by Linda Byler
“Huh-uh!”
“I bet you would.”
“Hah-ah.” So pronounced, her words were almost guttural.
“Come on, Anna. It’s way too bright. The parents would have a fit.”
“Hah-ah.”
“Tell you what. I’ll buy you another one if you’ll go shopping with me.”
Anna rolled over on her back, then sat up, pulling her knees to her chin, wrapping her arms around them. Her dark hair was disheveled, a lock hanging into her large, dark eyes and the dark shadows of … what? Tiredness? Lack of good nutrition? Her eyes made her appear older, much older in fact, than her years.
Anna said nothing and just looked at her steadily, unflinching, with a cold look Sadie could not fully perceive.
“I want the dress I chose.” The voice was flat, the words hard as nails.
Sadie said nothing, sighed, turned toward the dresser, picked up a small bottle of cologne, winced, gasped in shock at the words written diagonally across it. Still saying nothing, she plucked off the cap, spritzed a small amount on her wrist, rubbed it with the palm of her hand, and sniffed. “Mmm.”
Anna’s face brightened.
“You like it?”
“Yes, it smells … different. Where did you buy it?”
“Neil gave it to me.”
The defiant note in her voice is what gave away the lie. There was an angry retort on Sadie’s tongue, but she caught herself just in time, knowing that a thick, suffocating confrontation would follow, driving a wedge of cast iron into the fragile relationship between them.
“He did? No birthday, no nothing?” Sadie turned, her eyebrows raised, surprise in her voice. “And you’re not dating?”
Anna came up off the bed in one movement, her face darkening as anger propelled her. Standing boldly, one thin hand on her hip, her pelvis jutted out in defiance, she clipped her words short.
“No, we’re not dating. Which I hope you know is none of your business. If I remember correctly, you weren’t dating Mark for a very long time. Just sort of creeping around.”
It was the sarcasm that did it. Turning, she felt the heat rise in her face, did nothing to stop it. She stepped within a foot of her sister, thrust her face close to hers, and let her words fall where they would.
“Anna, you know Neil did not give you that cologne. You also know that you are on a dangerous road, completely obsessed with a person of … of questionable intent. You can’t do this, Anna. He doesn’t seem like someone you should be spending time with.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Yes, I think I do. When I saw you two at my wedding, I could tell. You have no idea how you two appeared. The…”
She was cut short. “Shut up!”
Sadie’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Anna!”
“Get out! Get out of my room and stop talking. Go!”
Sadie opened her mouth, closed it, turned, and walked through the door, closing it firmly behind her.
The remainder of the day passed in a blur. Mam prattled away happily about Kevin and Leah, how absolutely wonderfully he treated her, how much money he made, being the same as foreman on that logging operation, but then his father always was a good manager. Everything he touched turned into money.
Mam said this innocently, but Sadie caught the underlying pride. She wanted to tell Mam to be careful, but she was suddenly too tired, too beaten down by Anna’s outburst to try and remedy anything at all. She just wanted to go home. Home to Mark, to her clean, uncluttered life, where the unpleasantness came only from Paris’s absence, which would turn out all right in the end, she felt sure.
She hitched up Truman with Rebekah’s help. She waved good-bye as he pulled the carriage down the drive, and a deep sense of anticipation settled over her.
There was no need to question whether it had been God’s will for her to become Mark Peight’s wife. With a deep, abiding knowledge, she knew the rightness of it, of returning to him with this joy after spending a day with her family.
She would worry about Anna, the magenta-colored dress, Neil, the questionable cologne, but she would be able to put all of it out of her thoughts, for a time, anyway. Perhaps it was just a phase.
The cream-colored SUV passed her from behind, traveling so slowly she almost had to hold Truman back to keep from catching up to it. Annoying driver … Why didn’t he accelerate? Just get going? She did pull back on the black leather reins then, or she would have driven too close. Probably an elderly couple afraid of the snow-covered back roads. Truman wanted to run, so Sadie held back firmly now, glad to see the car ahead of her pick up speed.
Driving horses were all the same, she thought. When you got them out of the barn and hitched them to the buggy, they trotted along willingly, took you where you wanted to go, settling down to a level trot, even if they felt a bit spunky at first, dancing around, balking a bit, or crow-hopping sometimes. But if you let them stand at a barn, or along a fence, or tied to a hitching rack for any length of time, then hitched them up to return home, they pricked their ears forward and clipped along at a much better pace, knowing a good cold drink out of their own trough, a nice pile of oats, and a block of good hay awaited them at home.
Home was where all horses wanted to be. Me, too, Truman, Sadie thought, smiling to herself. She had some cold chicken breast in the refrigerator. She would make the chicken and rice casserole for Mark this evening. No broccoli, so she’d substitute peas. She had a whole pumpkin pie in a round Tupperware container under the seat, a gift from Mam, bless her heart. Pumpkin pies were complicated to make. She smiled to herself, thinking of Mam’s distaste for any uncovered, or loosely covered, food items put under the seat of a buggy. No matter how hard you tried to avoid it, there was always a certain amount of horse hair floating inside a buggy, always finding its way to the top of a container. But not one hair would be on the pumpkin pie. Mam double-checked the famously secure Tupperware seal.
The beige-colored SUV approached her again from the opposite direction, driving as slow as before. The windows were tinted, so there was no use checking for the occupants. That was some expensive vehicle, Sadie guessed.
She wondered vaguely what she would drive if she was English. She smiled at the thought of turning the ignition key, stepping on a pedal, and moving off. Wouldn’t that be different?
She wished she had sunglasses to wear. The late afternoon sun was blinding. That would be different, too. A pair of black sunglasses on a face framed by an Amish bonnet. Likely she’d get her picture on the front page of the local newspaper.
Truman was gathering speed for his dash up the side of Atkin’s Ridge, so Sadie relaxed the reins, letting him have his head, knowing he had to make it up the hill on his own terms, rounding the curve on top like a racer, leaning to the right.
She pulled back in alarm when the same SUV roared past from behind, disappearing up the side of the ridge in a whirl of snow and grit. Boy, for all the time they wasted going back and forth, probably looking for a certain road sign, they must have suddenly decided they knew where they were going.
And when she came upon this vehicle parked across the road, she hauled back on the leather reins as hard as she could, thinking they should have been more careful, having suddenly hit an icy spot. She hoped no one was hurt, and she was glad to see the vehicle had not turned over. There was no way around it, with the high bank on one side and the steep incline on the other, so she opened the window, calling “Whoa.”
Chapter 3
TRUMAN OBEYED, ALTHOUGH HE RAISED AND lowered his head, pulling at his bit, impatient at the obstacle in his path.
Sadie was surprised when the doors flung open and two men wearing black ski masks quickly ran to the buggy. Her first thought was about their lack of common sense, wearing ski masks this time of the day when the temperatures weren’t that low. Later, during the night, the temperature would hover below zero. It was only when she saw the small black pistol in the fat man’s gloved hand that she felt the first st
ab of fear.
“Don’t give us any trouble and you won’t get hurt.”
The words were muffled, as if the opening in his mask was at the wrong place. His breath was coming fast and hard, like he had been running. The barrel of the pistol was so tiny. It looked like a toy, actually. Maybe it was. That thought was fleeting, instantly replaced by the knowledge of danger and the alarming position in which she now found herself.
Truman’s ears flicked back, he lowered his head and tested the reins.
“You’re coming with us.”
She knew she couldn’t do that. Who would care for Truman and the buggy? What about Mark? His chicken-and-rice casserole? Her eyes sought an opening, a way through. Not enough room. Could she jump out, make it on foot? Not in this snow. Panic spread its oily fingers across her chest, squeezing her lungs till her breathing was only coming in shallow puffs.
“Get down.” The words were garbled, surprisingly mild, and, in a way, mannerly.
“I can’t.” Her voice was hoarse, her dry throat now aching with a sort of despair, an acceptance that this time she could not go dashing away on Paris. She didn’t even know where Paris was.
“You will get down.” The words were forceful now, spoken much louder. The gun was positioned again, shoved up against the frame of the buggy where the door had been slid back.
Wildly now, her eyes darted, searching for an escape route, realizing there was none. Slowly, methodically, she lifted the lap robe that kept her legs warm.
“I can’t just let … Truman … the horse, loose.”
“Get down now.”
There was nothing to do but obey. Not with that pistol stuck in her face and the two men waiting for her. It was when she laid the reins across the glove compartment, slid the lap robe away from her legs, and grasped the frame of the buggy to lower herself that a total loss of hope clenched her heart. Here, on Atkin’s Ridge, again. This time, would it be her last? She was too afraid to pray.
Like a robot, she moved. Her foot hit the step, then the ground. She was immediately seized on either side, her elbows encased in gloved hands like vices clamping down and propelling her forward. Stumbling, sliding, looking back at Truman, she begged them to let her take care of the horse and buggy. Yanking on her, they stuffed her into the back seat. She saw a roll of duct tape appear.
“No!” She screamed, then kicked, flung her arms, and hit the fat man with every ounce of her strength.
“Get in and drive!” The fat man’s accomplice instantly slid behind the wheel and locked the doors. Still she fought until the fat man shoved the sinister little pistol to her face.
Sadie became more terrified. She was being taken to an unknown destination, to an unknown end. And for what reason? She shuddered and slid back against the leather seat as the fat man encircled her wrists and ankles, the sticky tape digging into her flesh. The car was moving now, going down the side of the ridge.
Oh, Mark. It was then that she cried. If this was the way her life would end, then she was deeply aware of having had these short months with Mark and so very grateful of his love. That he had chosen her to be his wife still seemed like a miracle. The days they spent together were idyllic, except for the bad times, which, so far, had proved to be temporary.
What would he do? If there is such a thing as telepathy, a sort of mental communication, just let him know I’m safe, so far.
Then she remembered God. Of course, God was here. He knew where she was. Her fate was in his hands, not the hands of these men. He had the power to rescue her, keep her safe, or end her life. It was all in God’s hands.
How often had she heard that phrase? In Gottes Hent. Over and over, the Amish people used that phrase. It was the way they lived. The way they believed. Everything happened for a reason. To God on his throne, it all made perfect sense, so they lived simply, peacefully, not having to understand everything, their faith a substance of things not seen.
Like one of Mam’s homemade, pieced comforters, his presence wrapped itself around her shoulders, loosening the clutches of fear. As if God wanted to comfort her, she clearly remembered the story of a girl who had been kidnapped and knew to remain friendly, talkative, complying with her abductor until they became friends of a sort. They finally agreed on a compromise. The man who abducted her acknowledged that he needed help and became a much better person in the end.
Well, there were two kidnappers, and as far as she could tell, they were still hurtling along on an interstate. The joyous thought entered her mind of the driver going far over the speed limit, a police car overtaking them, being rescued, and these men being caught. Hopefully, the driver was pushing about a hundred.
She couldn’t swallow without straining, the duct tape biting into her cheeks and jaw every time she did. She desperately needed a drink and wondered how long a person could go without using a restroom. She thought of a tall glass of sparkling lemonade with chunks of ice, which made her swallow, bringing much more discomfort.
“Better watch it. Cops’ll be after you.” The driver slowed down.
Sadie was lulled to a stupor, a sort of gray area, neither asleep nor awake, but always aware of the moving vehicle and the men beside her. The emotions of fear and panic were blanketed with a fuzzy warmth, a dissociation from reality.
She didn’t know how long she stayed in this position; she only knew they were slowing, then came to a stop. The men exchanged a few whispered comments. The driver got out. She smelled gasoline, so she knew they were filling up at a service station. Was it dark outside? What time was it?
Please, please, let me have a drink of water. Her throat was beyond dry; it was ravaged with thirst. Any saliva she could summon was instantly absorbed by the rags, sponge, cotton, or whatever it was that they stuffed in her mouth.
The driver returned; they moved on. She heard tractor trailers moving slowly through the parking lot. Cars moved, honked their horns. The men were drinking something. She heard the crack and hiss as the fat man opened a bottle of soda pop, the liquid gurgling from the bottle down his throat.
She was so thirsty that she cried. Tears squeezed from between her lashes, wetting the blindfold. She was glad of the blindfold, absorbing the tears, her sign of weakness. She would have to be stronger. She would be. She would will away her thirst.
Her feet were going numb. The duct tape dug into her ankles and cut into her black stockings. Her hands throbbed. She imagined them growing twice as big and turning purple, then falling off. That’s what happened if you banded a little piggy’s tail. After the circulation was shut off for a length of time, it simply shriveled away to nothing and dropped off. She hoped it took hands a long, long time.
Her ears were pressed so hard against the side of her bonnet, she could barely feel them. If she moved her cheekbones, or imagined moving her ears, it helped. So she knew she could actually change the position of her ears, even if it was only for a short time before the numbness and tingling returned.
All night, they drove. Sadie alternated between sleep and a half-awake stupor. Her thirst raged in her throat now, a constant thing she could not escape. As a child, she had often imagined being kidnapped, the pain of fetters, but never could anyone imagine the cruelty of her thirst. No wonder people died of thirst way before they succumbed to hunger.
The vehicle stopped. The back door opened. She lurched awake, strained against her blindfold, screamed a silent scream of alarm when rough hands seized her.
“Get out.”
Sadie tried to wiggle the duct tape loose, leaned forward, swung her legs over the side of the seat. The air was cold and wet, sharp as a knife against her senses.
“Loosen her feet.”
Sadie brought her teeth together, clenched her jaw, willing herself not to cry out. If she moved as much as a tongue muscle, the pain was excruciating. The tape made a tearing, sticky sound. She felt it being unwound, the blood rushing into her feet, a thousand needles pricking like a swarm of yellow jackets from the swamp in Ohio.
She slid down, her feet hit the ground, and she crumbled into a heap, crying in her throat, raw from the thirst and pain and hopelessness.
“Get up.” The fat man was angry.
“She can’t with the tape,” the driver said.
“Get her.”
Two hands went under her arms, lifted her, but she crumbled into a heap the same as before. The fat man snorted with impatience. Grabbing her, he threw her across his shoulder, the same way any man would pack a hundred-pound sack of feed or bag of potatoes. The blood rushed into her head as she bobbed along, being carried up one flight of stairs, then another. Doors opened and closed. It was warm. Something smelled good, very good, in fact. Like pine woods or the first of the wild flowers.
The fat man dumped her on a soft sofa or bed. She lay completely still. Somehow playing dead like a possum seemed safe.
“Unwind her hands. The duct tape.”
Again she heard the grinding sticky sound. Her hands fell into the bed, containing no strength of their own.
“We need to talk. We’re going to unwind the tape around your mouth. We will loosen the blindfold if you promise to stay. Any attempt at leaving will mean death. We are serious. You are of no consequence to us.”
Her head turned from side to side by the force of the tape being removed. It was all irrelevant. No matter. The pain was bearable. She’d be able to see, to swallow. Would they allow her a drink? She gagged when they removed the object in her mouth. But she recovered quickly, summoning her courage and resolving to remain strong.
When they removed the blindfold, she untied her heavy black bonnet with groping, numb fingers that felt as big as bananas and about as clumsy. She kept her eyes closed, afraid to open them. Where was she? Slowly, through shaking eyelids, her eyes focused, bringing the room into view.
At first she saw only beige walls, then the ornate molding in a darker shade. Slowly, as her eyes cleared, she saw that she was in a bedroom, sort of a guest bedroom. The carpeting was beige, as well as the bedspread, the curtains, and pillows. There was a red sofa, a glass coffee table, and red objects of art. Black lamps cast a yellowish light into the corners, and huge, navy blue, plaid pillows were strewn across the sofa in the glow of the lamps. Very pretty, she thought wryly.
