by Linda Byler
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.
Chapter 2
THE 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.
He ground the gears of the pickup, frowned, and uttered an annoyance under his breath.
“These gears are never where they’re supposed to be.”
Sadie smiled to herself, knowing the gears were right where they needed to be. It was the hand that was more adept with a horse’s bridle that was the problem.
“Twelve inches,” he said, shifting the toothpick to the other side of his mustache.
“What?”
“Of snow.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
Sadie knew the cold and snow meant more work for her down in the valley at Aspen East Ranch. She was one of the girls who helped prepare vast amounts of food each day for the 20 ranch hands, give or take a few. There were always newcomers, or someone moving on, but the number of men never varied much.
Sadie kept the lovely old ranch house clean as well. There was always something that needed to be cleaned after the food was prepared.
The furniture was rustic, the seating made of genuine leather. Valuable sculptures were placed carefully to complement the costly artwork on the wall behind them. The lighting was muted, casting a warm, yellow glow from the expensive lamps. Candles flickered and glowed in little alcoves built into the rooms. Sadie especially loved to clean the rooms filled with art, expensive objects bought from foreign countries, and the fine rugs on the wide plank floors which were all aged and worn to smooth perfection.
Aspen East Ranch was owned by a man named Richard Caldwell who came from a long l
ine of wealthy cattlemen from the west. He was a man of great height and massive build. His stentorian voice rolled across the rooms like a freight train. Once, Sadie almost knocked an expensive item off a shelf while dusting with a chamois cloth and a can of Pledge Furniture Polish, her body automatically recoiling at his first booming yell.
Everyone snapped to attention when Richard Caldwell’s voice was heard rolling and bouncing through the house, and they tried to produce exactly the response he demanded. Patience was not one of his virtues. If the poor, hapless creature he needed was out of earshot at the moment he opened his mouth, woe to that unlucky person. It felt, as Jim once said, like being “dragged across coals.”
Richard Caldwell frightened Sadie, but only at first. After the can of Pledge almost went flying out of her nerveless fingers, her initial shock was over. Sadie’s eyes stopped bulging and returned to their normal size, and her heartbeat stopped pounding and slowed considerably when that enormous man entered the room. Now she could face him with some semblance of composure.
But she still always felt as if her covering was unbalanced, that her breakfast was clinging to the corner of her mouth, or that there was something seriously wrong with her dress whenever Richard Caldwell appeared. His piercing gaze shot straight through her, and she felt as though she never quite passed his intimidating inspection.
Sadie had been helping at the ranch for almost three years and he could still unnerve her, although she had glimpsed a kindly heart on more then one occasion.
He teased her sometimes, mostly humorous jabs at the Amish ways. Then he would watch her like an eagle, observing her struggle to keep her composure yet answer in the way she knew was right.
“That thing on your head,” he would say, “What’s it for?”
Sadie blushed furiously at first, appalled as the heat rose in her cheeks, knowing her face was showing her discomfort. After stumbling clumsily and muttering a few words about her mother wearing one too, she asked Mam what she should say if he kept up his relentless questioning.
One day, when almost nothing had gone right and she was completely sick of all the menial tasks, Richard Caldwell’s booming questions irritated her. When he pulled on the strings of her covering and asked again why she wore that white thing on her head, she swiped at an annoying lock of brown hair, breathed out, straightened up, and looked Richard Caldwell straight in the eye.
“Because we are committed to the ways in which the Bible says we should live. God has an order. God is the head, then man, and after that his wife is subject to her husband. This covering is an outward sign of submission.”
Richard’s eyes turned into narrow slits of thought.
“Hmmm.”
That was all he said, and it was the last time he mentioned “that thing on her head.” Sadie had been a bit shaky after that outburst of self-defense, but he always treated her a bit more respectfully than he had previously. Her fear shifted to confidence, making her job less nerve-wracking.
Richard Caldwell’s wife, Barbara, on the other hand, was a formidable figure in Sadie’s life—a person to be feared. It wasn’t her voice as much as the sheer disapproval that emanated from her cold presence.
Her clothes were impeccable; the drape of the expensive fabric hiding the well-endowed figure, making her appear regal. Scary to Sadie.
She did not accept Sadie, so she knew it was Richard Caldwell who hired her, not Barbara. She was only tolerating Sadie for her husband’s sake.
It was always a humbling experience to be with the Lady of the House. Whether she was cleaning, dusting, or running the vacuum, it was always the same. Sadie felt violated, silly even, knowing Barbara held only derision for the Amish and their strange ways.
Sadie always thought that if there was a true version of a woman of the world, Barbara was it: no children, no interest in cooking or cleaning, no need to care for anyone but herself.
Much of her time she spent either buying clothes or arranging them in her enormous walk-in closet. Shoes, hats, jewelry, it was all at her fingertips to be tried on, shown off to her friends, given away, or sent back if things weren’t quite up to her taste.
But Sadie knew it was not up to her to judge Barbara or condemn her. She was just being Barbara, the wife of a wealthy ranch owner. Sadie simply did her best to stay out of the way.
She loved her job, she really did. She always felt fortunate to have the beautiful old ranch house to clean and admire, and she liked being a part of the atmosphere—the hubbub and constantly-changing, colorful world that was Aspen East Ranch.
Amish children were not educated beyond eighth grade, spending their eight years in a one-room parochial school, learning the basics of arithmetic, spelling, reading, and English. They also learned German. Their first language was Pennsylvania Dutch, a dialect related to German with a sprinkling of English that kept changing through the years.
So for the short time between age 15 and marriage, most girls took jobs, normally cleaning, cooking, babysitting, quilting, or sewing. They handed the money they earned over to their parents, except for a small allowance.
When a young woman married, her parents provided most of the young couple’s housekeeping necessities—furniture, bedding, towels, dishes, and almost everything else. The gifts from the wedding completed their household needs.
Sadie often wondered how it would be to put her entire check in the bank and then have money of her own to do anything she wanted. She understood, having this knowledge instilled in her at a young age, that money, and the earthly possessions it could buy, was not what brought true happiness to any person. Rather, money was the root of all evil if you let it control your life.
No, she did not want a lot of money, just enough to buy another horse like Paris. But she had to admit to herself that she had never connected with another horse in the same way, not even close. She could never figure out why.
Horses were everywhere here in Montana; on the hills, in trailers, in barns, being ridden. Everywhere Sadie looked, there were horses of all colors, shapes, and sizes, but not one of them interested her.
Dat bought a riding horse for the girls, but in Sadie’s heart, he was just the same as a driving horse. She treated him well, fed him, patted his coarse forelock, and stroked the smooth, velvety skin beneath his mane, but she never wanted to bathe him or braid his tail and put silky, pink ribbons in it.
She still harbored that longing for just the right horse. Once, she had watched a black and white paint being led from a trailer. He bounced and lifted his beautiful head and something—she didn’t know what—stirred in her heart but only for a moment. It wasn’t Paris, and it wasn’t Ohio with Eva and the creek and the alfalfa fields.
Mam said it was because Paris was a part of her youth, and she’d never be able to recapture that youthful emotion that bound her to the palomino. It was time for Sadie to grow up and stop being dreamy-eyed about a horse named Paris. Whoever heard of a horse named Paris anyway, she said. But that was how Mam was, and Sadie still knew, at the age of 20, that Mam just didn’t understand.
Mam and Dat didn’t understand about breaking up with Ezra, either.
Ezra was a fixture in the Montana community. He was 26 years old, a member of the church, and concerned about keeping the Amish Ordnung and not being swept up into the worldly drift. A too-small covering, a fancy house, pride in the amount of money one made—those kinds of things seriously worried him.
Worried him and those around him until Sadie felt her head beginning to bow and her eyebrows elevating with these exact same worries. Her life stretched before her in one long, tedious blend of worries, concerns, cannots, and do nots, until she felt like screaming and jumping up and down and rebelling. She wanted to tell Ezra that there was not a black cloud hanging over every little thing—that God made roses bright red and daisies white and yellow instead of gray and black.
She did not mean to be irreverent, she really didn’t. She just hated the feeling of having a wet blanket thrown ove
r her head and suffocating her freedom and her breathing whenever she spent time in his company.
Being Amish was not hard, and certainly it was no burden. It was a way of life that was secure and happy. When Richard Caldwell asked her if she’d like to take his new Jeep out for a spin in that semi-mocking manner of his, she could truthfully say no. If you don’t know any better and are taught to be content, nothing is a hardship—nothing within reason—and Sadie didn’t feel that her life was squashed down, flat, heavy, or drained of happiness.
The teachings of her parents were a precious heritage handed down for generations and a firm foundation that allowed for happy freedom of spirit. Honoring her parents and respecting their wishes brought peace and a secure, cuddly feeling like a warm, fuzzy shawl you wrapped up with in the wintertime.
Sadie often thought about this. What if she would have rebelled and refused to accompany her parents to Montana? It would have been unthinkable, but still… So far, no husband and no horse. She wasn’t sure which one she longed for more. Probably a horse.
Every husband was apparently a little like Ezra. Sadie sometimes caught Mam compressing her lips into a thin, straight line when Dat said something was too fancy. Like French doors. Mam had her heart set on them so she could look at the awesome, gently rolling, wooded hillside while she ate at the dining-room table. Dat had snorted, saying he didn’t know what kind of fancy notion she got herself into now. French doors were too English. But in the end, Dat smiled and agreed, saying Amish houses could have French doors, he guessed. Mam had laughed and her eyes shone and Sadie could tell she was very happy.
So husbands could be a bit intimidating, especially if they were too weird about a lot of different subjects. Horses were easier. If only she could find one.
Jim gripped the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes, hard, drawing Sadie back to the present. She grabbed at the dash, nearly slamming against it, a scream rising in her throat.
“What the…?” Jim yelled.