by Linda Byler
It was a sight that never failed to bring a tightening to Richard Caldwell’s throat. The connection between the girl and this horse was amazing. That horse knew Sadie as sure as shooting, and he would do anything Sadie asked of him.
“Yep! We got us a winner!” he said, in his normal, much-too-loud kind of voice.
“You mean…?” Sadie asked.
“This horse is no ordinary one. You can tell by the lines of his shoulders, the way he holds his head, the deep chest. The more he’s gaining, the easier I can tell. He’s no wild mustang, this one. He’s someone’s horse with outstanding bloodlines running in them veins of his.”
Sadie’s heart sank at his words.
“Then, he’s someone’s horse?”
“He has to be.”
“So why are we bothering to spend all this money? All these veterinary bills? The feed?”
Richard Caldwell looked out the window of Nevaeh’s stall.
“It doesn’t mean the owner will be here to reclaim him,” he said flatly.
“But…it’s not our…your horse,” she insisted.
“Sadie, I told you, this horse is yours. I give him to you. I gave him to you a few weeks ago. He’s getting better—improving much faster then I thought possible. Your visits, the grooming, the apples and carrots and sugar cubes you take from the kitchen…”
“I’m sorry.”
Sadie was deeply ashamed. She hadn’t meant to steal, just figured Richard Caldwell wouldn’t mind the few treats from the kitchen.
“Don’t worry about it. You can feed this horse a bushel of my apples if you choose. You’re doing something right.”
“How long until I can try to ride him?” Sadie asked, bolder now by his words of praise.
“You want to try this afternoon?”
Sadie clasped her hands, sighing, before she said, “Thank you! Oh I’m so glad! I think he’ll do just fine. I won’t gallop him—just walk him. He’s still not very strong. Do you have a saddle and bridle I could use? I still have Paris’ tack, but it’s stored away and likely all cracked and dusty. Did you know I could ride Paris without a sadle? I never told you that, did I? Eva and I both did. Her horse’s name was Spirit, but he listened to anything we wanted him to do. Spirit was a unique horse; small, but very muscular. Paris was the beauty, though. Her color was exactly the shade of honey—you know, the good kind that is done right, not that darker, brownish stuff in the grocery store.”
Suddenly, realizing she was rambling and allowing her stern boss to see her with her guard down, she stopped. She was just being herself, but she felt embarrassed about her open display of emotions. She looked down and kicked gently at Nevaeh’s hoof with the toe of her boot.
Richard Caldwell’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he smiled from the heart.
“You really loved that Paris, didn’t you?”
Sadie nodded.
“And that dad of yours still won’t allow you to have a horse?”
“I guess not. I tried.”
Sadie shrugged her shoulders helplessly.
“Well, if that’s how he feels, we’ll just keep him here. You can ride in the afternoon or stay an hour later—whatever you decide. If that fearsome Dottie allows it.”
“Don’t call her Dottie,” Sadie said grinning.
Dorothy fussed up a storm when Sadie told her she was allowed to ride for an hour each afternoon. Forgetting the ham and beans on the stove, Dorothy waved the wooden spoon she was using in irritation. Her eyes sparked and her hair bounced around for emphasis.
“And who, young lady, is going to help me out? Who? Barbara Caldwell? Gomez? Harry? I can’t cook these gigantic meals myself! At my age? It’s too much! If I didn’t have this good pair of shoes on my feet, there’s no way I’d be here now. No way.”
She returned to the pot of beans, stirring, muttering, shaking her head about the young generation, while Sadie hastily began loading the dishwasher. Guilt swirled around her heart. Maybe riding Nevaeh and caring for him here at the ranch was not a good idea. Dat didn’t approve of the horse, and now Dottie was upset. Perhaps she should just tell Richard Caldwell to allow the horse to finish his journey back to good health and then sell him, or better yet, search for his owner.
Isn’t that what computers were for? Couldn’t Richard Caldwell go on-line or post something about a lost horse, perhaps a stolen horse, and the owner would see it? She’d have to ask him.
Another thing—it would probably be best if she never rode him at all. Once the bond between horse and rider started, there was no turning back. Not for her, anyway. She’d just become attached to this horse, and like Paris, would have to give him up in the end.
But she had to try, just once, just this afternoon.
Sadie glanced at the clock then back to Dorothy. It was two o’clock, and Dorothy was having her afternoon rest, which was a nice way of saying she sat down in the soft rocking chair in the corner of the huge kitchen and fell asleep so soundly, her glasses slid down her nose, her mouth gave way to gravity, and loud snores erupted at regular intervals from her dilating nostrils. But it was not a nap. “No, siree, I never take a nap,” she’d say, “Just rest my eyes, just rest my eyes. Need to go to the optical place and get my lenses changed.”
What a dear person! Sadie wanted to be exactly like Dorothy when she grew old. Like Dorothy and Jim, a love and commitment eternal.
But for now, it was out to the barn.
The everyday coat Sadie wore to work was perfect—warm and loose-fitting, leaving room for her shoulders and arms to move. She wore an extra pair of socks, riding boots, her well-worn pair of jeans beneath her dress, and a warm, white scarf on her head.
Her breath came in little gasps, short puffs of nervous energy. She fully admitted to herself that she was afraid—only a little—but scared nevertheless. Who could know what might happen when she swung herself up on Nevaeh’s back? Horses could be the most docile creatures until the minute someone sat on their back, and then, WHAM!
Sadie went to the tack room, which held all the saddles, bridles, harnesses, brushes, combs, polishes, waxes, and anything else a person—or horse, for that matter—could need or want. She stood hesitantly beside the door, not entirely sure what she should do. There was a dizzying array of saddles in all colors, sizes, and shapes. She wasn’t sure which were to use and which were for display.
Maybe she should have asked Richard Caldwell to accompany her this first time to the tack room. She had wondered if Richard Caldwell would be here to help her, but she knew his business, the many hands he managed on the ranch, and numerous other ventures kept him extremely busy. She supposed Nevaeh was only a small blip on the screen of his life.
What to do? She looked past the cabinets to the row of gleaming, leather bridles, then walked over quietly, her hand reaching out for the one closest to her. It looked like an average size, and it had buckles along the side so she could adjust it. Well, she had to start somewhere.
The opposite end of the room sprang to life when the door burst open, and a small man charged through it. He had a huge, black mustache, a greasy, filthy coat, and a slouched leather hat.
“Hey, girl, whatcha doin’ in here?”
Sadie put her hands behind her back, the color seeping from her face.
“Ain’t you s’posed to be in that there kitchen helpin’ the old lady?”
“N-not now. I have an hour to ride Nevaeh, the black and white paint.”
“Richard Caldwell, the boss, know this?”
“Yes. He…he is the one who wants me to ride him.”
“Yer gonna need a saddle then.”
Sadie’s eyes narrowed as she picked up courage.
“And a bridle. And a blanket.”
The black mustache lifted from its long, droopy shape to a higher, friendlier look, and a massive brown hand went out.
“Lothario Bean! Master of the Tack Room.”
Large white teeth flashed below the mustache, looking for all the world like a giant Oreo co
okie. His skin was the color of a Brach’s Milk Maid caramel that Mam used when she made a turtle cake.
Sadie shook hands, wincing as her sturdy, white one was crushed in the huge hand of Lothario Bean.
“Ain’t you the prettiest thing? You remind me of m’ daughters, only whiter. Got five daughters. ’Fore every one was borned, thought sure God give me a son. Never was. All daughters. All five of ’em. Felida, Rosita, Carmelita, Frances, and Jean Elizabeth.”
He ticked them off on thick brown fingers, his beady, brown eyes polished with love and pride.
“All girls. Love of my life.”
Sadie smiled warmly, instantly liking this individual with his thick Latino accent.
“Jean Elizabeth, you know? She named that to break up Jean Bean!”
He laughed uproariously, slapping his leather chaps so hard, Sadie felt sure his hand stung afterward.
She laughed genuinely. Poor Jean Bean.
Lothario squinted at Sadie, cocking his head to one side like a large, overgrown bird.
“You know Christmas is coming? You celebrate Christmas? Your religion believe in Jesus’ birth?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Good. So do we, so do we.”
“You know Christmas is coming. Me and my darling Lita, we is planning a huge surprise—a huge one! No presents this year, none. A trip! We gon’ take a long trip back to the ol’ country!”
He spread his arms, joy crossing his face, and the Oreo cookie became bigger and wider as he told Sadie the wonders of returning to South America.
Sadie finally glanced apprehensively at the large clock on the wall of the tack room. Twenty minutes had already gone by, and she hadn’t even seen Nevaeh yet.
“I must go, please. I have only one hour.”
“Oh, oh, oh, I am please to be excused. Forgive me fer keeping ya here. Here. Here. This is your bridle, and this? No, this? This one? This is your saddle.”
Moving as swiftly as he talked, he pulled off a saddle, snatched a bridle, and collected a blanket. Keeping up a constant chatter pertaining to his mother’s corn tortillas, Lothario swept through the door and into the stable, released the latch of Nevaeh’s stall, then stepped back. He bowed deeply, one arm across his back, in a manner so genteel, it warmed Sadie’s heart.
“Thank you, Mr. Bean. Thank you so much!” she said smiling.
“No, no Mr. Bean. Lothario. Lothario. Just like the romantic hero in the book!”
Sadie laughed, then went into Nevaeh’s stall as Lothario Bean hurried off to do what masters of tack rooms did.
She was still smiling as she led Nevaeh out and began brushing his coat—which was still not as glossy and smooth as Sadie hoped it would be by this time.
Nevaeh was a perfect gentleman for grooming. He stood quietly, allowing Sadie to brush every inch of him, down to his grayish-brown hooves. He never pranced away or refused to budge, the way Paris had always done.
Sadie slid the horse blanket gently over Nevaeh’s back, lifting and settling it down a few times to let him get used to the feel of it. His head lifted, ears flickered back, then forward, and Sadie knew he would readily accept the saddle if that was all he had to say about the blanket. Standing on tiptoe, she threw the beautiful brown saddle up and over his back. Nevaeh still stood quietly, ears flickering.
“Good boy. What a braufa gaul. Good boy.”
Sadie kept up the soft speech while she stroked and patted, adjusted straps, and tightened the cinch strap beneath his stomach. Sliding her hand between the strap and the stomach, she checked to see if it was too loose or too tight.
Nevaeh seemed comfortable, keeping a good-natured stance. He lowered, then raised his head, but in a calm manner so that Sadie felt more relaxed, her erratic heartbeat becoming more normal.
When she introduced the bit, he clamped his teeth and lifted his head to avoid it, but Sadie gently coaxed him to cooperate. She had to remove the bit to adjust the leather straps on the side of his head, but the second introduction to the bit didn’t seem to bother him too much.
Taking a deep breath, Sadie took the reins and spoke to her horse.
“Bisht all right, Nevaeh? Doo gehn myeh.”
She lifted the reins, tugged, and Nevaeh followed. She rolled open the door. Nevaeh stood quietly, then followed her outside into the brilliant, white world.
They stood together, surveying the ranch before them. Nevaeh’s head came up and his ears pricked forward as he stood at attention, waiting to see what Sadie would do.
Sadie cupped his nose in her gloved hand, murmured, stroked his silky neck beneath the heavy mane, and told him what a wonderful, big, handsome horse he was. Then she swung into the saddle, as light and gentle as ever.
“Good, good boy, Nevaeh.”
In the garage where the black Hummer and the cream-colored Mercedes were kept, Richard Caldwell stood, feeling more foolish than he had ever felt in his life—at least since he was in sixth grade and had thrown up in math class.
He wanted to see how Sadie would handle a horse, yet knew it was probably best not to let her know this. He knew she’d do better on her own. He was also curious about what this modestly dressed young woman would do with her skirt, and he did not want to embarrass her by asking silly questions.
What was it about Sadie that brought on these emotions, these feelings he had long forgotten? He was in awe of her—if any such thing was possible for the great Richard Caldwell. Could it be that this is how fathers felt when they had grown-up daughters? How would he know? He and Barbara never had children. She never wanted them.
Shortly after they were married, he knew. She had no time for babies. They cried, took up all your time, and in this day and age, who knew if they would even turn out all right?
Parenting was hard. Barbara thought it would hardly be worth the effort, even with one child.
He didn’t know how he felt about having children. He guessed he always figured there would be an heir to his ranch, an acquisition he had obtained in his 30s. And now, almost 20 years later, he was old. His wife was much younger, but just not the type to have children.
He shrugged, passed a hand across the sleek surface of the Mercedes, and thought about having a son. He would teach him to ride and buy him a miniature horse.
Richard Caldwell laughed, covering his weariness with humor. What else could he do?
Surely he was not in love with Sadie. Falling in love? No. Flat out no. Sadie was too pure, too good, almost angelic. Besides, how could he defile something that reminded him of home? Somehow she gave him that same cozy feeling he had from a snowy, white tablecloth set on a cheap, wooden table that held his mother’s breakfast of homemade pancakes—a stack of three, dribbling melted butter and sweet, sticky home-cooked syrup. No, Sadie was not the type of girl that brought the wrong kind of emotions to his head. Not at all.
He just wanted to see if she could handle this Nevaeh. He was afraid he would come to regret letting her try to ride. He doubted the whole situation—and the outcome.
Sliding his huge frame over a bit, he peered through the glass. Well, she was up. Looked as if she had a bit of a problem now, though. Didn’t that Nevaeh just stand there now? Refused to budge. Typical horse with no brains. Should have let him die.
He slid back from the window when Sadie’s gaze swept the house and garage. Still she sat, relaxed, looking around. The horse pawed the snowy ground with one forefoot.
Richard gasped.
Now he was going to throw her! She had better get off.
He had to restrain himself from leaving the garage, walking out and grabbing that stubborn horse’s bridle. The beast was going to hurt Sadie.
The forefoot pawed again. The head lowered, then flung up. Sadie leaned forward, loosening the reins when he lowered his head, gently gathering them when he raised it.
Still she sat.
Now she leaned forward again, patting, stroking, playing with the coarse hair of the mane, talking. On and on, until the tension
in Richard Caldwell’s back caused him to swing one shoulder forward painfully.
Now Nevaeh was prancing—a sideways dance that could have easily unseated a lesser rider. He saw the leg of the jeans. The boots. The skirt adjusted in a modest manner. So that was how she rode.
Nevaeh’s two forefeet came up in a light buck. Sadie leaned forward, still talking, still relaxed.
Now he was definitely going to throw her. She’d be hurt.
Richard Caldwell sagged against the silver bumper on the Hummer and clenched his fists. Why didn’t she get that stubborn piece of horseflesh moving?
Now they stood quietly again.
Nevaeh shook his head back and forth. He snorted. He dug the snow with one foot, sending a fine spray back against the stable wall. He shook his head and snorted again.
Oh, great. Just great. He was a balker, culled from the herd for his stubborn behavior … running loose. No one could handle his obstinate conduct.
Just when Richard Caldwell thought he would pop a vein in his head, the horse stepped out. He was cautious, but he stepped out, the beginning of a walk.
And so they walked. They moved around the circular driveway twice. Nevaeh was still prancing sideways, still snorting, but moving along.
Now Sadie was turning the reins against the side of Nevaeh’s neck, first one way and then the other, testing her beloved horse’s response to the rein.
Perfect.
Richard breathed again.
Sadie’s head came up, her back straightened, and she nudged Nevaeh ever so slightly. Then she leaned back into the saddle, relaxed, prepared. Nevaeh broke into a slow trot, followed immediately by a slow canter, a sure-footed, springy, graceful motion that took Richard Caldwell’s breath away.
What a horse! Unbelievable! Still too thin, the hair still coarse in spots, but, like an unfinished painting, emerging beauty.
The horse and rider disappeared behind the barn, and Richard Caldwell slowly made his way out of the garage and into the kitchen, looking for his wife, Barbara. He didn’t typically share with others—often keeping feelings to himself—but this time he just had to talk to someone about this remarkable Sadie and her horse.