Disappearances

by Linda Byler

  The Disappearances

  Sadie’s Montana

  Book Three

  Linda Byler

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  The Glossary

  Chapter 1

  NOW THAT THE SNOWS had come, Sadie missed Reuben the most. Oh, it wasn’t that she was lonely or discontented. After all, she could go home whenever she wanted, as long as the snow was not too heavy.

  It was just Reuben, his guileless blue eyes, the way he tossed his blond-streaked hair away from his face, that often brought a lump to her throat.

  She was a married woman now. Somehow, she felt no different than she ever had, except for the love that had come to fulfillment with Mark Peight, her husband of exactly two months and five days.

  Sadie Peight. Or Sadie Anne Peight. Sadie Miller no more.

  In the Amish world in which she lived, that close-knit community of plain people in Montana, she was “Mark Sadie” now — not “Mark’s wife, Sadie,” in the proper way. Just plain “Mark Sadie.” No last names were needed. Everyone knew who “Mark Sadie” was.

  Her family, the Jacob Millers, had moved to Montana when she was 15 years old. She had had to give up her beloved palomino riding horse, Paris, as well as her best friend and cousin, Eva, moving thousands of miles away from her home community in Ohio.

  In time, she came to love Montana, working at Aspen East, the huge ranch that employed dozens of men, cattle drivers, farmers, horsemen, the list went on and on. She cooked large meals in the kitchen with Dorothy Sevarr, whose husband, Jim, transported her to and from the ranch. The Sevarrs came to be beloved friends, as well as Richard and Barbara Caldwell, the wealthy owners of Aspen East Ranch.

  Sadie had met Mark when a horse appeared from seemingly nowhere in a snowstorm, falling sick and disabled in front of Jim Sevarr’s pickup truck. Sadie opted to stay with the horse, a beautiful but dying paint, while Jim went for help. Mark Peight and his driver found Sadie in the snow with the dying horse. There was an instant mutual attraction between Mark and Sadie. A long, imperfect courtship followed, imperfect due largely to Mark’s troubled, unusual past.

  Wild horses had been a danger, running uncontrolled through the isolated areas, terrifying the Amish community. The large, black leader of the herd threatened unassuming horses and buggies traveling the countryside.

  Sadie and her brother, Reuben, had spent many weeks on a grassy hill taming the few remaining horses. Among them was the outstanding palomino mare Sadie now owned, which she named Paris, in memory of her beloved horse from Ohio. The palomino had been given to Sadie as a gift of appreciation from the owner of the wild horses, which turned out to have been stolen by clever horse thieves in Laredo County. After the thefts, someone started going around the county randomly shooting horses, Reuben’s among them. Paris and Sadie managed more than one harrowing narrow escape. But the sniper—or snipers—remained at large and the motive for the shootings a mystery.

  She felt safe now, snug and cozy in the house Mark was renovating. There had been no sniper activity for almost four months. The Amish community breathed a sigh of relief. People went on with their lives, shaking their heads at the seeming incompetence of the local police, but, in the Amish way, taking it all in stride.

  The home Mark had bought before the wedding had been a forsaken homestead nestled at the foot of Atkin’s Ridge. The buildings were covered in old, wooden, German siding, the framework amazingly sturdy, but almost everything else was crumbling with age.

  When you came in the driveway, the unique shape of the barn, with its series of gable ends and various roof slopes, was so completely charming that you forget to look for a house, which was farther up the slope in a grove of pine trees. Despite its lamentable state of disrepair, the property was as cozy and attractive as a nursery-rhyme house.

  There was an L-shaped porch along the front, dormers on the roof, and a low addition on the right side. Besides the broken windows, sagging porch posts, and torn floor boards, sparrow nests were built into every available crack of the decaying lumber, the floors littered with their feces. Bats flew in and out of the upstairs dormer windows at will, and mice scurried in terror at their approach.

  Mark had put in long hours repairing the barn first. His hard labor resulted in a remarkable building with a beautiful forebay, horse stalls on either side, wide enough to drive a team of horses attached to a manure spreader through it, for easy mucking out. There was a workshop in another section and room for the carriage, spring wagon, and various lawn tools in another, all on top of a solid, new, concrete floor.

  The barn was their pride and joy, especially when Paris adapted so well, becoming quite sleek and flirtatious with Mark’s horses.

  Sadie would stand at the wooden fence, her arms propped on the top board, one foot on the bottom, watching Paris nip at Truman, the new horse, then squeal and bound nimbly away.

  She still loved Paris and rode her as much as ever. But whenever she went to visit her parents, she drove Mark’s steady, brown standardbred driving horse hitched to the shining, black carriage. Since the sniper incidents had quieted down, she felt safer and often returned home with the back seat of the buggy full of items that had been left behind after the wedding.

  The house was not finished; only the lower floor was livable. Mark’s original plans changed after his mother passed away from bone cancer, leaving them a substantial amount of money to be shared with his five siblings when they had been located.

  Mark hired a cabinetmaker and a crew of carpenters to finish the main floor, resulting in a well-crafted home.

  The kitchen was all done in oak cabinets, with wide plank floors also made of oak. The countertops were a speckled black and gray, so Sadie had chosen to paint the walls a gray so light it was almost white. Three windows side by side provided a full view of the driveway, the sighing pine trees, and the barn.

  Sadie placed her furniture where she wanted it in the house, then told Mark she was unworthy to be the housekeeper of such a beautiful home. Mark ran a hand through his black hair. He said nothing, just grabbed her and swung her around. His glad brown eyes and perfect smiling mouth told her everything he thought she should know. Their love was an all-consuming flame, their marriage a union of God—a blessing that, after all they had been through together, they would never take for granted.

  Oh, they had their times, like Mark’s sliding into his silences, becoming absorbed in a sort of blackness when she least expected it. She would always revert to self-blame, her shoulders tightening, a headache developing, watching his morose face with a sort of hopeless intensity. What have I done? What have I said to bring this on?

  She would be completely miserable, afraid to approach him, until she remembered his past and the awful times after his mother left with a real estate agent, leaving eight-year-old Mark to care for his five younger siblings.

  The slightest put-down, often going unnoticed by Sadie herself, could bring on those quiet times. A dark fog, as impenetrable as the proverbial pea soup and about as messy to clean up, surrounded him.

  Sadie had been raised in a secure, loving home, imperfect perhaps, as most homes tend to be, but complete
ly normal. Her three sisters, Leah, Rebekah, Anna, and one brother, Reuben, all younger than herself, had been loved, disciplined, and nurtured.

  Their mother, Annie, endured mental illness that resulted in hospitalization. In the end, it only bound them closer, enveloping the family in a shroud of thanksgiving for Mam’s well-being.

  Sadie was often quick to speak her mind, the words tumbling out happily before she thought of their consequences. Mark would be hurt, returning to that place where only he knew, leaving her floundering, reeling from the rejection in his eyes.

  The latest bout had been brought on by her happy evaluation of the oak kitchen cabinets. Sitting back in her chair, wrapping her soft, white robe securely around her waist, she crossed her legs, kicking her slipper-clad foot, shaking back her long, dark ponytail, saying simply how no one could build cabinets the way a cabinetmaker could.

  “They just know exactly what they’re doing, don’t they? Such perfect raised panels on their doors!” Forgetting, like a dummy, that he had built the ones in the office and had been terribly proud of his accomplishment and the money he had saved by doing it himself.

  He had nodded his head, agreed, using words to that extent, finished his coffee, and abruptly left the table, returning to the recliner. He stayed there without offering his usual Sunday-morning dish-drying assistance.

  Amish people hold church services in a home every other Sunday. This is an old tradition, allowing the ministers and deacon to visit other communities if they feel so inclined. Church members have an in-between Sunday, allowing long sleepins, leisurely breakfasts, a day for resting, visiting, Bible-reading, studying German, or, as is often the case, simply relaxing and doing nothing.

  Which is exactly how that Sunday turned out. Doing nothing. Not one thing. Finally her insides were in knots. The book she was reading gave her the creeps. Her legs became so restless she thought they might run away by themselves. She wished she had never married Mark Peight. She wanted to slam doors and spill a whole container of water over his head or pound her fists into his chest.

  What she did do, finally, was kneel by his recliner and beg him to tell her what was wrong. But he feigned sleep, grunted, stuck up an elbow as if to shake her off, rolled on his side, smacked his lips in the most disgusting way, and resumed breathing deeply.

  Sadie got up and walked blindly to the kitchen, then stood in the middle of it. She wanted to go home. She wanted to lay her head on Mam’s shoulder and, smelling the talcum powder that always wafted from her, cry great big alligator tears and ask Mam why she hadn’t warned and better prepared her little girl?

  She felt like a buoy anchored to the sea floor, tossed about by the waves. But she stayed right there in the middle of her kitchen, anchored to the beautiful floorboards by her marriage to him. Oh, he made her so mad!

  It wasn’t right, this anger. All her life, she had been groomed to be a submissive Amish housewife. The husband is the head of the house, and his wishes are to be respected. Your life is now no longer your own.

  No doubt.

  Your life is doled out in portions by his moods. If he falls into a black one, your life could be measured by the tiniest measuring spoon. Approximately one-eighth of a teaspoon. Barely enough to keep a person going. No cup runneth over here.

  Ah, well. She knew their life together would not be perfect, the way he had always been so hard to understand. But this? This standing in the middle of the kitchen, completely afloat, by that tall dark stranger sunk into a vile mood for which you were unprepared.

  Then he would get over it, usually by going off to work the following morning, his lunchbox swinging in one hand, the red and white Coleman jug of ice water in the other, his faithful driver and coworker, Lester Brenner, waiting at the end of the yard, idling the diesel engine of his pickup truck.

  Mark was a farrier and a good one. He shod all of Richard Caldwell’s horses, as well as those of the Amish who owned more than one horse, and still the telephone messages kept coming.

  After he spent a day doing hard physical labor, getting out among people, talking, forgetting himself, he would return home a changed person. Smiling, his arms enfolding her, her head fitting so perfectly into that hollow of his shoulder, she would smell the rich odor of horses and his own musky, salty essence. She would close her eyes and thank God for her husband, forgiving him another time of blackness.

  That was when the eighth of a teaspoon turned into immeasurable quantities, and Sadie’s life made great, big, happy sense, like a tree filled with great rosy-cheeked apples, its roots by a blue lake, watered constantly by the love of God.

  So when it was Tuesday morning, and the snow was coming down thick and fast, too fast to attempt a drive to her mother’s house, she decided to unpack some of her extra things and wash the dishes, fold the towels, and store them in the bottom drawer of the bureau in the living room. It was a job she had meant to do at least a month ago and still had not accomplished.

  She was unwrapping a set of salt and pepper shakers, the newspaper around them aged and crumbling from being stored in her parent’s attic for many years. Mommy Hershberger had given them to her on her tenth birthday. Purple grapes with green leaves swinging from a sort of tree, all made in shining ceramic. Oh, my. And she had thought they were so cool back then.

  Smiling, she put them on the countertop to be washed in soapy water, then she retrieved a small white basket filled with yellow plastic roses, the greenish faces having changed color from the heat of the attic, waxy, smelling like old plastic. Grimacing, she pulled out the artificial flowers and threw them into the trash can with the old newspapers, then set the white basket by the purple salt and pepper shakers.

  She had just found a small cedar chest with a glossy top, a gray and white kitten smiling from the lid, surrounded by pink flowers and a red handkerchief. Ugh. A gift from a names exchange in seventh grade. Oh, dear. She should keep it.

  Barking from Wolf, Mark’s large gray and silver dog, brought her head up, her gaze automatically going to the driveway. His bark was deep, full-throated, but not threatening. She watched as a black Jeep, (four-wheel drive, she hoped) made its way slowly up to the end of the yard before stopping. The driver shut off the engine.

  Sadie stood up, smoothed her white apron over her stomach, adjusted the sleeves of her lime green dress, then checked her appearance in the mirror above the sink in the laundry.

  Covering straight.

  Wonder who would come visiting in the snow?

  Three men slowly opened the doors of the vehicle as if hesitant to subject themselves to the cold wetness of the snow. They all wore some semblance of the usual Stetson hats so common in Montana—brown, black, slouched, but seemingly clean. Their clothes were presentable, clean blue jeans, tan Carhart coats. Adjusting their jacket zippers, they looked to the boards leading up to the porch.

  No sidewalks or strips had been built yet, so the boards leading from the porch floor to the ground would have to do. Covered with snow, though.

  Why were all three of them coming in? Usually, only one person could state their business.

  Well, no use getting all flustered, she’d be okay. Once fear invaded your life, it could easily take control and make you subject to it. She’d be okay.

  The leader was evidently heavyset, his large form rocking from side to side with each purposeful stride. His gray mustache hid all of his mouth, his hair tied in the back, a long gray ponytail hanging down the back of his coat.

  He stopped, evaluating the slope of the boards, the accumulation of snow, before turning to his friends, saying something.

  Sadie started to go to the door to advise them, then decided against it. They’d find their way.

  The other two men were smaller in stature, with clean-shaven faces, not unpleasant. One wore glasses low on his nose, which he pushed up every time he squinted toward the house.

  Wolf kept barking but followed them, his tail wagging. Sadie knew he was friendly, but one command from Mark could
change the situation entirely, and he would attack a person or animal if Mark wanted him to.

  None of the men seemed to be bothered by Wolf, completely unafraid, barely acknowledging his existence. That was odd.

  They were all up on the porch now, huddled, talking in hushed tones. Should she simply disappear, glide noiselessly away, up the stairs or into the bedroom, and hide? No, that was cowardly. She was here by herself except the days she still worked at the ranch with Dorothy and Erma Keim, the garrulous spinster who had been hired to make the work load easier.

  A resounding knock. Nothing timid about them, that was sure.

  She wasn’t afraid when she opened the door, and when they greeted her with friendly smiles, she invited them inside, the man with the glasses still pushing them up, squinting at her as he did so.

  The heavyset man introduced himself as Dave Sims, the other two shaking hands with her politely, saying their names, which she promptly forgot.

  Sadie gestured toward the kitchen table.

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Actually, we will.”

  Silently, they all pulled out chairs, Dave grunting a bit as he folded his large form into the chair that had appeared quite sturdy before but looked very small and feeble now.

  “What we’re here for…” he began. Then, “How much do you know about the two children who came to the Caldwell place?”

  Whoa. How did they know she worked there? Why come here? Why not talk to Richard Caldwell? Or Jim and Dorothy?

  Taking a deep breath, Sadie said carefully, “Not very much.”

  “You work there?”

  “Yes.”