Wild Horses Read online

“Sure thing, little girl.”

  Sadie was comforted by his words. Jim was such a good man. He surely deserved to be treated well in return.

  The resounding voice of Jim’s wife greeted her before she pulled on the door latch.

  “…where she got to! Ain’t never seed nothin’ like it. You get ten extra hands for breakfast, and that Sadie don’t show up. Them Amish havin’ no phones in their houses is the dumbest rule of ’em all.”

  Sadie walked in amidst this tirade and grinned cheekily at the tiny buxom woman.

  “Here I am!”

  “Sadie! Now you heard me yellin’ about ya!”

  “It’s okay. You love me.”

  “I do sometimes.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Go get your apron on. How come you’re late?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Try.”

  “Huh-uh. We don’t have time, Dottie.”

  “Don’t Dottie me.”

  Sadie slid an arm across Dottie’s shoulders and whispered, “Good Morning, Dottie.”

  “Hmmpfhh.”

  Chapter 4

  SADIE IMMEDIATELY FELT THE pressures of her job, which were unusually demanding today. Dorothy had not arrived at her usual early morning hour because of the snow, which meant there were no potatoes cooked for hash browns, no sausage gravy, and no biscuits made for a count of 44 men.

  Sadie grabbed a few tissues from the gold box by the food warmer, blew her nose because of the cold, windy morning, and turned to wash her hands with antibacterial soap from the dispenser mounted on the wall. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her green dress and compressed her lips, ready to start in.

  She was starving, having skipped supper the evening before. Mam had made fresh shoofly pie yesterday morning, and when Sadie came home from work a bit early, ravenous as usual, she had eaten two slices. She doused them in fresh, creamy milk from the doe-eyed Guernsey in the barn—completely spoiling her supper.

  Shoofly drowned in milk was simply the best, most comforting taste in all the world no matter whether you lived in Montana or Ohio. Mam made huge, heavy pies piled high with rich, moist cake, then covered with sweet, crumbly topping. The brown sugar, molasses, and egg mixture on the bottom complemented the top. Eaten in one perfect bite, all three layers combined to give you the most…well…perfect taste. It was wonderful.

  Mam’s pie crusts were so good you could eat them without the filling. She always made some schecka hauslin when she made pies, and Sadie thought they were better than the pies themselves.

  Schecka hauslin were “snail houses”—little bits of pie dough rolled around brown sugar and butter, then popped in a hot oven for a few minutes. Sadie always burned the tips of her fingers and her tongue tasting them, but it was all worth it.

  “What do you want me to do first, Dottie?”

  “I’m Dorothy. Now don’t you go Dottie’n me all morning.”

  That voice came from the interior of the vast, stainless steel refrigerator, and Sadie turned to see Dorothy’s backside protruding from it.

  Sadie never ceased to be amazed by the size of this little person and her stamina. She practically ran around the huge kitchen on short, heavy legs clad in the “good expensive” shoes she knew Dorothy had purchased at the Dollar General in town.

  “They only cost $29.99!” she had told Sadie proudly. “Them shoes is expensive but they’re worth it. Good arch support.”

  She had them worn down on one side in a few months but still bustled about the kitchen, never tiring, saying it was all because she wore “them good shoes.”

  Dorothy turned, her face red from bending down.

  “Go ahead and make that sausage gravy. I’ll tend to the biscuits.”

  Sadie smiled to herself, knowing Dorothy would never allow anyone else to make the biscuits. She never measured the ingredients—just threw flour, shortening, and other ingredients into a huge, stainless steel bowl, her short, heavy arms flapping, working the dough as if her life depended on the texture of it. She talked to herself, whistled, sang bits of a song, and pounded away ferociously at the biscuit dough as if each new batch she made had to be the best.

  And it always was! Dorothy’s biscuits were light, yet textured with a velvety solidity. They were unlike anything Sadie had ever tasted. They were good with butter and jam or honey or loaded with gravy or, like Jim did, eaten cold with two thick slices of roast beef and spicy mustard.

  Sadie reached up to the rack suspended from the log beam above, grabbed the 12-quart stockpot and set it on the front burner of the commercial stove. Reaching into the refrigerator, she unwrapped a stick of butter, deposited it into the pot, and turned on the burner beneath it. After it had browned nicely, she scattered an ample amount of fresh, loose sausage into the pot. The handle of the long wooden spoon went round and round, keeping the sausage from sticking to the flour and butter. Her thoughts kept time.

  Surely the horse was someone’s pet. Why was it out there in the deserted forests and vast empty acreage if it couldn’t feed itself? Was there simply nothing there for it to feed on, or was it too sick to search for food? Was it neglected at the home it had come from? Why was it loose and alone?

  Wild horses were not uncommon in the west, though they were centered mostly in Wyoming. Bands of them roamed free, but the government kept them from becoming a threat or nuisance to the ranchers and farmers in the area. Helicopters would herd them into man-made ravines and corrals, always met with outrage by the animal-rights activists. But to Sadie’s way of thinking, it was a necessary evil. You couldn’t let wild horse herds grow too large. They could do lots of damage or graze areas meant for cattle, which was almost everyone’s livelihood here.

  But, oh, horses were so beautiful! There was no other animal on earth that Sadie could relate to quite as well. She could lay her cheek against a horse’s, kiss its nose, smooth that velvety skin beneath the heavy waterfall of mane, and never grow tired of any of it. They smelled good, were intelligent, and came in all different shapes and colors. There were cute, cuddly ponies and tall, big-boned road horses, as the Amish referred to them.

  The steady, brown or black, Standardbred driving horses were the backbone of the Amish community. They obediently stood in forebays of barns while heavy, leather harnesses were flung across their backs and then attached to thick, heavy collars around their muscular necks and shoulders. A horse allowed itself to be led to a carriage, backed into the shafts, and attached to the buggy. They waited patiently while family members clambered into the buggy, then trotted off faithfully, pulling them uphill and downhill in all sorts of weather.

  The most amazing part of hitching up a horse was the fact that these docile creatures allowed that hideous steel bit to be placed in their mouths. This is the part that goes between their teeth and attaches to the bridle that goes up over their ears. Good, responsible horses never seemed to mind, lowering their heads so the bit could easily slide into their mouths.

  There were some horses, of course, who were cranky and disobedient, but Sadie always felt sorry for them. Very likely, at some point in their lives, these horses had been whipped or kicked or jerked around simply because they were born with a stubborn nature and made their owners’ tempers flare like sticks of dynamite. This destroyed the trust and any thread of confidence they had once acquired.

  Usually, a calm, obedient horse had a calm, quiet owner and vice versa. Horses didn’t require much of their owners: a quiet stall and a bit of pasture, decent feed and hay, water, and enough attention to know they were cared for and appreciated.

  Sadie browned the sausage until it was coated all over with the butter and flour mixture. Then she went to the refrigerator for a gallon of milk, which she poured slowly into the sizzling sausage, stirring and stirring after this addition. She added the usual salt and pepper, then reached up to the rack again for the huge cast-iron skillet.

  “Watcha getting’ that for?” Dorothy asked.

&
nbsp; That woman has eyes in the back of her head. Seriously, Sadie thought.

  “Hash browns.”

  “Them potatoes ain’t even cooked. How you gonna make hash browns? That’s what happens when young girls moon about boys and stuff.”

  Sadie suppressed a giggle. She knew Dorothy always got a tiny bit miffed when the pressure was on. She never failed to let Sadie know when she did something wrong, implying that Sadie’s misstep was the reason for the pressure to begin with.

  After working with Dorothy for almost three years, Sadie knew she had the best heart and kindest demeanor of anyone she had ever met. Her scoldings were sort of soft and harmless beneath all that fuss, and Sadie often suppressed her laughter when Dorothy was bustling and talking and scolding.

  “Oh, I forgot.”

  “You forgot. Moonin’ around, that’s what.”

  Dorothy went to the pantry, which contained 50- pound bags of potatoes, lugged one out to the sink, and proceeded to throw the potatoes in by the handfuls. Grabbing a sharp paring knife, she set to work, the peels falling into the sink in rapid succession. Sadie joined her.

  “I’m hungry,” Sadie announced for the second time that morning.

  “Make some toast. Didn’t you have breakfast? You need to get up earlier. Set your alarm 15 minutes earlier.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Hmmpfhh. Then be hungry.”

  She slid a pan of perfectly-rounded, precisely-cut biscuits into the oven, and Sadie hid another grin.

  The kitchen door banged open, and Jim hurried in, a box under his arm. Snow clung to his greasy Stetson, and he took it off, clapping it against his legs. Snow sprayed in every direction.

  “Jim Sevarr! You borned in a sawmill? Whatsa matter with you? Gettin’ my kitchen soakin’ wet. I’ll fall on them puddles. Now, git! Git!”

  She waved both arms, then her apron, as if her husband was a huge cat that needed to be chased away from her work area.

  “Don’t you want a doughnut?”

  Immediately Dorothy’s expression changed, like the sun breaking through clouds, spreading warmth through the kitchen.

  “Now, Jim, you know if there’s any one thing I can’t resist, it’s them doughnuts. You got ’em at the Sunoco station?”

  “Sure did. Coffee on?”

  “Sadie, come on. Take two minutes to eat a doughnut. There’s only one way to eat ’em—big bites with the cream filling squishing out the side.”

  Sadie laid down her knife, wiped her hands on her apron, and smiled as she selected a powdered, cream-filled doughnut from the box Jim held out to her.

  “Mmmmm,” she said, rolling her eyes as the first soft sweetness of the confectioners sugar met the taste buds on her tongue.

  “No news of the horse?” she asked, wiping the corners of her mouth. Jim’s mouth was full of doughnut, so he shook his head.

  “May as well have the vet put ’im down. Sorriest bag of bones I ever laid eyes on,” he said after chewing and swallowing.

  Sadie said nothing.

  “What horse?” Dorothy asked, slurping a mouthful of coffee, then grimacing and shaking her head at the heat.

  Jim related the morning’s events, his heavy mustache wagging like a squirrel’s tail across his upper lip. His lower face was a dark brownish-red, etched with lines from the sun and wind, but it never failed to amuse Sadie the way his complexion lightened as it met his hat or the shade from the brim. The top of his balding head was creamy white with thatches of graying hair sticking out the way a hat causes hair to stick.

  He’d look a lot better if he took off that Stetson sometimes, Sadie thought. At least long enough to tan that pearly, white head.

  Jim slouched on a chair, and Dorothy moved over to pat the top of his head.

  “Thanks, hon. That was so nice of you.”

  Sadie felt quick tears spring to her eyes. The sight of those work-roughened, cracked hands so tenderly touching the bald head of her husband was a sight she wished she could portray on paper. They had been married at least 40 years, and Sadie had seen them at their best. She smiled as she watched the slow, easy grin spread across Jim’s creviced face.

  “You better get that breakfast on. There’s a bunch of hungry men out there.”

  “Jim, do you… do you think they’ll all agree to put him down?” Sadie broke in.

  “What? Who?”

  “The horse.”

  “Ain’t none of their business.”

  “Well, whose business is it? Who’s going to say what gets done with him?”

  “I dunno, missy. Likely the boss.”

  Sadie turned back to peeling potatoes, her shoulders sagging a bit. She stiffened as she felt Jim’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Listen. That there horse is gonna die, okay? He’s on his last breath. Don’t even think about him ’cause he ain’t gonna live.”

  “He wants to live, Jim. I saw it in his eyes.”

  Jim shrugged. Dorothy caught his eye and shook her head, and the conversation was over.

  Sadie put the potatoes on to cook, then began breaking dozens of eggs into a large glass bowl. She added milk, salt, and pepper, then set the mixer on low, preparing the huge amount of scrambled eggs. Great loaves of homemade wheat bread were sliced and put into the toasters, slabs of butter spread thickly across the bread, melting into the crusty slices. The grill was loaded with bacon sizzling into curled, darkened, salty goodness. Dorothy kept forking finished pieces onto a serving platter and replenishing the grill with more long, limp slices of raw bacon.

  They worked quietly now, both concentrating on finishing all the food at approximately the right time. This was all routine work. Today there was just a larger amount.

  The dining room was majestic. At least Sadie always thought of it as majestic. There was simply no other word to describe it. The ceilings were vaulted and the beams exposed with great chandeliers hanging from the lofty height on long, thick chains. The windows were huge, allowing a view that was one of the most beautiful Sadie had ever seen.

  She never tired of cleaning up after the hungry cowhands had eaten. Just being in that room made her happy. But she hardly ever ventured in while the men were there eating, being strictly warned by her mother not to be gallivanting about while that room was filled with those cowboy “wannabes.”

  Sometimes when Mam spoke in that derisive tone, Sadie could tell that she thoroughly disliked some aspects of the West, but her pride and her upbringing would not allow her to say it directly. When Sadie mentioned it to Leah, she was met with stony opposition.

  Of course Mam loved the West. She loved her house and Dat, and why in the world would Sadie come up with something like that? Sometimes she was just disappointed in Mam, that was what.

  Sadie carried the square, stainless steel pans filled with scrambled eggs, biscuits, sausage gravy, and all the food they had prepared that morning. She dropped them expertly between the grids of the ornate steam table, an oak table with lights above it and hot water beneath the shining, stainless steel pans to keep the food piping hot.

  She checked the number of heavy, white stoneware plates, the utensils wrapped in cloth napkins, and the mugs turned upside down beside the huge amount of coffee in shining urns.

  The long pine tables were cleaned and polished to perfection with long benches on either side. The floor was wide with heavy planks, worn smooth and glistening from the many coats of polyurethane varnish that had been applied years ago.

  Two massive glass doors stood at the end of the dining room, and Sadie’s heart skipped, stumbled, and kept going as she spotted a white pickup pulling a large gray trailer through the blowing snow.

  Could it be? Would Mark… No, they were in a red cattle truck. It would be months before she heard anything, if ever. Jim was probably right.

  She retreated when she heard the voice of Richard Caldwell in even louder tones than was normal, leading his men to breakfast.

  “Never heard anything like it!”

  Some
one answered in quieter tones. Then, “But a whole herd? How are you ever going to make off with a whole herd at one time? I mean, yeah, years ago when the range was wide open, but now people are going to notice a bunch of horses together. Come on!”

  Sadie couldn’t go back to the kitchen. Not now. She had to hear this. She turned her back, which was much the same as not being in the room at all. A herd of horses stolen? She agreed with Richard Caldwell. Not in this day and age.

  She cringed inwardly as the huge doors opened and the men began to file in. She busied herself folding napkin and replenishing the ice bin, being quiet and straining her ears to hear what the men were saying. She hardly breathed when she realized the conversation was very serious. The men never stood around like this when there was breakfast to be eaten, especially at this late hour.

  “Did you watch it?”

  “Nah. Don’t watch TV.”

  “Well you should watch the news.”

  “Bah!”

  “Yeah, but listen,” Richard Caldwell’s voice was heard above the din. “This guy in Hill County is wealthy. His horses are worth thousands of dollars. Thousands and thousands. I mean, he has a very distinguished bloodline going on there. He’s been breeding horses for years and years. All of a sudden, this guy goes out to the stables, and ‘Poof!’ his horses are no longer there. It’s unheard of.”

  “The work of some extremely smart men.”

  “Terrorists.”

  “Arabs.”

  “Oh, stop it. Those people wouldn’t bother with our ordinary horses.”

  “I can’t think of one single person in a thousand-mile radius that would be brilliant enough to carry this off. Not a one.”

  The conversation became more animated, each acquaintance contributing his voice, until it was hard to comprehend what they were really discussing. And they thought women at a quilting were bad! They couldn’t be much more talkative than this.

  Now she heard Jim’s voice.

  “Yeah, it’s weird. But hardly much weirder than a starved and dyin’ horse jumping down a bank out of the woods smack in front of my truck bringin’ the Amish girl this morning. That thing appeared outta nowhere. Hit the brakes and skidded ’fore we hit ’im.”