Sadie’s Montana Trilogy

by Linda Byler

  “Mmm,” Sadie said, acknowledging this bit of information.

  “I don’t know about him. He has English clothes lying around. And I don’t know what a whiskey bottle looks like, but he has some strange looking bottles in his little refrigerator.”

  Sadie gasped. “Reuben, why did you go snooping in his refrigerator? That’s just awful bad manners.”

  “I know. I … Well, it bothers me, Sadie. Your eyes turn to … I don’t know, stars … or something when he’s around. And he isn’t a real Amish person, I don’t think. I’m afraid of him, sort of. Even his dog is kind of wild-looking, even if he’s friendly as all get out. And, I don’t know, Sadie, but suppose you would marry this guy against Mam and Dat’s wishes, and he’d turn out to be somebody completely different than you think he is?”

  There was no answer to this youthful bit of wisdom, spoken in the raw, innocent concern of a person not quite a child and not quite an adult. She knew his words were truthful, without malice or prejudice.

  As they neared the house, they heard the sound of the porch swing, a high squeak that turned to a much lower one as the swing went back and forth.

  Anna leaped up from the wooden porch rocker, slamming the back of it against the log wall of the house. “Where were you, Reuben?”

  “Ask Sadie.”

  “What in the world got into you, Sadie, taking off down the driveway as if someone’s house was on fire?” Anna asked, clearly perturbed.

  “I needed the exercise.”

  Dat cleared his throat from the swing, and Sadie prepared herself for a lecture, but it did not come. The swing kept its steady creaking, Mam’s feet sliding comfortably across the wooden floor of the porch.

  “That’s not why,” Anna sputtered, intent on the truth.

  “Let it go, Anna,” Mam said quietly.

  “Well, I will, but they need to know it’s too dangerous to be traipsing all over the countryside this time of day. Hey, do we still have those Grandpa Cookies with coconut on the icing?”

  “I put the last two in Reuben’s lunchbox,” Mam replied.

  “Of course. Anything for Reuben,” Anna said, huffily, sitting down in the rocker again, hard, slamming the back of it against the logs of the house again.

  “Pull that rocking chair out from the wall, Anna. You’ll knock all the paint off for sure,” Dat said sternly.

  Sadie sank into the remaining rocker. Maybe she should include Anna in her life more often. Ever since Reuben had learned to ride, Anna’s jealousy had become so real, you could almost touch it. It was only natural. Reuben and Anna had been inseparable until he had accompanied Sadie to the ridge to tame the horses. They had tried to persuade Anna to ride, but she refused to even try to get up on a horse’s back, flouncing off in a temper every time.

  Reuben confided in Sadie a few weeks ago, saying the reason Anna acted like that about riding was because she thought she was fat, and thought she’d look like a big elephant if she went riding.

  Reuben had hissed the last bit of information as Anna strolled into the barn, peeling the Saran Wrap from a chocolate whoopie pie. “See? She’s always chewing or slurping something, and she’s chunky.”

  Anna got up to pull the rocker away from the wall, and Sadie noticed the back of her dress stretched tightly across her shoulders.

  “I’m hungry,” Anna announced.

  “Well, what could we eat?” Mam said softly.

  “Those cookies,” Anna said, the loss and sadness of not having them in her voice.

  “I made fresh shoofly pies this morning.”

  “Don’t like shoofly.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You don’t. Well, what else could you eat?”

  “I know!” Reuben shouted. “Lucky Charms!”

  “Lucky Charms!” Anna echoed as she leaped from her chair, slamming it against the wall once more, causing Dat to grimace.

  Sadie rocked, the chair’s rhythm calming her agitation. She sighed, wishing she was the age when the thought of a dish of cereal accelerated your heartbeat. Her youngest siblings had no serious concerns, no pressing matters, other than achieving passing grades in school or dealing with Mam’s refusal to allow you to do some very important thing.

  The door to the phone shanty swung open. A small, dark form emerged and walked slowly across the driveway and up to the porch.

  “Who were you talking to?” Mam asked.

  “Do I have to tell you?” Leah asked, her voice swelling with emotion.

  “Kevin Nissley or Kevin Nissley?” Dat asked, teasing, as Mam laughed softly.

  Suddenly, Sadie felt very old and very tired, too tired to fight the jealously that reared its ugly head.

  Chapter 2

  WHEN JIM SEVARR’S RUSTY, OLD PICKUP WOUND its way up the drive, Sadie rose slowly from her kitchen chair, pushing back the untouched English muffin with peanut butter and strawberry jam. She forced herself to swallow a bit of grape juice, then went to the door when the truck stopped.

  Mam looked up from the steaming wringer-washer as she lifted the clothes from the soapy water and fed them through the rollers of the wringer. The laundry room smelled of Tide and Downy, the detergent and fabric softener Mam always used. Piles of sorted laundry dotted the floor, Mam plopping them into the sudsy water one by one.

  The compressed air, held in a large, round tank, was generated by the slow-running Lister diesel generator in the diesel shanty. When there was laundry to be done, Dat started the diesel so that Mam could fill the washing machine with the hose attached to spigots on the wall. Then she only needed to open the valve on the air line, and, instantly, the up-and-down rhythm of the air motor filled the house.

  Some women still preferred a gas engine mounted on brackets beneath their washer, but Mam liked her air motor, so that’s what her daughters were used to as well. It was home, it was their way, and it seemed right to use that wringer-washer when they were there.

  Down at Aspen East Ranch, Sadie used a large, front-loading, automatic washer run by electricity. Using electricity was as normal as breathing for the Caldwell family. Everything turned on with a flip of a switch or the turn of a dial. Mixers whirred, lights flooded the rooms, dryers turned and blew heat that dried the tumbling clothes, dishwashers hissed and whirred quietly, depending on the cycle. Coffee was ground, brewed, and heated with the flip of a switch. Microwave ovens heated things in a few minutes while the food container stayed cool. There was just no end to the convenience.

  But that was at the ranch. The Caldwells were English people, and that was how they lived. It was not wrong for them to use modern conveniences, being born and raised that way. Amish people lived and abided by their ordnung. They preferred to stay “behind the world,” or to practice living the way they always had, allowing only minor changes in order to be able to compete in the business world.

  Sadie loved her job at the large ranch, but she especially loved working with Dorothy Sevarr, Jim’s short, buxom wife with a large personality.

  Opening the stubborn door of the pickup truck, Sadie grinned her silent “good morning” to Jim, plopped on the seat, and pulled mightily so the rusty door shut completely.

  She stopped trying to expect a “good morning” out of Jim shortly after he started picking her up for work. If she did greet him, the words fell on unfertile ground and withered away, swept under the cracked, vinyl seat by Jim’s uncompromising grunt. If she only smiled as she entered the truck instead, he just shifted his toothpick. Sometimes coughed or cleared his throat. But his blue eyes always lit up and the crow’s feet at their corners deepened.

  It was just Jim’s way, and Sadie knew he’d turn the pickup around and begin to talk before they were down the driveway.

  “Y’ git that there buckboard yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why didn’t ya git it?”

  “I’m not sure it’s worth $500.00.”

  “Whatsa matter with it?”

  “I don’t know. The wheels seem sturdy
enough, but the floor is rotting through, and Dat will definitely need to build new seats for it.”

  “Five hundred ain’t very much.”

  “It’s enough.”

  The Montana countryside was green and gold and brown. Sunlight dappled everything so that even the dust shone gold. It was one of those days when the weather was warm but not too warm. It was windy too, but not so windy that it tore at your skirts and grabbed your white covering, pulling your hair horribly and tossing it relentlessly.

  The wind never stopped in Montana. It just changed its pace the way horses did. Sometimes it walked, lifting the leaves and the grasses gently. Other times it trotted, swirling skirts and flapping laundry briskly. Still other times it galloped, tearing at your covering, making you bend your head and dash wherever you were going, knowing your skirt was above your knees and knowing it did no good to try and control it.

  The wind just blew.

  Sadie loved the wind. God was in the wind, she always thought. His power was so visible then. No one could make the wind. No one could start it or stop it. It was God’s—that’s why.

  In church, the ministers spoke of a new birth, comparing it to the wind. Did any man know where the wind stopped or started? God made the wind.

  Sadie thought everyone made an awful big fuss about the new birth. The ministers said that God gave people a new birth. The new birth was from God, like the wind was from God. The wind created dancing leaves and swaying branches. The Spirit created good people doing kind deeds. But Sadie knew that sometimes people did kind deeds to be seen by others and not from the genuine goodness coming from a heart flowing with God’s love.

  People were hard to figure out. Horses were easier to understand and much easier to talk to. Paris always knew how Sadie was feeling. Paris knew when she was silly or light-hearted or angry. Paris was quiet when Sadie was lonely or blue. She would trot over and put her cheek close to Sadie’s head, her warm, sweet breath whooshing in and out close to Sadie’s shoulder. Then Sadie would cup her hand beneath Paris’ nose and tell her everything that caused a dark mood to settle down over her, this cloak of grayness that made her breathe heavily, evenly, not wanting to perish because of it, but feeling as if she might.

  Why couldn’t she let go of Mark Peight? Here he was again, having bought the small, tumbledown place on the other side of Atkin’s Ridge, and there she went riding happily along with Reuben one sunny afternoon, not a care in the world. And who should be up on the roof of the old Zimmerman place but Mark Peight himself?

  Then that dry-mouthed, heart-hammering nonsense started all over again simply by the mere sight of him on that roof—the breadth of his shoulders, the way he turned his head, his blue-black hair tousled by the wind, his deep brown eyes looking straight into her heart. Suddenly she couldn’t find one word to say.

  He came back to Montana because of her, but what good did it do? Dat and Mam stood together as immovable as a rock. A fortress of parents. Staunch, and side by side. She was not allowed to date this mysterious stranger.

  Was he a stranger? He had lived within their community for quite a while. He attended church, went to the hymn-singings, and joined the youth. He said he was raised Amish back in Pennsylvania.

  But was he raised Amish, really? Who could know if he was telling the truth?

  He had a past, that was sure. He was a troubled man, had been troubled in his teen years. But why? He had come so close to telling her his life’s story, but then left suddenly to return to Pennsylvania. He sent a brief note to her but with hardly any explanation inside.

  Sadie sighed, looked out the dirty window, and wished Mark Peight would get out of her life. But she knew if he did, her world would be completely devoid of meaning, as gray and miserable as the surface of the moon.

  She was pulled back to reality when the truck came to a stop.

  “There ya go, little lady.”

  “Thanks, Jim. See you in a little while.”

  A shifting of the toothpick was her only answer, but she knew he’d soon be in the kitchen to see Dorothy, the love of his life.

  The long, low ranch house was as beautiful as ever that morning, the yellow glow of the morning sun casting it in gold. The yard was immaculate, the shrubs and perennials tended lovingly by the aging gardener, Bertie Orthman.

  Bertie rounded the corner of the house, his shoulders sloped and stooped with age, his blue denim shirt hanging loosely on his sparse frame. His hair was as white as snow, and probably just as clean, his mustache trimmed just so, just like the shrubs he kept in perfect form. He stopped when he saw Sadie.

  “Now, ain’t that a sight for an ol’ man’s eyes?”

  Sadie turned to look behind her.

  “What?” she asked, her blue eyes two beautiful pools of innocence.

  Bertie grinned, then shook his head.

  “Sadie girl, you really are one different person. Don’t anybody ever give you no compliment? I meant you. You look so pretty wearing that there bluish dress. Just reminds me o’ my Matilda, God rest ’er soul.”

  “Why, thank you, Bertie. I thought you meant someone or something was behind me.”

  Bertie bent to pluck a weed, then tenderly ran a hand over the top of a boxwood.

  “Watch this!”

  Sadie watched as he showed her his technique for running the gas-powered trimmer. He was so precise that the shrubs looked like a horticulturist’s dream.

  “You’re good, Bertie. You really are. You have this place looking wonderful.”

  “Yep, I do.”

  Bertie grew visibly taller at Sadie’s compliment, straightening his shoulders, puffing out his thin chest.

  Not much humility in that one, Sadie thought as she smiled at Bertie. Still, he was a dear old man who would never hurt a flea. She felt blessed to work with people who truly were the salt of the earth.

  Sadie went around to the side of the house, stepped up on the porch, and let herself into the kitchen. This huge, commercial room was her work place; the room where large meals were planned, cooked, and served to the dozens of hungry ranch hands who worked for Richard Caldwell. Richard was a massive giant of a man with a voice that matched his size, never failing to give Sadie a start when he entered a room.

  This morning, there was no one in the kitchen.

  Hmm, that’s strange, Sadie thought.

  She sniffed the air. Biscuits baking. She turned to lift the lid on a large, cast-iron Dutch oven. Sausage on. She pulled on the stainless steel container that held the filter of coffee grounds and found it empty. No coffee made yet.

  “Dorothy?” Sadie called tentatively.

  There was no answer, the kitchen silent except for the hissing sausage in the Dutch oven.

  She bent to retrieve the coffee can and filters from the cupboard below. Measuring a half cup of coffee grounds into the white filter, she placed it into the container and slid it into place. She pushed the “START” button, happy to hear the usual gurgle accompanied by a whirring of sound.

  Where was Dorothy?

  Sadie walked to the basement door, opened it, and called Dorothy’s name again. She was just about to pull on the bathroom door handle when it flew open. A red-faced Dorothy stepped out, wiping her hands on two very wet, brown paper towels.

  “Sadie! Can’t ya give a person a rest? You just ‘Dorothy! Dorothy!’ all over this kitchen the minute you can’t find me! Can’t you just come in quiet-like and figger I’ll be around? When nature calls, I have to heed its voice. Can’t I get a moment’s peace in the bathroom? No!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry ain’t gonna getcha nowhere. From now on, if’n you come to work and I ain’t around, nature has called, and I’m where I should be at such a time.”

  Sadie looked into the snapping blue eyes below hers, the round face red with exertion, the gray hair electric with fury, and burst out laughing. She laughed until she clung to the counter for support, until tears squeezed between her eyelids, until she gulped and gig
gled and hiccupped. She peeped at Dorothy sideways, and when she saw Dorothy was still huffy, sitting now on a kitchen chair and eyeing her testily, she laughed some more.

  “Ach, my. Oh, my.”

  Sadie straightened her back and grabbed a paper towel from the roll on the wall to wipe her eyes, apologizing as she did so.

  “Dorothy, I won’t do it again. I am truly sorry.”

  Dorothy slurped from her big mug of tea, licked her lips, and eyed Sadie levelly.

  “It ain’t funny. When you get to be my age, the constitution of your body is an important part of your life. I ain’t had my bran muffins in quite some time, an’ I’m plumb out o’ Metamucil. You know, I told Jim all week, when he gits to town, go to the Rite Aid and git me the biggest bottle of Metamucil that’s there. Does he? Does he remember? No siree, he don’t. So see what happens? I got to set in the bathroom and here she comes. ‘Dorothy. Dorothy. Dorothy!’ It’s enough to weary a person at this early mornin’ hour.”

  Sadie felt the waves of humor, the beginning of a wonderful, deep-down, belly laugh, but she turned to start another pot of coffee before Dorothy could see her shoulders shaking and her mighty struggle to stay straight-faced.

  The kitchen door swung open, and Jim strode purposefully up to Dorothy.

  “I’m goin’ to town. Ya want me to git ya anything? Boss needs some three-quarter-inch nails.”

  Sadie watched as Dorothy rose from her chair, all five feet of her. Her chest swelled to even greater proportions as she took a mighty breath. Sadie ducked her head at the coming tirade, watching as Dorothy’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed.

  “Now, Mr. Sevarr, what would I possibly want from town? Isn’t a thing. Nary a thing.”

  “But … I recollect there was somethin’. Wasn’t there somethin’ at the beginnin’ of the week? Asprin or somethin’?”

  “If you’d give two hoots about yer woman, you’d remember.”

  Jim looked uncomfortable then, taking off his battered Stetson and twisting it in blackened, gnarled fingers. He searched his wife’s face for any sign that would help him out.