Sadie’s Montana Trilogy

by Linda Byler

  Dat looked at her.

  “The encounters you’ve had recently tell me that they must be watching this place quite regularly. You better listen, Sadie.”

  “They don’t want me and Moon, do they?” Reuben asked innocently.

  “Probably not. But you better not take any chances,” Dat replied.

  As the family walked back to the house, Sadie stayed to rub down Paris, then gave her a small amount of oats. She brushed her mane and tail, stroked her neck, crooning her words of admiration, before closing the gate. Sadie could still see Dat’s head bowed soberly, his hat a silhouette in the disappearing light.

  The incident caused quite a stir down at the ranch. Richard Caldwell called the police, giving Sadie no chance to back out. He put a hand on her back and escorted her into his office.

  The officers intimidated her, and she felt as if, somehow, she had broken the law and that they would haul her off to jail and make her pay a stiff fine.

  The younger of the two was obese, stuffed into his clothes, the belt under his ample stomach tucked away from view, which caused the black holster at his side to jut out awkwardly. He had a sandy crew cut, drooping moustache, and red freckles dotting his nose.

  The older officer was more mature in his ways. Somehow Sadie couldn’t take her eyes off of his large, bobbing teeth. They were long and yellow, just like Paris’. She couldn’t help wondering if his toothbrush was still in the plastic packet it had come in.

  She greeted them politely, with a bowed head, and answered their questions as precisely as she could.

  No, no facial features were visible.

  Black ski masks, yes.

  No, she didn’t know the make of the car. She wasn’t familiar with vehicle types.

  The men were silent as they wrote on yellow legal pads. Their radios crackled. Richard Caldwell looked stern, and Sadie pleated her apron over and over, trying to remain calm and composed.

  When they looked up, they told Richard Caldwell that they would do what they could, but so far, they had not been able to accomplish much. All they had were leads leading to a dead end. This, however, had been the most serious incident, and they warned Sadie to stay off the road.

  Sadie nodded, said, “Yes, sir,” then returned to the kitchen, a cloud of humility over her head.

  Erma Keim accosted Sadie before she even reached the large granite-topped worktable. Erma’s red hair was static with curiosity, but Sadie was in no mood to explain or let her in on one single secret.

  “Well?” Erma asked, her knife stopping midair.

  Sadie shook her head, offering nothing, her mouth a serious, straight line. Erma laid the knife down carefully, took up a stalk of celery and bit down on it as if her life depended on how large a chomp she would take. Glancing sideways at Sadie, she tried again, “Well?”

  “They were talking to Richard Caldwell.”

  Another gargantuan bite, followed by a snort of epic proportions.

  “I’m not dumb, Sadie. There was a reason why he so politely escorted you into his office with those policemen. Look, I won’t tell, but I can’t stand the suspense. You have to tell me what happened. Did you steal something from the ranch, or were you caught with something illegal, or…”

  Sadie raised her eyebrows. “You think I’d do that?”

  “No, of course not, but if you don’t tell me, I’ll make up my own reasons why you were in with those police.”

  Sadie laughed, and then related the incident as minimally as possible. Even so, she had to endure Erma’s popping eyes, her clucks, her shrieks of alarm, and her dramatic warnings and finger-shakings.

  Dorothy entered the kitchen carrying a huge piece of beef in paper wrapping, her breath coming in fits and gasps. Flinging it on the worktable, she grabbed her side, leaned forward, and grimaced.

  “Ow! Pulled a muscle!”

  “You should have let me help you,” Erma offered kindly.

  “I can carry a beef roast up them steps as good as anybody else. Thank you,” Dorothy said formally.

  Sadie turned her head to hide her grin. This was the merry-go-round the ranch kitchen had become: Dorothy desperately seeking control over every aspect of the cooking, Erma muttering under her breath or complaining about the way things were done, and Sadie caught in the middle, forever attempting to find common ground between the two.

  The menu for the meal that evening was beef stew with dumplings, baked beans, a lettuce salad, pickled beets, and homemade bread with apple butter.

  The lettuce salad had been Erma’s idea. It wasn’t an ordinary salad with a mixture of vegetables, but rather a salad of lettuce, thin slices of onion, and sliced, hard-boiled eggs. Dorothy grudgingly allowing it, and Sadie wondering what the men would say.

  To go with the salad, Erma cooked a wonderful hot bacon dressing with plenty of bacon chips in the creamy mayonnaise-based concoction. Sadie filled a small dish with the salad and ate it while they cooked. It was delicious. Dorothy hovered in the background, not saying a word no matter how hard Sadie tried to pull her into the conversation.

  The lettuce salad was a huge hit, and many of the men complimented the cook, as Dorothy was called. She bowed her head, batted her eyelashes, and put on a show of humility as she accepted the praise, never mentioning Erma or her recipes.

  Richard Caldwell noticed the change in recipes as well and came into the kitchen with a broad smile softening his granite features.

  Erma was still in the same stage Sadie had been in a few years ago, when the sound of Richard Caldwell’s voice made her drop the Pledge furniture polish. Erma tried to pass it off as nothing, but Sadie could tell he unnerved her by the way her speed increased when he entered the room.

  Richard Caldwell clapped a hand on Dorothy’s rounded shoulder and congratulated her on another outstanding meal.

  “That dressing was the greatest thing I ever poured on lettuce!” he boomed, causing Erma to scrub the pans with a new intensity.

  Dorothy nodded, the deep pink color in her apple cheeks turning to crimson. She said nothing, turning to look apprehensively in the direction of Erma, who was slathering a roaster with dish detergent, squeezing the soap bottle so hard Sadie was afraid they’d never get rid of all the leftover suds.

  “So who gets the credit for the recipe?” he yelled.

  There was more furious scrubbing in Erma’s corner while Dorothy drew herself up to her full height. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in concentration.

  “My grandmother had a recipe like that,” she said.

  It wasn’t a lie. It was the truth.

  And it was all Richard Caldwell needed to know. Assuming the recipe came from Dorothy, he smiled and thanked her again. Then he left the kitchen, picking up a biscuit on his way out and winking at Sadie, who smiled back.

  Oh, boy, Sadie thought.

  Erma kept scrubbing for a full minute before turning and wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a white shelf of suds across her eyebrows.

  Slowly, much too sweetly, she said, “I didn’t know we used your grandmother’s recipe.”

  “We didn’t.”

  “I guess that’s a useless bit of information Richard Caldwell doesn’t need to know.”

  “’Course not.”

  The kitchen was a beehive of tension after that. Erma scurried back and forth, her eyes popping, her hair standing on end with resentment. Dorothy’s expression indicated no good either, in that haughty state where she became unapproachable.

  Sadie’s own mood hovered between irritation and resentment. Work just wasn’t the same with Erma in the kitchen. The mounting tension had steadily increased all week. She was exhausted.

  For the first time she could remember, she did not want to come back to work in the morning, Oh, she had her sleepy Monday-morning blues like everyone else, but nothing that blackened her entire day the way these two did with their silly squabbles.

  Sadie finished boiling the potatoes for the morning’s home fries, wa
shed her hands, then said she was going to find Jim. It was time to go home. She tiredly stuck her arms into her coat sleeves, shrugging the coat over her shoulders.

  “The floor ain’t done,” Dorothy said evenly.

  “I’ll get it,” Erma said, stepping forward. “You can go.”

  Dorothy’s eyebrows shot straight up, and she watched without comment as Erma filled a bucket, added soap, and bent to begin her task.

  “You sure you can handle it?” Dorothy asked.

  “What?”

  “The floor?”

  “It’s not a big floor,” Erma answered, swiping furiously.

  Dorothy shook her head, smiled, and winked at Sadie. Then she bent to find Erma’s gaze.

  “You piling coals of fire on my head, or what?”

  “No, I’m washing the floor with soapy water. I have no plans to pile coals on your head.”

  Dorothy burst out laughing, and after a pause, Erma sat back and laughed with her.

  “No stupid ol’ lettuce salad gonna ruin us, now, is it?” she chortled, wiping her eyes.

  Erma nodded, a hint of tears glistening in her own eyes.

  Chapter 19

  PERHAPS THE UNBALANCED RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN Erma and Dorothy was a good thing. Mark told Sadie that his mother had sent another letter stating her desperation to see him. He would go this time. Sadie didn’t hesitate to tell him that she would accompany him on the trip to visit her.

  The ranch could be run smoothly without her, even if Dorothy and Erma were like a team of horses that jerked on the singletree, one lunging forward while the other held back.

  They planned a trip by train on Amtrak. Their destination was almost 600 miles to a town in North Dakota. As they made arrangements, Mark became reserved, offering only a minimal amount of information, his eyes dark pools of restraint. Sadie wondered if he wanted her to go along at all. So a few days before they left, she voiced her concerns, haltingly.

  “Mark, I’m not sure how you feel about taking me with you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re… It’s tough… I guess I’m scared. She doesn’t want you to be … Amish. What will happen when she sees me? You could go alone and dress English, and she’d never know the difference.”

  Mark looked at her coldly, his expression unreadable. Then he bent his head, hiding his eyes in his hands.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you, Sadie. My mother is very, very ill. She’s dying, I think. I wasn’t going to tell you,” he repeated.

  “Oh, Mark!”

  “We actually spoke on the phone a few times, and, Sadie, she’s so bitter. I’m still reeling from those calls. Her voice so weak…” He paused, then, “What can I do? I don’t feel as if I’ll be able to help her. I have so much baggage of my own to carry. It’ll be like the blind leading the blind, two mixed-up, bitter people.”

  “Your baggage is lighter than it was.”

  “You think so?” His tone was mocking. Then, “You have no idea.”

  Sadie prayed as she packed her things that night. She prayed as she showered, dressed, and said goodbye to her family the next morning. She begged God to stay with them, impart his wisdom, and erase all the old hatred that lingered in both Mark and his mother. Somehow, she knew that hatred was the only thing keeping Mark and his mother from true happiness and peace.

  Reuben took Sadie aside and told her not to worry about Paris. He’d take good care of her. Besides, he was planning to teach Anna to ride, now that she had lost so much weight. Sadie told him she would depend on him, but to be very careful with the snipers still on the loose.

  Reuben was almost as tall as Sadie now, their eyes almost level. The sudden knowledge of this surprised her.

  Dear Reuben.

  When Mark pulled up to the porch with a driver, Sadie was ready to go. She turned to say goodbye to her family, but the lump in her throat made it difficult.

  Mam smelled of frying corn mush and laundry detergent. Sadie breathed in deeply as she hugged her tightly.

  Dat’s expression was gruff, but his eyes were liquid with love. Sadie’s sisters handed her a packet of tissues and a pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. Reuben smiled, then dipped his head to hide his tears.

  In the van, Mark tried to keep the conversation light. He bantered with Adam Glassman, the driver, telling him they were eloping, which caused heat to infuse Sadie’s cheeks. But when the train pulled in and they were settled in their seats, a cloud settled over Mark. His features darkened until he turned away from her and pretended to be asleep.

  Sadie sat still and watched the other passengers. She smiled at a baby no older than six months. The harried mother acknowledged her smile gratefully, glad to have a friendly person sitting so close.

  “Are you used to babies?” she asked timidly.

  “Not in my immediate family, but yes, there are lots of babies in our community,” Sadie answered.

  “I’m so nervous about taking Braxton on a trip this way. What if he cries and I can’t make him stop?”

  “You’ll be fine. He looks perfectly happy,” Sadie answered.

  She picked up her magazine, flipped through it, and began to read an article about training a horse to drive. It absorbed her interest completely until her stomach began to rumble.

  She was surprised to find it was almost lunchtime. When her glances at Mark’s back did nothing to rouse him, she picked up another magazine and read one boring article after another.

  The baby fell asleep, the mother noticeably relaxed now. The train’s wheels hummed beneath them, taking them farther and farther from home.

  The Juicy Fruit gum took the edge off her rumbling stomach, but she was still hungry and then grew irritable. She had not eaten breakfast but only drank two cups of coffee, which she definitely should not have done. Why hadn’t she packed a few sandwiches? When would Mark wake up?

  Finally, he sat up and turned to talk to her. Sadie could tell by his eyes that he hadn’t slept at all. He just shut her out of that deep, dark place he went to at certain times. No amount of prodding ever uncovered the reason why.

  He said nothing about food. In fact, he didn’t talk at all for the next hour. Sadie attempted short spurts of conversation, but she felt as ineffective as a housefly bothering a horse, getting only grunts for answers.

  The lack of food and support from Mark drew her spirits down until she was in one of the worst moods possible. First, she wished she hadn’t come; then she wished she had never met Mark Peight at all.

  She was blinking back tears when an announcement came over the speaker saying they’d be stopping in the next town for approximately an hour and a half.

  She glanced at Mark and was rewarded by his gaze.

  “Hungry?”

  She nodded happily.

  He returned to her then, attentive, polite, and kind as always. He told her to order whatever she wanted and not to worry about the cost. This was sort of a vacation for them both.

  She decided to try something new from the menu, a pasta dish consisting of a flat spaghetti. It was a word she could not pronounce: linguini. It was covered with sauce called marinara, another word she had never heard of, and topped with little shrimp and the most heavenly tasting cheese. There were slivers of thin garlic toast, and a salad made of fresh lettuce, dark spinach, croutons, cheese, and a spicy dressing. It was wonderful.

  “Definitely not Amish food!” she laughed.

  “Nope. No mashed potatoes and chicken gravy here,” Mark replied.

  For the remainder of the journey, he remained attentive, talkative, almost lighthearted. He emerged from his swamp of hopelessness as if it had never occurred.

  There was no one to meet them in the town of Ashton, of course. The station was small, the old building consisting of crumbling bricks, an aging wooden cornice, and battered window frames. A remnant of white paint clung stubbornly to the graying wood of the exterior, weathered by hot winds and freezing blizzards.

  Even in the light
of early spring, a gray despondency hovered over the flat little town. There was nothing except scrubby emptiness that went on and on and on in all directions. Dirty tumbleweeds, covered with the dust that rusty pickup trucks agitated, clung to buildings as if hoping to escape their journey into oblivion.

  Sadie shivered, glancing at the hovering water tower in the sky, a sort of peeling, steel sentry, crumbling along with the brick buildings and the windowpanes.

  The wind blew constantly, just like at home, pulling at her skirt and ruffling Mark’s hair.

  Sadie crossed her arms and looked around a dusty waiting room with a filthy carpet, a cow skull on the wall, and dusty chairs. She decided right then and there that Mark was the only safe thing in this town.

  He talked to the girl behind the desk, asking if there was any taxi service available, handing her the address from his pocket.

  She chewed a huge wad of gum, snapping and popping it at regular intervals. She nodded her head in recognition.

  “Ya see there,” the girl said, pointing out the window with an index finger, the nail polished to a crimson hue.

  “Cross the street. Jeff don’t have a sign over his store, but go in through that open door, and he’ll give ya a ride. If yer folks are on Killdeer Road, Jeff can find ’em.”

  She fixed Sadie with a frank, curious stare.

  “Ya Mennonite? No, lemme guess, yer Mormons, right?”

  She batted her lashes, those thick heavy spiders of mascara, and grinned up at Mark. He laughed, clearly enjoying her open approach to their different way of dressing.

  “None of those. We’re Amish.”

  “What kind of animal is that?” she asked, her penciled eyebrows drawn down.

  She burst into laughter so loud, she almost lost the enormous wad of gum.

  “It’s sort of Mennonite,” Sadie offered, seeing this girl was clearly baffled. No use trying to explain.

  “Well, you’re awful good-looking, whatever you are. You said yer mother lives out on Killdeer Road? Ain’t never seen anybody wearin’ those kinda clothes, so she must have left the fold.”