Wild Horses (2 page)

So Paris was a place of dreams. And Paris, once Sadie’s dream, had now become her horse.

The truck driver grinned around his wad of snuff.

“Havin’ problems, are you?”

“Hey, this thing means business!” Emanuel shouted, tucking his shirttail into his denim broadfall pants.

Sadie stepped forward.

“Can I look at her?” she asked timidly.

“You can look, but you better stay out of the trailer.”

Sadie moved swiftly up the ramp, only to be met by a bony rear end and a tangled, dirty tail swishing about menacingly.

Uh-oh, she thought.

A tail swishing back and forth without any pesky flies hovering about meant the horse was most definitely unhappy. It was the same signal as ears flattened against a head, or teeth bared, so Sadie stood quietly and said, “Hello, Paris.”

The bony hips sidled against the trailer’s side, and the tangled tail swished back and forth furiously.

Sadie peeked around the steel side of the trailer. Paris looked back, glaring at her through a long, unkempt forelock stuck with burrs, bits of twigs, and dirt.

“Poor baby,” Sadie murmured.

Their eyes met then, Sadie declared to her sister Anna, and Paris sort of stood aside and her tail stopped swishing. A trust was born between Sadie and Paris, a very small one, of course, but it was born nevertheless.

Sadie didn’t try to ride Paris for three weeks. She brushed her and bathed her with a bucket of warm, soapy water. She bought equine shampoo at the local harness shop, a new halter, a rope, and brushes.

When she wasn’t with Paris, Sadie mowed grass, raked the leaves, watered flowers, worked in the neighbors’ yard—anything to earn five dollars. Then she was finally able to buy a nice brown saddle, secondhand, of course, but a saddle was a wonderful thing to own, no matter how used. She put the new green saddle blanket on Paris, whose coat was now sleek and pretty. Her ribs were still quite prominent, though, but they would take time to fill out.

When the day finally arrived when she could put the real saddle on Paris’ back, Sadie’s heart pounded so loudly, her ears thudded with a dull, spongy, bonging sound.

She didn’t tell anyone she was riding Paris. Not Mam or Dat, and especially not her pesky little brother Reuben, or any of her sisters. It was better to be alone, unhurried, quiet, able to talk to Paris in her own language which everyone else would probably think was silly.

She would never forget the thrill of trusting Paris. Oh, the horse danced sideways awhile, even tried to scrape her off, but Sadie sat firmly, talking, telling Paris all the things she’d like to hear.

It seemed that Paris loved it when Sadie told her she was beautiful and her best friend. Her eyes turned soft and liquidy, and Sadie knew she lowered her lashes, those gorgeous, silky, dark brushes surrounding her eyes.

Sadie and Eva spent many days galloping across the rolling farmlands of Ohio. Eva never used a saddle, so Sadie learned to ride without one as well. They walked their horses, they talked, they rode to the creek on hot summer days with a container of shampoo, swam with their horses, washed them—and their own hair—with the soapy liquid. This was their favorite activity when the August heat flattened the leaves against the trees, the sky grew brassy yellow-blue with heat, and crickets, grasshoppers, and ants found cool leaves to creep under. Sometimes storms would come up in the northeast and drive them home, dripping wet and clean and filled with the joy of their youth, their girlhoods, their innocence.

They raced their horses in freshly-mowed alfalfa fields. Sometimes they became competitive—and a bit miffed—when one thought the other got an unfair start to a race. They asked Reuben to call “Go!” then, but he was too busy playing with his Matchbox cars in the dirt under the silver maple tree where the grass didn’t grow well. He pushed the dirt with his tiny bulldozer and backhoe for hours on end. The girls and their horses bored him completely, and he told them so, glaring up at them under his strubbly bangs, his shirt collar rimmed with dust, his hands black from the fertile soil around the base of the tree.

It was a wonderful summer for two 15-year-old girls.

Then, one night, when the whole house was settling down with a creaky sort of sigh, the way houses do when darkness falls and the air cools and the old siding expands and contracts, Sadie heard her parents’ voices rising and falling, rising and falling. Their sounds kept her awake far into the night. She plumped her pillow, tossed the covers, turned to a more comfortable position, and finally put the pillow over her head to shut out her parents’ voices.

The next day, they made the announcement.

Dat and Mam asked Sadie, Leah, Rebekah, and Anna to come sit in the living room with them. They looked extremely sober. Reuben was still out under the maple tree with his Matchbox toys, but they let him there undisturbed.

Sadie remembered hearing his faint “Brrr-rrrm, Brr-rm,” as Dat cleared his throat and dropped the bomb, as she thought of it ever after.

They were moving. To Montana. Sadie felt like she was being pulled along by a huge, sticky, rubber band made of voices, and she had no scissors to cut it and get out from under its relentless power.

Montana. An Amish settlement. Too many people. The youth misbehaving. Sadie soon 16.

Mam looked happy, even excited. How could she? How could she be swept along, happily putting her hand in Dat’s and agreeing?

The rubber band’s power increased as Anna clapped her hands, Leah’s blue eyes shone, Rebekah squealed, and Dat grinned broadly.

David Troyers would be going, too. And Dan Detweilers. Sadie sat back on the sofa, creasing the ruffle on the homemade pillow top over and over. The noise around her made no sense, especially when Leah shrieked with pure excitement about a train ride.

What train?

“You mean, we’re traveling to Montana on a train?” Sadie managed to croak, her mouth dry with fear. “What about Paris?”

It was all a blur after that. Sadie couldn’t remember anything clearly except the pain behind her eyes that carried her out of the living room and up the stairs and onto her bed. Sadie dissolved into great gulping sobs, trying to release the pain near her heart.

She could not part with Paris.

But she would have to. Dat said she had to. That was that. There was no livestock being moved all those miles.

“Livestock?” Where in the world did he find a word like that to describe two horses, eight rabbits, and a bunch of silly hens? Paris was no “livestock.”

The only consolation Sadie had was that Uncle Emanuel found a home for Paris on the local veterinarian’s farm. The vet’s daughter, Megan, an English girl who loved horses as much as Sadie, was ecstatic, Sadie could clearly tell.

Sadie spent the last evening with Eva and Paris, crying nearly the whole time. Sometimes—between tears—she and Eva became hysterical, laughing and crying at the same time. But even when laughing, Sadie cried inside.

At the end of the evening, Sadie and Paris clattered into the barn and Sadie slid off her beloved horse’s back, that golden, rounded, beautiful back. She threw her arms around Paris’ neck, and held on. She hugged her horse for every time they played in the creek, for every time Sadie braided her mane, for every ribbon she tied in it, for every apple Paris had ever crunched out of her hand, for every nuzzle Sadie had received on her shoulder, and for every aching hour she would never have with Paris ever again.

Sadie did not watch them take Paris away in the big, fancy trailer. She set her shoulders squarely and went for a walk all by herself, knowing that it would be a long time until she would ever love another horse.

But Paris would live on in her heart. That’s why she was named Paris—she was a dream. And love.

T
HE FIRST SNOW CAME
early that year, blowing fine and white across the undulating landscape. It brought the dry cold that was so much a part of Montana—the state Sadie had now grown to love. Oh, it had taken a while, that was one thing sure. But since she had reached her 20th birthday, and after five years of growing in faith and womanhood, she knew she had drawn on a strength that was God-given. It was a great comfort to know that your spirit could triumph over fear, loneliness, or whatever life handed to you.

The Miller family lived high on a ridge overlooking the Aspendale Valley, where a mixture of sturdy pines, aspen, and hearty oak trees protected them from much of the frigid winter winds. Dat had remodeled parts of the old log house, built a barn large enough to accommodate the horse and cattle they owned, and surrounded the pasture with a split-rail fence.

It was an idyllic setting overlooking the valley dotted with homesteads, ranches, and dwellings where the Amish community had settled and thrived.

Dat was no farmer or rancher. His love was not in horses or cattle, although he owned both—enough to keep the pasture clipped and to transport his family to church on Sunday.

Instead, he built log homes and established a good reputation as an honest, hardworking carpenter. He left his customers happy with their sturdy houses made from the finest quality material and precise workmanship.

Their life in Montana was blessed, Mam said. She was very happy most of the time, although Sadie sometimes found her wiping a stray tear directly related to her homesickness. It was a constant thing, this missing dearly beloved family and friends who were so many hundreds of miles away.

Mam wrote letters and went to the phone out by the barn to talk to her mother and sisters. Sometimes she was laughing when she came back to the house and sometimes crying. It was all a part of Sadie’s life now but more manageable than it had been that first year.

The surrounding valley, and on into the hills beyond, held 33 Amish families. It was a good-sized community, which meant it was soon time to divide the church into two districts. Church services were held in the homes. When the house became too crowded, dividing the church became a necessity.

There was a group of 20 or 30 youth, which Sadie had always been grateful for. They had been her friends for quite a few years, good friends with whom she could share her feelings and also Sunday afternoons and evenings playing volleyball and having supper together, often with a hymn-singing afterward. Sometimes the youth went camping or riding or shopping in a faraway location, which was something Sadie always anticipated.

The winters were long here in Montana. Months of cold wind swept down from the distant mountain ranges, which were always covered with snow. The snow on the tips of the mountains never ceased to amaze her, especially when the sun warmed her back or she felt a gentle summer breeze in her face. But in winter, everything was white and cold, and the whole world felt like the tops of the mountains.

Sadie sat at the table in the dining room watching the snow swirling across the wooden patio floor. Little eddies of it tried to accumulate in the corners of the panes in the French doors but were swept away by the howling wind.

“It’s always windy here, Mam.”

Mam looked up from the cookbook she was leafing through, took a sip of coffee from the brown stoneware mug, and nodded her head.

“It’s Montana.”

Sadie sliced half a banana into her dish of thick, honeyed oatmeal, adding a handful of dark, sticky raisins, and nodded.

“I know.”

Mam glanced at the clock.

“Jim’s late.”

“Probably because of the snow.”

She finished pouring the rich, creamy milk onto the raisins, stirred, and spooned a large amount into her mouth. She closed her eyes.

“Mmmm. Oatmeal with honey.”

Mam smiled.

“What do we want for Christmas dinner this year?”

Sadie looked at Mam, surprised

“Christmas is two months away.”

“I can still plan ahead.”

Sadie nodded, grimacing as the battered truck pulled up to the French doors—a dark intruder into the lovely, pristine whiteness outside.

“Oh, here I go.”

“You haven’t finished your breakfast.”

“It’s all right.”

She put her arms into the sleeves of her black, wool coat, threw a white scarf around her head, and was out the door to the tune of Mam’s usual, “Have a good day!”

The whirling bits of snow made her bend her head to avoid the worst of the sharp little stings against her bare face. She pulled quickly on the door handle, bounced up into the torn vinyl of the pickup seat, and flashed a warm smile at the occupant behind the steering wheel.

“How you, Missy?”

“Good. Good, Jim.”

Jim put the truck in reverse, a smile of pleasure lighting his pale blue eyes, the dark weathered lines of his face all changing direction. His long, graying mustache spread and widened with the lines, and he touched the brim of his stained Stetson more out of habit than anything else.

Jim Sevarr was of the old western line of hard-working, hard-driving range riders who lived with horses and cattle, dogs and sheep, and were more comfortable on the back of a horse than behind the wheel of a truck. His jeans were perpetually soiled, his boots half worn out, and his plaid shirttail was hanging out of his belt on one side, with the other side tucked securely beneath it.