Wild Horses (Sadie's Montana #1)(4)

Sadie spent the last evening with Eva and Paris, crying nearly the whole time. Sometimes—between tears—she and Eva became hysterical, laughing and crying at the same time. But even when laughing, Sadie cried inside.

At the end of the evening, Sadie and Paris clattered into the barn and Sadie slid off her beloved horse’s back, that golden, rounded, beautiful back. She threw her arms around Paris’ neck, and held on. She hugged her horse for every time they played in the creek, for every time Sadie braided her mane, for every ribbon she tied in it, for every apple Paris had ever crunched out of her hand, for every nuzzle Sadie had received on her shoulder, and for every aching hour she would never have with Paris ever again.

Sadie did not watch them take Paris away in the big, fancy trailer. She set her shoulders squarely and went for a walk all by herself, knowing that it would be a long time until she would ever love another horse.

But Paris would live on in her heart. That’s why she was named Paris—she was a dream. And love.





Chapter 2




THE FIRST SNOW CAME early that year, blowing fine and white across the undulating landscape. It brought the dry cold that was so much a part of Montana—the state Sadie had now grown to love. Oh, it had taken a while, that was one thing sure. But since she had reached her 20th birthday, and after five years of growing in faith and womanhood, she knew she had drawn on a strength that was God-given. It was a great comfort to know that your spirit could triumph over fear, loneliness, or whatever life handed to you.

The Miller family lived high on a ridge overlooking the Aspendale Valley, where a mixture of sturdy pines, aspen, and hearty oak trees protected them from much of the frigid winter winds. Dat had remodeled parts of the old log house, built a barn large enough to accommodate the horse and cattle they owned, and surrounded the pasture with a split-rail fence.

It was an idyllic setting overlooking the valley dotted with homesteads, ranches, and dwellings where the Amish community had settled and thrived.

Dat was no farmer or rancher. His love was not in horses or cattle, although he owned both—enough to keep the pasture clipped and to transport his family to church on Sunday.

Instead, he built log homes and established a good reputation as an honest, hardworking carpenter. He left his customers happy with their sturdy houses made from the finest quality material and precise workmanship.

Their life in Montana was blessed, Mam said. She was very happy most of the time, although Sadie sometimes found her wiping a stray tear directly related to her homesickness. It was a constant thing, this missing dearly beloved family and friends who were so many hundreds of miles away.

Mam wrote letters and went to the phone out by the barn to talk to her mother and sisters. Sometimes she was laughing when she came back to the house and sometimes crying. It was all a part of Sadie’s life now but more manageable than it had been that first year.

The surrounding valley, and on into the hills beyond, held 33 Amish families. It was a good-sized community, which meant it was soon time to divide the church into two districts. Church services were held in the homes. When the house became too crowded, dividing the church became a necessity.

There was a group of 20 or 30 youth, which Sadie had always been grateful for. They had been her friends for quite a few years, good friends with whom she could share her feelings and also Sunday afternoons and evenings playing volleyball and having supper together, often with a hymn-singing afterward. Sometimes the youth went camping or riding or shopping in a faraway location, which was something Sadie always anticipated.

The winters were long here in Montana. Months of cold wind swept down from the distant mountain ranges, which were always covered with snow. The snow on the tips of the mountains never ceased to amaze her, especially when the sun warmed her back or she felt a gentle summer breeze in her face. But in winter, everything was white and cold, and the whole world felt like the tops of the mountains.

Sadie sat at the table in the dining room watching the snow swirling across the wooden patio floor. Little eddies of it tried to accumulate in the corners of the panes in the French doors but were swept away by the howling wind.

“It’s always windy here, Mam.”

Mam looked up from the cookbook she was leafing through, took a sip of coffee from the brown stoneware mug, and nodded her head.

“It’s Montana.”

Sadie sliced half a banana into her dish of thick, honeyed oatmeal, adding a handful of dark, sticky raisins, and nodded.

“I know.”

Mam glanced at the clock.

“Jim’s late.”

“Probably because of the snow.”

She finished pouring the rich, creamy milk onto the raisins, stirred, and spooned a large amount into her mouth. She closed her eyes.

“Mmmm. Oatmeal with honey.”

Mam smiled.

“What do we want for Christmas dinner this year?”

Sadie looked at Mam, surprised

“Christmas is two months away.”

“I can still plan ahead.”

Sadie nodded, grimacing as the battered truck pulled up to the French doors—a dark intruder into the lovely, pristine whiteness outside.

“Oh, here I go.”

“You haven’t finished your breakfast.”

“It’s all right.”

She put her arms into the sleeves of her black, wool coat, threw a white scarf around her head, and was out the door to the tune of Mam’s usual, “Have a good day!”