Wild Horses (Sadie's Montana #1)(48)

“Sadie, believe me, it was my pleasure. I would gladly rescue you from awkward situations every day of my life.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that, seeing … that … I mean, Amish girls don’t go out with English boys. You shouldn’t come to our singings, either. It’s going to cause a fuss,” she finished breathlessly.

She was deeply embarrassed when he threw back his head and laughed, a sound of genuine happiness.

“I’m not English.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I am?”

She sat back, grabbing the arm of the wooden bench to steady herself.

“Your … your hair is cut English. You wear English clothes.”

They stopped and turned as a harried, very overweight man appeared with Sadie’s wheelchair. The small boy was in tow, his hair sticking up in many directions, a grin as wide as his face making him appear far friendlier than his father.

“I apologize,” the man said breathlessly, his chins wobbling, making him appear a bit vulnerable. Sadie felt only sympathy for the overwhelmed parent and his energetic offspring and assured him it was quite all right. His relief at being forgiven was so endearing—the way he thanked her politely, but profusely.

“Eric is six years old and a bit of an adventuresome kid. I lost him at the food court!”

“I have a little brother at home,” Sadie said, “and I know the stunts little boys can pull off at the drop of a hat.”

They smiled, exchanged “Merry Christmas,” and the overweight man shuffled back to the food court, his son firmly in hand.

“Would you like to get something to eat?” Mark asked.

Oh, my!

She wanted to go with this man. In fact, she wanted to stay with him always. That truth slammed into her with the force of a tidal wave. She knew her sisters would look for her, might worry about her, but oh! She wanted to go with Mark.

“Yes. I would,” she announced firmly.

Mark pushed the wheelchair up to her, then extended his hand to help her sit in it. She placed her small hand into his firm, brown one and felt a touch of wonder, of complete and honest truth, of homecoming. How could a touch convey this message?

Mark pushed the wheelchair, and Sadie sat back, her eyes shining, her strength returning.

At the food court, they were fortunate to find a table. Mark pushed the wheelchair against it hurriedly, before some frantic, last-minute shopper grabbed it away from them.

“Just bring me whatever you’re having,” Sadie said, looking up at him.

“Okay.”

He shouldered his way through the crowd, and Sadie relaxed. She smoothed her hair and straightened her covering, hoping she looked all right.

When she spied him carrying a tray, she marveled again at his height. He had to be over six feet tall.

Why did he claim to be Amish? He sure didn’t look like an Amish person. Perhaps she shouldn’t be here.

He set the tray carefully between them.

“Cheese steak for me, and one for you,” he said grinning.

Sadie eyed the huge sandwich and laughed.

“I’ll never eat that whole thing!”

They ate big bites of the fragrant, cheesy sandwiches as onions, peppers, and tomato sauce slid down their fingers and onto their plates. Mark brought more napkins. They laughed and talked about everyday things. Mark ate his whole sandwich and what remained of hers. Then he sat back and looked at her quite seriously.

“I am from the Amish, you know. I really am. My parents still live where I was born and raised—in Buffalo Valley, Pennsylvania.”

Sadie looked up, questioningly.

“Why do you look English?”

He shrugged his shoulders, then a cloak of anger settled over his features. He looked away, out over the sea of people, his eyes completely empty of any feeling or emotion.

Finally, he turned back to her.

“I am Amish, Sadie. I was raised Amish. The strictest sect. I suppose I lost faith in any plain person, not just the Amish. In anyone who dresses in a pious manner and is…” He stopped, his fingers crumpling napkins restlessly.

“Ah well. I have no business being here with you. I know what I am. You are … like a beautiful flower, and for you to be with me … It just wouldn’t be right.”

He pushed back the tray, then gripped the table as if to leave.

“You know that time I went to the hymn-singing? I went just to find you. Seriously. I know I can’t have you, but I … guess I get a kick out of tormenting myself by spending time with you.”

“Why do you put yourself down like that? Why do you say such things?” Sadie lifted troubled eyes to him.

“Let’s change the subject. Tell me about the horse.”

Sadie knew she had lost him. That certain trust, as delicate as a drop of dew, was gone. So she told him about Nevaeh, and his eyes turned soft when she explained why she named him that.

“You must really like horses,” Mark said.

“Oh, I do. Just certain ones, though. Like Paris.”

“Who?”

“Paris. She was my other horse, back home in Ohio.”

“Why ‘Paris?’”

Sadie blushed, shrugged her shoulders, then surprised herself by telling him every detail of her days with Eva and Paris. He listened, his eyes watching her face. He took in her emotion, her perfect eyes, her exquisite features, filing the images away in his heart for future examination.