Wild Horses (Sadie's Montana #1)(12)

The most amazing part of hitching up a horse was the fact that these docile creatures allowed that hideous steel bit to be placed in their mouths. This is the part that goes between their teeth and attaches to the bridle that goes up over their ears. Good, responsible horses never seemed to mind, lowering their heads so the bit could easily slide into their mouths.

There were some horses, of course, who were cranky and disobedient, but Sadie always felt sorry for them. Very likely, at some point in their lives, these horses had been whipped or kicked or jerked around simply because they were born with a stubborn nature and made their owners’ tempers flare like sticks of dynamite. This destroyed the trust and any thread of confidence they had once acquired.

Usually, a calm, obedient horse had a calm, quiet owner and vice versa. Horses didn’t require much of their owners: a quiet stall and a bit of pasture, decent feed and hay, water, and enough attention to know they were cared for and appreciated.

Sadie browned the sausage until it was coated all over with the butter and flour mixture. Then she went to the refrigerator for a gallon of milk, which she poured slowly into the sizzling sausage, stirring and stirring after this addition. She added the usual salt and pepper, then reached up to the rack again for the huge cast-iron skillet.

“Watcha getting’ that for?” Dorothy asked.

That woman has eyes in the back of her head. Seriously, Sadie thought.

“Hash browns.”

“Them potatoes ain’t even cooked. How you gonna make hash browns? That’s what happens when young girls moon about boys and stuff.”

Sadie suppressed a giggle. She knew Dorothy always got a tiny bit miffed when the pressure was on. She never failed to let Sadie know when she did something wrong, implying that Sadie’s misstep was the reason for the pressure to begin with.

After working with Dorothy for almost three years, Sadie knew she had the best heart and kindest demeanor of anyone she had ever met. Her scoldings were sort of soft and harmless beneath all that fuss, and Sadie often suppressed her laughter when Dorothy was bustling and talking and scolding.

“Oh, I forgot.”

“You forgot. Moonin’ around, that’s what.”

Dorothy went to the pantry, which contained 50-pound bags of potatoes, lugged one out to the sink, and proceeded to throw the potatoes in by the handfuls. Grabbing a sharp paring knife, she set to work, the peels falling into the sink in rapid succession. Sadie joined her.

“I’m hungry,” Sadie announced for the second time that morning.

“Make some toast. Didn’t you have breakfast? You need to get up earlier. Set your alarm 15 minutes earlier.”

“No, thanks.”

“Hmmpfhh. Then be hungry.”

She slid a pan of perfectly-rounded, precisely-cut biscuits into the oven, and Sadie hid another grin.

The kitchen door banged open, and Jim hurried in, a box under his arm. Snow clung to his greasy Stetson, and he took it off, clapping it against his legs. Snow sprayed in every direction.

“Jim Sevarr! You borned in a sawmill? Whatsa matter with you? Gettin’ my kitchen soakin’ wet. I’ll fall on them puddles. Now, git! Git!”

She waved both arms, then her apron, as if her husband was a huge cat that needed to be chased away from her work area.

“Don’t you want a doughnut?”

Immediately Dorothy’s expression changed, like the sun breaking through clouds, spreading warmth through the kitchen.

“Now, Jim, you know if there’s any one thing I can’t resist, it’s them doughnuts. You got ’em at the Sunoco station?”

“Sure did. Coffee on?”

“Sadie, come on. Take two minutes to eat a doughnut. There’s only one way to eat ’em—big bites with the cream filling squishing out the side.”

Sadie laid down her knife, wiped her hands on her apron, and smiled as she selected a powdered, cream-filled doughnut from the box Jim held out to her.

“Mmmmm,” she said, rolling her eyes as the first soft sweetness of the confectioners sugar met the taste buds on her tongue.

“No news of the horse?” she asked, wiping the corners of her mouth. Jim’s mouth was full of doughnut, so he shook his head.

“May as well have the vet put ’im down. Sorriest bag of bones I ever laid eyes on,” he said after chewing and swallowing.

Sadie said nothing.

“What horse?” Dorothy asked, slurping a mouthful of coffee, then grimacing and shaking her head at the heat.

Jim related the morning’s events, his heavy mustache wagging like a squirrel’s tail across his upper lip. His lower face was a dark brownish-red, etched with lines from the sun and wind, but it never failed to amuse Sadie the way his complexion lightened as it met his hat or the shade from the brim. The top of his balding head was creamy white with thatches of graying hair sticking out the way a hat causes hair to stick.

He’d look a lot better if he took off that Stetson sometimes, Sadie thought. At least long enough to tan that pearly, white head.

Jim slouched on a chair, and Dorothy moved over to pat the top of his head.

“Thanks, hon. That was so nice of you.”

Sadie felt quick tears spring to her eyes. The sight of those work-roughened, cracked hands so tenderly touching the bald head of her husband was a sight she wished she could portray on paper. They had been married at least 40 years, and Sadie had seen them at their best. She smiled as she watched the slow, easy grin spread across Jim’s creviced face.