Wild Horses (Sadie's Montana #1)(49)

When she stopped, he said, “You still didn’t tell me the reason for naming your horse Paris.”

“Maybe someday I will, but you’ll think I’m silly and sentimental.”

His eyebrow arched.

“Someday?”

“I mean … What?”

She was flustered now, embarrassed, floundering for something to say.

Why had she said that? Maybe because she wanted to see him again. Maybe because she wanted to be with him. And she wanted to tell him that. Oh, how she wanted to!

And then they were surrounded by three very worried and very excited sisters. There were shopping bags, ice cream cones, soft pretzels, and tacos. All talked and ate and admonished.

Mark stood up, smiled, acknowledged the introductions, and was gone through the crowd.

Sadie finished her Christmas shopping in a daze—exhausted, but so happy that she thought she might just float off the wheelchair.

He was not like other young Amish men. When would she ever see him again? And how?





Chapter 14




EARLY CHRISTMAS MORNING, THE moon slid down below the tree line, making the silver-white and darkly shadowed landscape seem like night. In winter, there were very few night sounds at the Miller home—perhaps a falling icicle or the creak of the log house, wood falling a bit lower in the great wood stove or one of the horses stamping his feet or snorting.

The Miller family was sound asleep, even Reuben, who seemed to have endless energy on Christmas Eve. He had helped the girls wrap gifts, prepared food, ran in needless circles, bounced on the sofa, slammed the handle on the side of the recliner until he almost upset it, lost the Scotch tape, spilled the whole box of name tags, and was finally sent to bed long before he deemed it necessary.

At a very early hour, however, Reuben sat up. He sat straight up—his mouth dry, his heart pounding. He had heard a sound. It was not a usual night sound of little clunks or squeaks. It was a larger sound, a harder sound. Not a distant gunshot. Not snow sliding off the roof. It was the kind of sound that woke you right up and instantly made you afraid, although you hardly ever found out what it was.

He turned the little plastic Coleman lantern that was his alarm clock and peered at the illuminated numbers. Four-thirty. It was Christmas!

He wanted to get up but knew he’d be in big trouble with the girls. That was the whole thing about having only sisters. They were bossy and sometimes downright mean. Like that Sadie last night. Whoever heard of someone getting so mad about the Scotch tape?

Reuben lay back, listening and thinking. There were some seriously big packages on the drop-leaf table in the living room, and that thought kept him awake after hearing the rumble in the dark.

Whoa! There it was again!

Reuben rolled over, pulled the flannel patchwork quilt way up over his head, and burrowed deeply into his pillow. Maybe there was a cougar in the barn. Or a wolf. Or a coyote. Likely all three.

That was the end of Reuben’s night. The nighttime sounds, along with the thoughts of the brightly wrapped and beribboned packages, kept him awake.

Finally, there was the sound of Dat lighting the gas lamp downstairs and filling the teakettle for the boiling, hot water he poured over his Taster’s Choice coffee.

Reuben sat up, swung his legs across the bed, and without further hesitation, dashed out of his room. Slamming the door unnecessarily and pounding noisily down the stairs, Reuben slid into the kitchen and grinned up at Dat.

“Hey!”

“Is it Christmas yet?” Reuben asked, his hair tousled and bearing that famous bunched-up look in the back. If he’d only rinse his hair properly and not sleep on it wet.

Amish boys don’t have their hair cut close to their heads the way English boys do. Their hair is longer and cut straight across the forehead, then bowl-shaped and a bit lower in the back. That is the Ordnung, and no one ever thought to cut their little boy’s hair any different. It is just the way of it.

Reuben’s hair, and that messed up bunch of it in the back, was the source of many battles between him and his sisters. Rebekah, the worst of them all, told him if he didn’t start using conditioner and rinse his hair better, she was going to march right into the bathroom and rinse it for him. Reuben told her if she ever dared set foot in that bathroom while he was in it, he would pour bucket after bucket of hot, soapy water all over her. And he meant it. He knew she wouldn’t think about the fact that there was no bucket in the bathroom.

Dat grinned down at Reuben.

“Yes, Reuben, it’s Christmas, that is, if you can persuade your mother and sisters.”

“Do we have to have breakfast and the Bible story before presents this year?”

“Oh, very likely. We always do.”

“May I wake the girls?”

“At your own risk,” Dat said, chuckling.

Reuben weighed his options. He could sit on the couch and think about the packages while watching the hands of the clock—which was torture—or he could go to his room again—which was worse than watching the clock or thinking about packages. Or, if he was really brave, he could knock on the girls’ bedroom doors, but that would bring some serious consequences, now wouldn’t it?

He sat back against the couch, rubbed the unruly hair on the back of his head, and sighed. Christmas shouldn’t be this way. English kids woke up and opened their packages without breakfast and a Bible story. It wasn’t fair.