by Linda Byler
Her mind was a million miles away until she saw Richard and Barbara Caldwell come out of the house, walking purposefully toward her. Sadie let go of the lever that powered the water spray and turned to greet them with the respect a boss required.
“Good morning,” she said evenly.
“Yes, it is a good one. How are you?” Richard Caldwell boomed, his wife smiling at Sadie.
“You have dark circles under your eyes,” Barbara observed.
“Do I?”
“We’re being too hard on you, right? You’re overworked.”
“No, no,” Sadie demurred.
They told Sadie what was on their minds. More horses had been killed the evening before. There was a serious threat in the area, and the local police needed telephone numbers to leave messages and warn the Amish.
This time, a full-blooded Tennessee Walker, the pride of the Lewis Ranch, the LWR, had been gunned down in broad daylight, along with a prize mare. And as an afterthought, three miniature ponies had been killed also, all in a drive-by shooting. They had, however, one vague clue. There was a truck, a blue diesel, seen in the vicinity, driving by slowly about the time of the shooting.
Sadie’s shoulders slumped as color drained from her face. She plucked at a dead geranium without thinking, trying to bide her time before lifting her face to meet the piercing gaze of Richard Caldwell.
“Sadie? Do you know anything at all?”
Sadie sank weakly into a lawn chair, then met their questioning gazes. She told them honestly everything she knew, including the shot ringing out when she was with Daniel King and the truck the evening before.
Richard Caldwell fairly shouted at her, the veins protruding in his thick neck. What she was doing, traipsing along the road in the dark like that? Barbara placed a well-manicured hand on his arm and patted it a few times to calm him.
“The police have to know this,” Richard Caldwell bellowed.
“They do,” Barbara agreed.
“Everything? Even last night’s incident?”
“No. There’s more than one diesel truck in this area. Likely a kid needed to go to the bathroom, as Dorothy said.”
As the Amish people listened to the phone messages from the police, fear settled over the community like a cloak of heaviness. Parents feared for their children’s safety. They kept their horses in barns, and children no longer rode on carts hitched to ponies. Local drivers took them to school in vans.
Families walked whenever possible. When distances were too great, they drove their teams cautiously, glancing furtively to the left and right, never relaxed, goading their horses to a fast trot.
Dat shook his head and said Fred Ketty may be on to something when she said the end of the world was nigh with so much evil in rural Montana.
Then two of Dave Detweiler’s Belgians were found below their pasture. The fence had been cut with wire cutters, and the great horses had been chased out, then gunned down. There were no footprints or any trace of the killers left behind.
The Amish people were shaken but took the news stoically, as is their way. No use crying over spilled milk, they could have been struck by lightning, and God would not be mocked. These men would be brought to justice.
Sadie was afraid for Paris, so she kept her inside the barn. Dat said he wasn’t keeping Charlie off that good pasture. He guessed if they got the horse, they would. That comment made Sadie so angry she felt like telling Dat a thing or two, but she knew she shouldn’t.
Paris hung her head over the door and whinnied all day, while Charlie stood in the pasture and whinnied back. Reuben got so tired of it he brought Charlie into the barn and closed the gate. The whinnying stopped, and Dat never did anything to change it.
Reuben claimed aliens were hovering over the pastures in green flying ships and shooting horses for revenge. Mam scolded him thoroughly. She said there’s no such thing as aliens, and he better watch it or he’d have to go work in John Troyer’s truck patch, helping to clean it up as fall approached.
That shut Reuben up.
Sadie was afraid to ride. Still, when summer breezes turned into the biting winds of autumn, when the frost lay heavy in the hollows and the brown leaves swirled among the golden ones from the aspens, she could no longer hold back.
She asked Reuben to accompany her on Charlie. He looked up from his word-search booklet, his eyes round with fear.
“If you think for one minute that I’m going riding with you, you’re nuts. Charlie isn’t a riding horse. It’s like riding a camel. He trots, and you bounce up and down, rattling all your teeth loose. I’m not going.”
“Reuben!” Sadie wailed.
“Nope. Go by yourself.”
“Okay. I will.”
“You’re crazy.”
With that, Reuben went back to his word search, shaking his head wisely.
Mam was down in the basement, rearranging jars of canned goods. Sadie contemplated asking for permission, but she knew the answer would be a dead no. So she just left, though she felt a bit guilty.
Dat was at a school meeting and wouldn’t be home until later. But she met Anna coming down the stairs from the haymow, holding a black cat who was struggling mightily, clearly displeased at being removed from the warm, sweet-smelling hay.
“Whatcha doing?” she asked innocently.
“Riding.”
Anna shrugged her shoulders, hanging on grimly to the cat struggling to be free.
Sadie laughed, then whistled happily as she caught Paris’ chin, kissed her nose, and began brushing the sleek, golden coat.
“We’re going riding, Sweetheart, for better or for worse. Here we go!”
Chapter 13
THE FEELING OF BEING ON HORSEBACK AGAIN WAS one of jubilation. Sadie loved seeing Paris throw her head high, her ears swiveling forward then back, tuned in to Sadie’s commands. Of course, there were no commands, and there wouldn’t be. All Sadie had to do was give Paris a slight squeeze on the ribs or lay the reins easily on her neck. The communication between the two was so complete as to be almost imperceptible. But Paris knew, and so did Sadie.
Paris wanted to run. Should Sadie take her to the field of wildflowers? Sadie shivered. Taming Paris and Cody among the wildflowers had been so beautiful, but now a dark sort of foreboding hung over the field, turning it gray with her own apprehension. Could she ever ride there again?
She would never forget Reuben’s sobs and the despair that shook his young body. He still had no horse. He wanted nothing to do with another one.
She held Paris in until the road wound uphill, then she let the horse run. She would let her stretch out, let her gather her feet beneath her, lunge with those powerful haunches, her heavy shoulders, feel the wind in her face just up this ridge. Then she’d turn around and go back.
Paris lowered her head. Power surged through her body as she raced up the winding road of Atkin’s Ridge. Sadie leaned forward, sitting low in the saddle, savoring the wind that rushed in her ears.
They were almost at the top of the ridge. The light was darker here, the trees dense. There was a high embankment to her right, a heavy growth of trees and another steep incline to her left. It would be best to turn around and let Paris go slowly back down the way they had come.
A mockingbird dipped in the air ahead of her, his silly calls following him. First a cardinal’s call, then a thrush, and finally a seagull. Had this saucy bird no shame, mocking these beautiful birds of the air? She turned her head, following his whereabouts until she located him high up in a scraggly pine.
She guessed that was why she didn’t see the pickup truck until it was directly in front of her.
The throbbing, pulsating diesel sound pierced her awareness. A shot of raw fear surged through her with the power of a streak of lightning.
No! Not now! Remorse followed on fear’s heels. Why had she been so foolish?
The truck was coming steadily, slowly. The blue color gleamed in the twilight.
There was only one way ou
t. Up the embankment. Paris could do it.
Turning the horse, Sadie laid the reins on the left side of Paris’ neck.
“Up, Paris! Up, girl.” Sadie leaned forward, preparing herself for the powerful gathering of her hooves, the leaping.
Paris obeyed to perfection. Oh, wonderful horse! Her feet were sure, her hooves ringing on the rocks as she scrambled up, up, sideways up the incline. Sadie leaned over her neck, speaking softly, goading her on.
The occupants of the pickup yelled something. Sadie heard their harsh anger. But what did they say? Would they follow her?
The forest was green and brown, yellow and red with autumn, decked out in its final show before winter winds would howl through it, turning everything stark and white.
“Dear God, keep me safe. Stay with me, protect me, and keep me from harm,” she prayed like a little child.
Paris took one last leap up the incline before pushing her way through the thicket, brushing nervously past two trees. Sadie pulled in the reins, sat up, listened, her heart racing.
There. She could still hear that truck idling. They had not moved on!
What was their motive? Who were they looking for? How could they terrorize a peace-loving, sleepy, little Montana community this way? Sadie was convinced the blue diesel truck held the shooter—or shooters.
Suddenly, anger overtook her common sense, and she turned Paris to the left. If she could get close enough, she might be able to see the license plate through the trees.
Should she tie Paris or stay on her back?
The truck was still idling, and Sadie was afraid to look and see if its occupants were inside or out. Better stay on the horse.
“Shhh, Paris,” Sadie whispered.
They moved quietly through the trees until the rear of the pickup was in sight. But it was too far away now. She leaned to the right, her eyes straining to see the figures on the metal rectangle. All she needed was that license plate number.
Was that a six? Or an eight?
She screamed then, a sound of pure terror, as two heads appeared coming up over the embankment. Paris lifted her head. Sadie loosened the reins and screamed again.
“Go, Paris! Go!”
She bent low and let Paris take control. Horses could always find their way home, and Sadie trusted Paris more than anything. They raced through the forest, zig-zagging first uphill, then sideways downhill, over rocks, between trees. Sadie looked back, her eyes wide with fear.
What would happen once Paris broke out of the woods? She couldn’t go back on the road. Did those men know where she lived?
A feeling of despair enveloped her, threatened to choke her. She couldn’t go home. Besides, Paris wasn’t going home. She was running downhill in the opposite direction, away from home. She slowed, her ears pricked forward, before wheeling, veering sharply to the right and running diagonally down the side of the forested hill.
The sun was getting very low in the west, dust-laden streaks of light slanting between the trees. The browns and reds turned into stripes of flaming color.
A fence!
Instinctively, Sadie pulled back, but Paris had seen it and was slowing of her own accord.
“Whoop. Watch it, Paris. There’s a fence.”
Horses! This was someone’s pasture.
Well, they’d have to find their way around it.
Paris picked her way carefully now. The horses in the pasture lifted their heads, whinnied. Paris answered with a high cry of her own.
The biggest horse lifted his head farther, then trotted over.
Hadn’t she seen him somewhere before? He was so massive in the shoulders. And that color. So distinct. The grayish-oatmeal color of an Appaloosa mixture.
Sadie rode carefully as the horse trotted up to the fence, tossing his head, his mane whipping in the brisk wind.
The fence dipped into a culvert, then went almost straight up a steep hill. Sadie rode easily, but she was tense, her fear a support that kept her vigilant.
She remained alert for any unusual sound, the sight of a human being, the rumbling of traffic, anything that could mean she was being followed. As she crested the hill, she saw the rooftops of a barn, shed, then more outbuildings.
This, too, seemed vaguely familiar. But, no. She wasn’t far enough out to be on Mark Peight’s property, was she?
The fence stopped at a corner, then turned straight across the hayfield to the barn. She stopped Paris, indecision making her falter.
As if on cue, she heard the low rumbling of traffic. Was it the diesel truck? Well, if it was, they could just drive straight on past Mark Peight’s place and be gone. She was safe for now.
Suddenly she became rigid with anger. Who in the world did they think they were? Riding around like cowards, wreaking havoc on people’s lives, wrecking livelihoods, creating heartache.
The police were doing what they could, but there was no evidence, so they weren’t making much progress. That made her mad, too.
Something had to be done. Someone had to take charge. If Mark was any sort of man, he’d stand by her and help out.
Besides, if he truly was innocent of ever having anything to do with these twisted individuals, who seemed to receive some sort of nameless thrill by killing innocent animals, this would be his chance to prove it.
Over and over he had assured her that this thing was way over his head. He couldn’t fathom it, this senseless killing. In typical Mark-fashion, he had pouted and ignored her, his way of letting her know she had hurt his feelings by refusing to place her trust in him.
Hadn’t he pledged his word the night of the cookout? That long magical evening when their words flowed, an artesian well of entwined emotions, a night she would never forget.
Kicking the stirrups and yanking on the reins, she startled Paris into a gallop across the hayfield and into the barnyard. She hauled back on the reins, then waited.
When she heard no one, she called his name.
Mark rounded the corner of a building wearing a nail pouch, his sleeves rolled up, hatless, surprise written all over his face from his wide-open eyes to his open mouth.
“Sadie Miller! What on earth…?”
She dismounted, led Paris into the forebay, and said, “Shut the door.”
He obeyed immediately, latching it securely.
“Mark, I want you to listen to me. I need your help. These men are shooting horses again. I went for a ride, and they…” She caught her breath. “They saw me.”
“Who are they?”
“How would I know? It’s that blue diesel pickup. They have the gall … the … the … indecency to ride around wrecking people’s lives as if a horse, a beautiful creature, was a … a stump used for target practice. And listen, I think they’re after Paris. For a long time I didn’t want to believe that, but now I’m sure Paris has something to do with it.
“Remember the black?”
Mark nodded.
“Well, he was shot. So was Cody. I still think there’s a connection between the horse thieves and these shootings. Now they must be after Paris. I think she’s a valuable horse in some way I don’t even know.
“Mark, let’s get close to the road, maybe put a roadblock across it. They’re in the area. We need to get that license-plate number. I’m tired of everything. The fear. The not knowing. If no one else does anything, I will.”
In the dim interior of the barn, Mark could see this was no lady in distress. He watched her face intently and saw her honest resolve. She meant business, and she meant it now.
He smiled at her. “You really mean it?”
“Yes, I do. Now hurry. Can Paris have a drink? Some hay? She’s been ridden hard.”
Snapping a neck rope around Paris, Mark loosened her bridle, then took it off, hanging it on a nail nearby. Paris dipped her head as if to acknowledge the kind gesture, then drank deeply, her nostrils quivering.
Sadie laughed. “That’s funny. She never drinks out of water troughs she’s not used to.”
&nbs
p; Mark lifted his eyebrows suggestively. “A good omen for us,” he teased.
Sadie blushed and kicked at some loose straw, as if her concentration could push his teasing away.
They tied Paris in a stall, gave her a block of fragrant hay, and turned to go. The sun was setting behind a distant ridge, and Sadie’s heart sank along with it.
Sadie had to let Dat and Mam know where she was. Bewildered, she asked Mark what she should do. He steered her into the implement shed where a black phone hung on the wall.
She picked up the receiver, dialed the number, and, of course, no one answered. She left a quick message, saying she was at Mark Peight’s house with Paris, and they were not to worry. She couldn’t tell them how she’d get home because she didn’t know. Darkness was fast approaching.
When she hung up, she looked at Mark.
“Can we put a roadblock across the road?”
“I don’t think that’s legal.”
“Can we stop them somehow? Can you flag them down? What reason could we give for trying to stop them?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”
He strode off toward the barn, returning with a heavy Stihl weed whacker.
“I’ll work at the weeds around these buildings. You sit behind that row of pine trees.”
Sadie assessed the trees, and then nodded her head.
“I’ll climb up. They’re easy.”
They parted ways, Mark going to his designated area, Sadie to hers.
There was plenty of light. Good.
Mark pulled at the weed-wacker rope again and again until it sputtered to life, then moved it back and forth in long, sweeping motions.
Sadie listened, wondering if they would hear the sound of the diesel truck above the whining of the weed wacker.
Sadie watched Mark, the play of his shoulders, the ease with which he handled the heavy equipment.
Why did he have to be so complicated?
A little while later, Mark laid down the weed wacker and looked in the direction of the pine tree.
“You still up there, Sadie?”
“Yep!” she answered.
