nylons she cut off at the knee, rolled, and twisted to a firm knot. She never bought knee-high nylons, never, saying they slid down your legs, and then what did you have? A sloppy-looking ring around your shoes, which did no honor to them pretty shoes from the Dollar General in town.

  Dorothy dashed an extravagant amount of cream in her empty mug.

  “Fill this for me, Sadie. Please.”

  Sadie propped the handle of her mop against the refrigerator. She turned and filled Dorothy’s mug at the coffee maker, resisting the urge to set the mug down on the table with a severity that was unnecessary.

  “You know if you put your cream in the cup first, then pour the coffee on top of it, you don’t need a spoon?” Dorothy asked.

  Sadie took her revenge by remaining silent. It was a sweet sort of gratification. Dorothy had no right talking about Paris that way.

  “So now you’re mad. Well, you got reason to be. Shouldn’t’a said that, I guess. But you, young lady, need a talkin’ to.”

  “About what?”

  “Your horse, for one. And your guy.”

  Sadie leaned forward, her hands propped on her knees, her eyes bright with the force of her words as she looked straight at Dorothy. “He’s not my guy.”

  “If you did the right thing, he would be.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what you think.”

  Sadie shook her head back and forth, a pendulum of denial. Dorothy got up heavily, her face the picture of frustration. She went to the pantry and returned with two cold, leftover biscuits. She slammed them into the microwave, punched the buttons solidly, then turned to face Sadie.

  Yanking open the door of the microwave, Dorothy slapped the biscuits on a plate and spread an alarming amount of butter on top of each, then sank her teeth into one.

  Sadie wished she’d stop eating biscuits or slurping that disgusting coffee in between each gigantic bite.

  “I don’t know where your parents are. You should not have been allowed to take that… What’s his name?”

  “Daniel.”

  “Whatever. You shouldn’t have taken him on that horse and buggy ride alone. Where was your mom and dad? Now you have all these fancy-dancy notions in your head about a stranger from … wherever, Canada, Iraq, Iran. Who knows?”

  “He’s from Lancaster, Pennsylvania,” Sadie said dryly.

  “Lancaster? That great Amish place everyone talks about?”

  Sadie nodded.

  “Hmm. Well, maybe he could turn out all right, but you are committed to someone else, you know you are. You love him.”

  When Sadie began her denial, Dorothy lifted her chin and held up one finger. “App! Upp! Stop that! Anyone that gets mad when someone doesn’t ask them for a date wants to be with that person. Look at me and Jim. My James. He waited. Took his good old time. I persuaded myself that he made me angry and I didn’t want him, but in truth, I did. I sure did. I got me a good man. The salt of the earth, he is.”

  Sadie took half of a biscuit, spread it with a thin layer of butter, then turned the plastic honey bear upside down and squeezed. Holding the bread carefully above the plate, she answered, “But Jim likely had a normal childhood, not like Mark’s.”

  She bit into the sweet, buttery biscuit, watching Dorothy’s face.

  “I don’t know what you call normal, unless gettin’ up at four a.m. to milk 30 cows when you’re nine years old is normal. His parents divorced when he was in third grade, too. Had a paper route to help keep his family going until his mom remarried, but his stepdad kicked him out when he was 15. Made his own way, so he did.”

  “But that’s still not quite as bad as Mark’s childhood, and I have a feeling I only know the tip of the iceberg. Aren’t people like Mark seriously damaged their whole life long?”

  “Some of ’em.”

  “I don’t know him that well. What if Mark is seriously disturbed?”

  “That’s where you come in at.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You need to be there for your man. He…”

  “He’s not my man.”

  “As I was saying, you need to be there for your man. He needs a good woman
behind him, one that comes from a firm family structure. If ever anyone had a good family life, you do. You need to…”

  Before Dorothy could finish, Bertie Orthman, the aging gardener, made a grand entrance, holding a gigantic bouquet of orange, yellow, and peach-colored daylilies. He got down on one knee and closed his eyes, one arm sweeping the air in time to his humming.

  “Flowers for my lady fa-a-ir.

  My beautiful lady fa-air!”

  Dorothy drew herself up to her full height, lowered her eyebrows, and let out the biggest snort Sadie had ever heard.

  “Bert! For Pete’s sake, don’t you think you’re layin’ it on a bit thick?”

  Bertie dipped and bowed, then swept his arm in an arc, presenting Dorothy with the beautiful bouquet. “There you go, Dot. Beauty presented to the beauty of my life!”

  Another snort. “You know I ain’t beautiful. Give ’em to Sadie.”

  Sadie laughed and accepted the gorgeous display. Bertie laughed with Sadie, then told her it was all in fun, to brighten their day.

  These two, dear, old souls. What a joy to be with them! English people were just more open, more at ease to create a scene like this. They lifted her bogged-down spirits on this humorless morning, when the whole world seemed serious and dangerous and dreadful.

  “You jes’ can’t take a joke, can ya, Dot?”

  Dorothy threw him a nasty look. “You know, Bertie, if you ever let that cat of yours over into my yard again, I’m gonna shoot the flea-infested thing. She gits on my bird feeder, and then she sits, lickin’ her lips, just waitin’ to latch onto one of my birds.

  Bertie’s mouth closed in on itself. The sparkle left his eyes, his eyebrows lowered, and he glared at Dorothy.

  Shoving his face up to hers, he said, “If you … ever, ever shoot my cat, I’ll have the law on you.”

  “Then keep her over there.”

  Sadie burst out laughing.

  “It ain’t funny.”

  “Sure, it’s funny,” Bertie said. “You know, Sadie, she sits on her front porch, rockin’ and rockin’, watchin’ her birds, and I’m right across the road, lookin’ out the same direction on my back porch, rockin’ and rockin’, holdin’ my cat. We’re like two people on a bus, facing the same direction, never communicatin’ ’cept here at work. Never give each other the time of day at home.”

  “You know why? ’Cause I’m afraid if’n I get too friendly, you’ll think I don’t mind about that cat of yours, and I do.”

  “Aw, Caesar Augustus ain’t gittin’ yer birds.”

  Dorothy’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “That yer cat’s name?”

  Suddenly the door ripped open with such force that the conversation came to a halt. They all turned to see who would fly into the kitchen in such a hurry, surprised to find Richard Caldwell himself, looking weary and shaken, but with a light in his eyes that no one had ever seen before.

  “Her name is Sadie Elizabeth Rose.”

  Dorothy was the first one to find her voice. “Who?”

  “Our daughter was born at 5:15 this morning!”

  Sadie sputtered but could form no words at all. She just stared at Richard Caldwell, eyes wide, mouth agape.

  “She ain’t yours,” Dorothy said brusquely.

  “She’s ours. Barbara’s and mine!”

  “But why? How come no one said anything about it?”

  “We kept it a secret.”

  Dorothy’s eyes became cunning, and she nodded her head, pursing her lips.

  “I knew there was somethin’ in the works, so I did,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Richard Caldwell walked over to Sadie, who was still speechless, and put both of his big hands on her shoulders, looking into her face with the most tender expression she thought he was capable of.

  “Your namesake. We want our daughter to be just like you, Sadie.”

  Sadie opened her mouth to say thank you, to be polite and gracious and classy and grown up, but her mouth wobbled and her nose burned and she burst into the most embarrassing tears of her life.

  Instantly, Richard’s huge arms went around her. He was sniffing and wiping his eyes and laughing. Dorothy joined in hugging them both, and Bertie clapped his old, worn hand on Richard Caldwell’s shoulder, congratulating him in very colorful language.

  The tiny, six-pound, 14-ounce Sadie Elizabeth Rose caused quite a stir at Aspen East Ranch. Everyone said they knew something suspicious was going on, especially when the boss started eating breakfast upstairs with his wife. Sadie didn’t think anyone guessed the Caldwells were anticipating a baby. Barbara was a big woman, so her clothes easily concealed the pregnancy. Even so, it was a remarkable feat for both of them to keep it secret.

  No baby showers, no nursery, no nothing, Sadie thought. But the minute the birth was announced, the house became a beehive of activity. The painter, the interior decorator, the carpet cleaner, had all been on standby. Within a few days, the bedroom adjacent to the master suite had been turned into a nursery a mother could only dream of: pink and green rocking horses on the curtains, the crib set, the rugs. Even the new swivel rocker had a shawl with the same horses across the back. Little horse shoes adorned the walls, and luxurious pillows were strewn everywhere.

  Sadie dusted and vacuumed, scoured the bathrooms, cleaned the mirrors, and scrubbed the floors. Bertie brought in great armfuls of lilies for every room, while Dorothy ran in circles and cackled and fussed and wore herself out completely.

  When Richard Caldwell brought Barbara home from the hospital, everyone at the ranch saw the change in her. She was wan but absolutely elated, and she looked 20 years younger, as if this was the crowning moment of her privileged life—a precious daughter of her own.

  Sadie was in awe of Barbara. Being Amish, she had seen lots of babies, even helped out as a maud, but never had she seen such devotion and unabashed joy as this. The Caldwells considered their beloved child a miracle, pure and simple.

  Even Richard Caldwell’s booming voice had quieted. He talked softly, walked lightly, even closed doors gently. He carried his tiny daughter in the crook of one arm, showing her to all the ranch hands as if he, alone, had thought up the whole idea of the human race.

  When the days turned shorter, the evenings cooler, the Caldwells decided to throw a huge cookout for all the help at the ranch to celebrate their daughter’s birth.

  At first, Dat frowned on it, saying it would be no place for Sadie. She explained how Dorothy needed her. He sighed and said he guessed she could go if she wanted to.

  Sadie wanted to go, more out of curiosity than anything else. She would help with the preparation of the food, then find a quiet corner to watch everyone else.

  Maybe with Mark? Where was he? It had been almost a month since the shooting on the day of the consignment sale. She had been convinced it was Mark shooting from that truck. Killing. All those guns were evidence, weren’t they? She could tell Reuben thought about it, too.

  She tried to distance her heart. She tried thinking only of Daniel, but she couldn’t forget about Mark. Not entirely.

  The evening before Daniel had left to return to Pennsylvania, he came to say goodbye. He had been so kind and so sweet, just as he’d been on their dinner date. They had gone to an expensive steakhouse with dim lighting and delicious food she never knew existed. Daniel was handsome, talkative, always laughing. He told her about his family, which sounded very much like her own, only with 10 children. They had their everyday spats and ordinary disagreements, but no argument stayed serious for long. He loved his mam and got along great with his dat, except during the time when he wanted to get a car and join the wilder group of youth. His dat put his foot down, and Daniel didn’t have the heart to hurt his father, which touched Sadie deeply.

  Here was a normal, happy, well-adjusted young man, who was so good-natured it bordered on disbelief. Was he really so kind to everyone?

  He had not kissed her. Sadie wanted him to, then felt guilty for thinking about it.

&n
bsp; She had been swept completely off her feet and began a long-distance romance that would be kept alive through letters and phone calls.

  Had Mark caused her to be this way? Was it wrong? She knew attitudes about distant courtship varied greatly from one Amish community to the next. She agreed that it was not good to touch each other before marriage.

  Or was it? Mam didn’t think so. In fact, she was quite serious about this subject and adamant about her views on dating. She was strict about flirting shamelessly, staying pure and chaste, but didn’t everyone need to know who their partner really was before marrying?

  Sadie knew what Mam meant, without her saying much at all. She did not like the new trend of thinking that you could be above reproach, better than your peers, free of all temptation.

  Still, Sadie wished Daniel had kissed her, to see if she liked him. He hadn’t hugged her; he only shook her hand and looked deeply into her eyes when he said goodbye.

  She had his address and phone number. They promised to write and call each other every week.

  As always, she tried not to think of Mark. Who could she trust, ever?

  Daniel likely had every girl in Lancaster “setting her hat” for him, as Mam used to say. Could she depend on a husband from Lancaster County? The distance was so great. Oh, he said he loved it out here, but did he really? As close as he was to his family, especially his brothers?

  This business of finding a husband was just not her thing. She was no good at it. And yet, when she held little Sadie Elizabeth, she knew with complete certainty that she wanted a darling baby girl of her own someday. She wanted a house and a kind husband, someone who was easier to understand, easier to love, than that Mark Peight and his strange and strong silences.

  Chapter 11

  THE CALDWELLS HIRED EXTRA HELP THE WEEK before the cookout, or “shindig,” as Dorothy put it. She was taking extra vitamin B-12s all week. Her nerves would plain get the best of her if she wasn’t careful.

  Barbara Caldwell had spent entirely too much time in the kitchen, and Sadie knew it made Dorothy uncomfortable. But Barbara had planned the menu and stuck around to make sure everything was done to perfection.