by Linda Byler
There was a long, wide walkway down the center of the barn with large box stalls on either side. The stalls were built of wood and finished to a glossy sheen. Throughout the barn, black and shiny iron grids were built into the wood. Large airy windows, ceiling fans, and regulated temperatures kept the place comfortable, no matter the weather.
Sadie had been in these stables before, but she had never actually walked along the center walkway. Her eyes roamed the walls, the ceiling, the texture of the floor, marveling at the unbelievable amount of time and expense that went into something as simple as a horse barn. Richard Caldwell must have more money than she could even imagine.
“Over here,” he said suddenly in his loud voice, and Sadie instantly clutched at the lapels of her coat, compressing her lips to hide her nervousness.
He slid back a bolt and swung open a heavy gate.
Sadie blinked.
He was standing up! On his own four feet!
She didn’t realize that a soft sound escaped her compressed lips. She didn’t know she had lovingly reached out to touch the horse. She just knew she had never felt such aching pity for any other creature.
He was bigger than Sadie thought, remembering his still form lying in the snow. He didn’t seem that big then. His two front legs were splayed, as if placing them farther apart would enable him to stay upright longer. His breathing was shallow and much too fast. His tender nostrils changed their shape with every breath as he struggled to stay on his feet, to stay alive. But his neck! Oh, it was so horribly thin! His head was much too big!
How could a horse stay alive looking like this? How could he keep from dying? Sadie looked questioningly at Richard Caldwell, who nodded his head knowingly, though she didn’t say a word.
Slowly Sadie advanced, not even breathing. Her hand slid under the long, black forelock and stayed there. Up came his head then, the long, black eyelashes sweeping over his blue eyes. And he looked, really looked, at Sadie.
He whinnied. But not really a whinny. More like a soft nicker or a long, shaky breath. But Sadie felt it, she heard it, and she put her hands on each side of this poor broken horse’s head and gathered it against her coat. She squeezed her eyes shut, bit so hard on her lower lip that she tasted blood, and still a sob rose up from the depth of her being.
Poor, poor thing. Who did this to you? Where do you come from?
She turned her back to Richard Caldwell, not wanting him to know how emotional she was. She bent her head and murmured, telling the horse how much she loved him, how much she wanted him to be strong, to be better, get well, and be healthy, and did he know that she might be allowed to keep him? She still had to ask Dat, though.
Richard Caldwell blinked his eyes, looked away, cleared his throat, tapped his toes, then yanked angrily at his collar. He never cried. He was never touched by any old, sick horse, and he sure wasn’t planning on starting now. But when the horse tried to nicker, and out came only a rumpled breath, he had to swallow hard, fighting back feelings of tenderness and pity. And when Sadie bent her head and murmured to the horse, he was horrified to feel the hot sting of genuine tears, an emotion he had not experienced for so long, he hardly knew he was capable of it.
The sun’s morning rays found their way through the glass, highlighting Sadie’s shining brown hair, the circle of her dark lashes on her perfect cheek, and the glistening mane and forelock of this black and white horse. The picture rooted Richard Caldwell to the floor of the stall.
Suddenly he could smell earth, dripping leaves, a sort of fishy, wormy wet coolness where he had found the dying dog. It was a stray dog—a matted, dirty, thin dog down by the wet mud of the creek.
He could still feel the holes in the knees of his jeans and the way the frayed denim stretched across them, almost hurting if he bent too far. He had used his old t-shirt to lift the dog. He strained and slid but whispered the whole time to the frightened animal.
You poor, poor thing. Come on. I’ll take you home. What happened to you? Poor baby.
Now he felt his father’s wrath. He felt the words he said, the finger he pointed.
“Get that flea-infested mongrel away from me, and don’t even think of keeping him. The only thing good enough for that dog is a shot of lead. Get away. Get away!”
Oh, he got away, both ears stopped with muddy, shaking fingers. But it was not soon enough or far enough to erase the single, mind-shattering slam of his father’s shotgun.
He ran then, blindly, through grass almost as tall as he was—the tops of it raking his wet cheeks, slapping his moist forehead as he fell to the ground. He lay there for hours, shaking and crying.
His revenge had been burying the dog. When the alarm clock on his tattered nightstand showed 1:26 a.m., he crept down from his bedroom with a pink towel from the bathroom. He remembered the touch of the soft towel, how sacred it seemed, and how clean.
He was amazed at how loose a dead dog felt. There were a lot of bones and skin and not much to hold him together. His cheeks were wet as he tenderly folded the jumbled limbs, then covered the dog neatly, making sure the towel was straight.
He crept to the shed for a shovel, then dug a hole behind the lumber pile where the ground was low and soft. He carried the dog, laid him carefully into the shallow grave, and wondered what a preacher would say. Shouldn’t God be involved somehow?
“God, I need you to look after this dog. If you care about dogs, I named him Sparky. So there you go, God. Be good to him. He has a pink towel.”
Richard Caldwell blinked again, then cleared his throat. He had believed in God that night. He had. If he had ever felt the presence of God in the times in between that childhood memory and now, it had never been as real as this. Sadie looked like an angel administering her magic to this lovely creature.
“Look!” Sadie whispered.
Richard Caldwell came closer and bent to look.
“It’s a hammer!”
He could see it, too. Beneath the black mane, the shape of the black hair was much like a hammer, depending which way you viewed it.
Sadie stroked and stroked, beaming, her face illuminated by the morning sun.
At that moment, Richard Caldwell promised to himself that this horse would receive the best medical attention from his trusted veterinarian, and Sadie would never know. He would never tell her. He could not bear to think of this horse dying and that angelic face bearing the disappointment.
“Can I … I mean … do you think he’ll live? Do you want him moved? Is he a bother? In your way? I don’t know what my father will say…”
Sadie broke off, miserable. Richard Caldwell was a hard man. How many times had she heard Dorothy say, “If the boss don’t see no profit in it, out it goes.”
Richard Caldwell knew he could not put a price tag on this feeling. It was a kind of redemption, a chance to prove himself a better man, a moment to show he was not his father.
“Dad, can I keep him? He won’t eat much.”
The blast of the shotgun.
He cleared his throat to relieve his tightening emotions.
“Let’s give him a couple of days. He’ll be in no one’s way here. If you want, you can come out and talk to him on your dinner break. Probably be best if you came to see him often, but you know Dorothy.”
Richard Caldwell smiled, almost warmly, and Sadie could hardly believe the softness it created in his eyes.
“Thank you!” she said quietly.
“You think your Dad will let you have him?”
“I don’t know.” Sadie shrugged her shoulders.
“Strict, is he?”
“No. Not really. He’s just not much of a horse person.”
“And he’s Amish?”
Sadie grinned, “I know, strange, isn’t it?”
“He drives his horse and buggy though?”
“Yes. But, he calls horses ‘livestock.’”
Richard Caldwell laughed genuinely. “They’re not livestock?”
“No.”
S
he didn’t know why she did it, but as she stroked the horse’s neck, she began talking to Richard Caldwell—of all people—about Paris. She never mentioned Paris to anyone, not even her sisters. But Richard Caldwell listened as Sadie’s story unfolded. When she finished, a bit hesitantly, he looked out over the snowy landscape for a long time, then bent his head to look at her.
“Sadie, I know how it feels. We’ll get this horse better. What will you name him?”
Sadie’s intake of breath was all the reward he needed.
“Nevaeh.”
“Nevaeh?”
“It’s ‘heaven,’ backwards.”
“Sounds like a girl’s name.”
“Maybe … but this horse is just so … perfect … and …well … the name just seems to fit.”
Richard Caldwell turned away, opened the box stall door, and said, “Nevaeh it is.”
It was too gruff, but a man couldn’t get emotional now, could he?
A few evenings later, Richard and Barbara Caldwell sat in their private dining room, the oak table seeming incongruous as it stretched out far past the two large people seated at one end.
Barbara was dressed in red, her husband’s favorite color, her hair and make-up perfect. She had spent hours in town at the hair salon as she hatched the perfect plan for revenge.
Sadie Miller would have to go.
Richard Caldwell’s favorite dishes were served: crusty baked potato and filet mignon with horseradish and dill. The wine was perfect. Her husband was in a jovial mood.
“So, what was going on at the barn today that the Kitchen Help needed your assistance there?” she asked, heavily emphasizing “Kitchen Help.”
Richard stopped chewing and slowly laid down his fork. He picked up the monogrammed napkin and wiped his mouth before he cleared his throat.
Their eyes met. Clashed.
“Jim Sevarr almost hit a horse. Sadie was with him. The horse is in our barn and Sadie wants to keep him, but her father won’t let her.”
Barbara stabbed at her meat as her lips compressed.
“I thought Amish daughters are expected to obey their fathers. Why wouldn’t you respect that?”
“I am. That’s why the horse is here.”
“I see.”
The words were cold, hard pellets stinging Richard Caldwell’s mind. She was making him as uncomfortable as only cunning Barbara could. When she looked up, Richard Caldwell checked a mental urge to shake his wife. Malice glittered in the hard eyes he once thought beautiful. He shuddered and stopped himself, thinking of the look in Sadie’s eyes as she knelt by the failing horse—eyes so unlike his wife’s eyes.
“So does that mean she needs you to escort her to the barn?”
“Barbara. Stop. Of course not.”
“Well, I’m letting her go. She isn’t capable in the kitchen. We need a better helper for Dorothy Sevarr.”
“You will do no such thing. I hired Sadie Miller, and I say whether she stays or goes.”
“She’s been stealing food.”
Barbara’s breath was coming fast, her agitation rising, as she sensed her husband’s unwillingness to cooperate and his loyalty to Sadie Miller. Fear goaded her now, her words making very little sense as they hammered her husband.
“She … she took two biscuits. And ground beef. And … and tomato sauce. She … picked up the dry cleaning and kept $20. She … oh, I know now what she did. She broke my mother’s heirloom watch. She also broke her vase. On purpose.”
Richard Caldwell’s head went from side to side, like an angry bull pawing the ground.
“Barbara, you have no idea. I could never even imagine anything—any wrong notion—with her. She’s too good with that horse. She’s too pure. Firing her is out of the question. Sadie Miller and her horse are staying. I …need to see this, to see what happens.”
Barbara’s mouth fell open in astonishment as she watched the change in her husband’s eyes, his voice. He kept his voice low and even, but there was no doubt in his wife’s mind that he did not believe her. He never would. And if she wanted to feed her own sick jealousy, she could go right ahead.
Defeat wilted Barbara. She faded before her husband’s quiet anger in disbelief.
They ate dessert in silence, the edge of the room in darkness.
Chapter 7
DAT WAS IN A JOVIAL, IF NOT DOWNRIGHT SILLY, mood. He was singing snatches of “Old Dan Sevarr” when he washed his hands at the small sink in the laundry room, which made Sadie wince. Why did that make her cringe, she wondered? Maybe because she was still smarting from his rough words the evening before. Now she wished he’d just stop that silly tune.
The Miller family sat together for the evening meal as usual. The ordinary, everyday, white Correlle plates with the mismatched silverware and clear plastic tumblers sat a bit haphazardly on the old, serviceable knit tablecloth. The tan and beige-colored Melmac serving dishes holding the steaming food were homey and comforting, bolstering Sadie’s courage.
Dat reached for the bowl of mashed potatoes, piled high with the usual little stream of browned butter coming from the small well on top. As a child, Sadie loved the taste of the dark browned butter, but now she knew that if she wanted to stay thin, she needed to work the serving spoon around it.
The chunks of seared beef, which had simmered in rich gravy as the potatoes cooked, were passed around the table followed by green beans liberally dotted with little bits of bacon and onion cooked just long enough to soften them.
“I was going to toss a salad,” Mam said, “but the price of tomatoes was just too high at the IGA in town.”
She looked apologetically in Dat’s direction, but Dat never looked at Mam or gave any indication that he heard. He just bent his head over his plate and ate fast and methodically. He was no longer being silly.
“It’s okay Mam. We don’t always need a salad,” said Sadie hurriedly to ease the uncomfortable moment.
“I hate salads,” Reuben said loudly, with no pretense. “They’re not good.”
“Tomatoes aren’t,” Anna agreed, always a staunch supporter of Reuben and his views.
“I love tomatoes,” Rebekah said smiling.
“Mmm. So do I,” agreed Leah.
“Not when they’re $4.99 a pound,” Mam said shaking her head. “I never heard of prices like that ’til we moved here.”
Dat looked up and sighed.
“Pass the potatoes,” he said brusquely.
Plates were scraped, dishes passed, forks lifted to mouths, everyone chewing and swallowing silently. Mam got up to refill water glasses, and a soft fog descended over the supper table, a fog that you didn’t see unless you knew Mam and noticed the change in her. The change was subtle, but it was there, just like fog that swirled and hovered.
Sadie pushed back her plate and said too quickly and loudly, “I’m full.”
“Don’t you want dessert?” Mam asked, her eyes blinking rapidly.
“What do we have?”
“Well, I guess just canned peaches from the IGA. I was going to bake a chocolate cake but sort of…got sidetracked. I…couldn’t find the recipe.”
Sadie looked at Mam, her mouth hanging open, stupidly.
“But, Mam…,” she began.
Mam’s eyes stopped Sadie. They were brimming with terror. Mam was afraid—frightened of her own inability to bake a chocolate cake without a recipe. Mam never used a recipe. Never. Not for chocolate cakes or chocolate chip cookies or even for pie crusts. It was all written in her mind, emerging the minute the big Tupperware bowl of flour hit the countertop.
“It’s all right, Mam.”
“I want ice cream!”
“We don’t have any.”
“We do. I saw it in the freezer.”
Reuben got up, walked to the freezer, and yanked the door open dramatically.
“See? There it is!”
Anna swung her legs across the top of the bench in one little-girl movement and dashed over to peer around the freezer door.
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“You’re right, Reuben.”
Reuben bounced back to the table, the ice cream clutched firmly in his hands.
“Chocolate marshmallow!”
Dat leaned back in his chair, grinned at Reuben, and said, “Guess who bought it?”
“You did!”
“I did. That’s my favorite and Mam forgets to buy it.”
Sadie winced. Come on, Dat. Did you have to say that?
As Dat helped himself to a large portion of chocolate marshmallow ice cream, Sadie’s mind drifted to something more pleasant. Her horse. She knew she had to ask Dat, and now was a good a time as ever. She had to do it. Dat was kind and good to them all. He was. Surely he would allow it this time. He had said no to Paris and then relented later. So he wanted her to have a horse, right? Surely.
She cleared her throat.
“Dat?”
He lifted his head, swallowed, and acknowledged her question.
“You know the horse? The one … that one I told you about? The one that was dying?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Firmly pleating the knit tablecloth beneath the table, she plunged in.
“I … he’s down at Richard Caldwell’s stable. He’s alive. Breathing on his own. He’s standing up. Can you imagine? He’s barely able to, but he’s standing. He’s so skinny. His neck is pitiful. Richard Caldwell doesn’t want him, and he said I can … can have him. Keep him.”
Reuben stopped eating ice cream, watching Sadie with calculating eyes.
“Whose horse is he?” asked Dat.
Sadie relaxed, then launched into recounting the whole story to the family.
“Wow!” Anna said slowly, her mouth forming a perfect “O” around the word.
“It has to be someone’s horse. What if you keep him and the owner shows up? It happens all the time. People rescue dogs, fall in love with them, name them, and one day the owner appears at their door.”
“Yeah. What are you gonna do then?” Reuben asked, returning to his pile of ice cream, which was entirely too much for one 10-year-old to consume by himself.
Anna looked at him, her eyes narrowing before helping herself to a large spoonful from his bowl.