Sadie’s Montana Trilogy

by Linda Byler

  Mam put a hand on Sadie’s shoulder. “Sadie, it’s good you’re concerned. But you must be careful. Listen to your father. He’s right. I still think the perfect arrangement is to let Dorothy have them. Dat said that’s all Jim talked about when he took him to the horse sale last week.”

  Sadie nodded. As usual, she could place her trust in her parents’ decision. When they were side by side like that, when God had a hand in Dat’s and Mam stood beside him, you just had to reach out your own hand and place it in Mam’s. They were so rock-solid.

  So the mystery of the children remained a large question mark. Dorothy said “them jewels in the pouch” would stay in the vault at the bank, and if she died, it all went back to Marcelona and Louise, as she called the children. The jewels sure weren’t hers, and she wanted no part of them. All she needed was that piece of paper that made her and Jim legal foster parents of those precious angels sent straight from God.

  Sadie often marveled at the perfect way God had taken care of those adorable children, who, without a doubt, came from a very troubled background.

  Sadie laid back in the recliner and closed her eyes. Her head was throbbing. As soon as the Tylenol began working effectively she would have to write to Daniel King. She had not replied to his letter, struggling with indecision, and she could not put it off any longer.

  The thought of that whole situation increased the pain in her temple, and she groaned silently.

  She had just drifted into that blissful state between waking and sleeping, when you are only half-aware of your surroundings, when everything is soft and warm and safe.

  Suddenly, the door opened with a bang, followed by a much louder one as it was flung shut. Then an agitated, “Mam!”

  Sadie grimaced, rolled her head to the side, and said hoarsely, “Mam’s not here, Reuben.”

  “Where’s Dat?”

  “They went to an auction at the fire hall. Why didn’t you go along?”

  Reuben did not bother answering.

  “It’s just that… Oh, Sadie!”

  That was all he could say before his white face crumpled and he began to cry little-boy tears. He rubbed his eyes, gulping and making a desperate attempt to stop the tears.

  Sadie pulled on the lever at the side of the recliner and sat up with a thump. Concern for Reuben made her forget her headache for the moment.

  “Reuben! What is it?”

  He twisted his body to hide his face in a throw pillow on the couch, then sat up abruptly, tears streaking his cheeks with a brown smudges where his fists had rubbed them.

  “Sadie! It’s so awful! I … I had my BB gun. I was shooting sparrows. You know Mam doesn’t want those sparrows at the feeder?”

  Sadie nodded, “Go on.”

  “Well, a flock of starlings flew behind the barn, and I guess I lost track of where I was, and before I realized it, I was in the horse pasture.

  “I let Charlie out this afternoon because he kept carrying on so bad in his stall, and I thought he might settle down if he got some exercise. I got down to the lower pasture, and… Sadie! He’s dead! Just exactly like Cody.”

  The last words were a sort of despairing scream, hoarse with fear and disbelief.

  “I heard the shot. I saw them. They saw me. As soon as they saw me, they took off, but their car got stuck in a ravine. A little ditch.

  “Sadie, I was never so scared in all my life. I had to take that chance. It was too late for poor Charlie, but I had to try to catch that license-plate number.”

  “Reuben, you didn’t!”

  “I did. I ran without thinking, taking the chance that they wouldn’t shoot people. Boys.

  “I was running so fast, the snow hurt my face. It’s all a blur. They sat there, spinning their tires, revving the motor, but nothing happened. I kept running. One of the men jumped out, swearing and yelling, waving his arms. Then he leaned all his weight against the car. He was big and fat. Really heavy.”

  “The car? Wasn’t it a blue pickup?”

  Reuben shook his head.

  “It was a low black car. One of those crazy ones. The fat man saw me then, got back in the car. The wheels spun and spun and spun. Blue smoke came out, and that’s when I thought I wouldn’t be able to get the license number. Because of the smoke. Then I saw it. As plain as day.”

  He paused, his face a mixture of painful fear and accomplishment.

  “You’re not going to believe this. It was one of those license plates that has words, whatever you call them. Special ones, where people spell names or nicknames.”

  Sadie nodded, leaned forward, her eyes intently on Reuben’s face.

  “What is it?”

  “If I have it right, it’s T-R-A-D-R, then a space, and J-O.”

  “Trader Joe?” Sadie asked.

  “That’s what it said.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Oh, my, Reuben. We have to get Dat. We have to contact the authorities. The police have to find these men. I’ll call a driver, okay?”

  She got out of the recliner in spite of a pounding headache and another fit of coughing. Catching her breath, she asked Reuben to go out to the pasture and make sure Charlie really was dead and not suffering alone in the snow.

  Reuben shook his head, but obeyed without another word.

  The driver came quickly and took Sadie and Reuben to the fire hall where a lively quilt auction was being held. They found Dat without any trouble, and the news spread like wildfire.

  The police arrived and questioned Reuben, who stood with his beanie pulled low on his forehead and his blue denim coat hanging open, the collar of his green shirt frayed and crooked.

  Even so, his face was clean, his blue eyes direct and honest, and for a young Amish boy, he was very well-spoken. He stood by Dat and Sadie, explaining exactly what had happened in great detail. He politely addressed the uniformed police officers with a quiet, “No, sir” or “Yes, sir.”

  Sadie was impressed by her brother’s fortitude and composure in the face of such a shocking event. Reuben was clear, articulate, and highly believable in his forthright manner. He did not hide anything; neither was there any grandiose embellishment. It was a simple, truthful story explained clearly by a young boy. The police had no reason to doubt his honesty.

  The police drove Dat, Sadie, and Reuben to the scene of the crime in the back of the police car. Reuben’s eyes darted constantly from the leather holsters containing gleaming pistols, to the computer and the electronic gadgets on the dashboard, to the hats and gold wristwatches they wore. He missed nothing at all.

  True to Reuben’s words, they found Charlie lying on his side, stretched out in the cold snow, his faithful life as a buggy horse over.

  A huge lump welled in Sadie’s throat as she remembered another time, another place, with Jim and Nevaeh—and seeing Mark Peight for the first time.

  She swallowed her tears and felt sorry for Dat, who was struggling with his emotions as well. A driving horse was a close companion, that was the thing. There was a bond between horse and driver that didn’t break easily. When the horse died, it was like losing a dear and close pet.

  Charlie had been especially faithful with his plodding, steady gait. He started running and stopped readily when commanded. He never balked and seldom shied away from 18-wheelers or trucks with flapping canvas tarps or obnoxious motorcycles. He just took it all in stride and trotted right along.

  Even in winter, Charlie was as sure-footed as a mule or a donkey. You could close both buggy windows, fasten them securely, and hold loosely to the reins through the small rectangular openings.

  With Charlie, a buggy ride was relaxing. You could put your feet up on the dashboard, let the reins hang loose, and sing along to the steady clapping of his hooves. You could eat an ice cream cone with one hand and drive with the other, or if the ice cream dripped, you could hold the reins between your knees while you cleaned up the mess with a napkin.

  If ever there was a horse you could describe as good, Charlie was it.


  Sadie got down on her knees and stroked Charlie’s neck, arranging the coarse black hair of his mane just so. The icy pellets of snow were already accumulating in the heavy brown hairs of his side, their staying a stark reminder of the lack of warmth, of life, within his body.

  “Goodbye, Charlie. Thanks for all the good times,” she whispered brokenly.

  She looked up to see Reuben and Dat shaking hands with the policemen. She got up, and all three stood together, the silence a comfort that needed no words.

  They turned to go in unison, their heads bent, shuffling softly through the snow. Their heads were bent with acceptance of another act of God in their lives. It didn’t make sense, but they accepted it and bore it stoically.

  A high whinny brought them back to reality.

  Paris! Sadie had almost forgotten about her. Now Paris would be terribly lonely. She would whinny and whinny all day long, a relentless cry for Charlie to come back to her.

  “Hear that, Dat? She’s going nuts!” Sadie said, anxiety in her voice.

  Dat nodded. “We have to get another horse immediately. Can’t go to church on Sunday if we don’t.”

  “Where will you get one?”

  “They have that sale in Bath every month. Don’t trust them, though. Too many drugged horses there.”

  That was how they found themselves at the livestock auction in Critchfield the following Friday evening. Jesse Troyer told Dat there were going to be a few of Owen Weaver’s drivers there.

  Clapping his shoulder the way he always did, laughing along with his words, Jesse had told Dat the local hearsay was that Owen was as honest as the day was long, only his days were just a bit shorter than most.

  Dat had shaken his head at Jesse’s generosity of spirit.

  “You know, Jake, at the end of the day, we all have to make a living, and if Owen wants to tweak a few ends here or there, that’s his choice. He’s a horse-dealer, Amish or not.”

  There were as many Amish folks as English at the auction, Sadie decided. Or almost.

  The acrid smell of the sawdust mingled with horse smells, dust, and burning charcoal-broiled burgers from the cheaply paneled kitchen, along with the sounds of squawking chickens and bleating sheep. It was all the part of the quintessential country auction.

  Sadie loved a lively animal auction. Being seated high up on the elevated rows of built-in chairs was the closest she would ever come to sitting in the bleachers of a ball game, an event strictly forbidden by their ordnung. Amish usually did not attend organized sports, whether as viewers or as participants. The auction, however, was permitted as necessary to buy a good driving horse.

  Many of the older men came to the auction barn in Critchfield almost every week. It was their source of entertainment, something to look forward to after a week on the job. They ate their cheeseburgers and french fries, drank strong coffee, and visited with the grizzled old farmers and ranchers. They watched the sales of various animals, listened to the local gossip, then returned home to their wives who clucked in consternation over their quilts or embroidery as their husbands related all the good stories to them.

  Small children hid shyly behind their fathers’ trouser legs, but older ones ran loose, clinging to gates like little squirrels in their agility, running across corridors, laughing and shouting, their faces sticky with the lollipops, Nerds, and packets of Skittles they consumed.

  Sadie knew their mothers, who prided themselves on their housekeeping and child-rearing abilities, would be shocked to see their faces sticky with the sugary treats they bought at the counter, their hands dirty from holding yet another baby lamb or goat. The indulging fathers, on the other hand, took no notice, often busily engaged in conversations with friends.

  The auctioneer’s voice rose and fell, amplified to crashing proportions by the loudspeakers on the wall. He sold baby rabbits, roosters, hens, geese, and ducks, followed by hordes of frightened, bleating sheep and goats.

  That was the part Sadie did not like. The men who herded them into the sales ring cracked their heavy whips above the terrified animals’ heads, creating a sort of panic in them. Their eyes became wide with fright as they tried to scale the wooden walls.

  Why did they have to crack a whip at all? Simply to show their inhumane authority, that was all. She often felt like going down there and yanking that beastly whip out of their hands and flinging it on them to see how they liked it. The whip should not be allowed. A good border collie or a simple herding stick would do the job just as well, she felt sure. She sighed with relief when the last baby lamb disappeared through the steel gate.

  The auctioneer took a hefty swig of his warm Mountain Dew and began to talk about horses. The horse auction began with a team of magnificent Belgians, led by Owen Weaver himself. His portly frame looked shorter than ever, dwarfed by the huge beasts on either side of him.

  He took the microphone and expounded expertly on the unequaled merits of these fine horses. His flowery descriptions of the animals showed he was obviously a veteran horse-seller. As his words flowed, Sadie grinned to herself, remembering Jesse Troyer’s comment to her father. Surely Owen’s day wasn’t very long at this auction.

  The team was sold for $6,000, but no one could tell if Owen was pleased or not. No emotion showed on his blank face. A true professional, that one.

  A black Percheron was sold after that, followed by a string of driving horses. Sadie caught Dat’s eye, and he gave her a thumbs-up signal accompanied by a hearty wink. She raised her eyes with a questioning look. Dat answered by jutting his chin toward the gate. Sadie turned in time to see Mark Peight riding Chester.

  The whole auction barn seemed to tilt at an angle, and everything went black, but only for a moment. She was unaware of Dat’s bidding, of the auctioneer’s voice, of Anna and Reuben bouncing up and down with glee when Dat bought the black gelding they wanted him to buy.

  Why was Mark selling Chester?

  When the gate opened, Chester pranced out. Mark held him back. He looked relaxed, leaning back on the horse, one hand on his thigh. He eased him into a perfect canter, then a trot, moving as one with his horse.

  The bidding escalated. The auctioneer’s helpers stepped out, stretched their arms, and yelled piercing cries of “Ye-ep!” each time a bidder nodded his head. When the sum reached $5,000 the crowd erupted into whistles and applause. Sadie felt goose bumps on her arms and tears pricking her eyes.

  Oh, Mark!

  She knew then that she had to talk to him. At the very least, she had to let him see her and watch the reaction on his face. It would be easier to know if he hated her than to not know how he felt at all. If he rejected her, it would be her final answer. Then she could reply to Daniel King’s letter.

  On shaking, unsteady legs, she got up and excused herself as she wedged past the crowd of bidders. Biting down hard on her lower lip, she ran down the remaining stairs, hurried to the right and up the steep wooden steps lending to the horse pens.

  She didn’t notice the smell of hay or the rancid odor of fresh manure. She only knew she had to see Mark.

  He was leading Chester, a girl in jeans with blond hair hanging to her waist following him. He listened to what she was saying, a smile on his face, as he tied Chester in a pen with two other horses.

  Sadie hung back, afraid. She twisted her burgundy-colored apron in her hand. She smoothed her hair, lifted her chin, and stepped out.

  “Mark!” Her voice cracked, and she hastily cleared her throat. She called him again.

  “Mark!”

  He stopped and looked in her direction. As if in a dream, his eyes found hers. What was the expression in them? Yes. It was anger. He hated her, wanted nothing to do with her.

  Then … oh … then … his brown eyes lightened, and he came toward her. His mouth widened into a soft grin of welcome. The light in his eyes was not hatred; it wasn’t even annoyance or disappointment. But, oh, wonder of wonders, he was overjoyed to see her!

  He didn’t stop until he had wrapped her
firmly in his arms, bent over her, murmuring words of endearment into her ear. Her ribs hurt with the pressure of his hugs, and she suddenly became aware of her surroundings.

  “Mark. Mark! Someone will see.”

  “Let them.”

  “Mark, please, let me go.”

  He did, then stepped back, looked deeply into her eyes and said, “I’m sorry.”

  That was all, but it was enough. It was more than enough. It was a treasure chest filled to overflowing with precious gold coins worth much more than anything Sadie had ever owned. She was rich, wealthy beyond measure. God had provided the answer she so desperately sought.

  He was only human. His apology was his way of taking responsibility for his own actions. He did not blame his mother or his father, his past, anyone, or anything. He had done wrong, he knew it, and he repented. The coins in the treasure chest of this love glittered and sparkled.

  The blond-haired girl stood awkwardly at the gate, annoyance written all over her face. She cleared her throat, a nasty twang to her voice as she said, “Excuse me?”

  Mark apologized, politely showed her out, then returned to Sadie’s side.

  “We need to talk.”

  “You want a greasy, sloppy, burned cheeseburger?” she asked.

  He laughed. Oh, that beautiful sound! Then he caught her hand in his and took her to a stained table at the top of the stairs, in the smoky, plastic-paneled dining room of the food stand.

  They took huge bites from the cheeseburgers, that were slathered with heavy mayonnaise, thick slices of tomato, dill pickle, onion, and lettuce, and served on cheap white rolls. They shared an order of greasy steak fries loaded with salt, pepper, and ketchup, wiping the excess off their faces with lots of thin paper napkins from the smudged holder against the wall.

  He talked a lot. More than she had ever heard him. It seemed as if that one, solitary “I’m sorry” had opened a floodgate of goodness. But he confessed he still had a difficult time with trust.

  “I just go a bit crazy when I think you are attracted to someone else, even if you say you love me. I’m sure my mother told my father that she loved him many times, and he believed her. That’s what terrifies me. I’m afraid that I will give my heart to you, and that you’ll hurt me, just like I’ve always been hurt. I trust no one, least of all, you. It’s awful having to tell you these things, but I hope you understand why I overreacted to situations that normal guys can just shrug off.”