Wild Horses (Sadie's Montana #1)(73)

Her problems had been real, not imagined. A serious chemical imbalance, coupled with a diseased thyroid gland, had taken a horrible toll on Mam’s mind, on her well-being. She had become so confused and was hallucinating and hearing voices which were very real to her.

The final straw, the one thing that had pushed her over the edge, was the cost of Sadie’s hospital stay. Somehow, in her poor, twisted mind, she had linked this with the cost of keeping Nevaeh. That pressure troubled her so much that she released the horse, believing this was the only thing she could do to help pay the cost of Sadie’s bill.

After her confession and complete breakdown, she began to heal with Dat’s support. He had long conversations with the physicians and therapists, nodding his head, listening, observing, and being completely supportive of Mam’s care. It was wondrous to behold.

Mam smiled now. She ate healthy meals. She cooked and baked.

Dat offered to move back to Ohio. He told her it wasn’t right that he had dragged her out to Montana against her wishes. Mam had a faraway look on her face—an unveiled glimpse of her homesickness. Then she had turned to Dat.

“But, Jacob, I don’t think I could go back. I don’t know if I could be at home there. This is home.”

And Sadie knew she meant it.

She had laid a hand on Dat’s arm, and her eyes were pure and clear and honest without a trace of malice or ill will.

“I love Montana now, Jacob. I haven’t always. Sometimes I miss the folks in Ohio, but you know, whithersoever thou goest I will go.”

She had smiled such a beautiful smile, her gray hair shining exactly like a halo about her head, that all the girls agreed she looked like a middle-aged angel.

Sadie still loved her job at the ranch. It was the one thing that kept her grounded, kept her sane. She could always stay busy cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry. Sometimes she rode the fine horses from Richard Caldwell’s stables. But she never connected with another horse like Nevaeh or Paris. Horses, like life, were too unpredictable, so it was safer to stay away and not lose your head or your heart to a horse or, for that matter, to handsome Mark Peight either. You just got hurt or bruised.

Sadie flopped down in a meadow of wildflowers, wiping an arm across her forehead to dry it.

Puffy, white clouds trailed across the blue sky as Sadie lay on the soft carpet of flowers. An eagle soared across the treetops, riding the current with a natural ease. His head was white against the dark color of his outstretched wings.

She wondered what had happened with the herd of wild horses. There had been a great public outcry with posters tacked to the wall of the post office, the bank, and the local grocery. It was the main subject on Sundays after church and when visitors came to see Mam, but no one had a solution. Helicopters were never brought in because no one could prove the horses had ever damaged anything. As Dat said, it didn’t amount to a hill of beans. And then the subject died off and everyone moved on to other topics.

The horses had been responsible for Nevaeh’s death, Sadie felt sure, although she never spoke of it, not even to Leah or Rebekah.

She could feel her body relaxing with each intake of the sweet smell of wildflowers. Her eyelids felt heavy. God was, indeed, so good. How could anyone ever doubt his presence lying on a flower-strewn hillside in May?

She wasn’t sure if she heard something first, or if she only felt it. She just knew the earth vibrated a bit, the way the hardwood floor in the living room did when Dat walked across it in his big boots.

She stayed still, every nerve tense, listening.

There. That sound.

It wasn’t a rushing, scurrying sound. It was a stumbling, sliding sound.

Should she be afraid?

Strangely, she felt no fear. Surely the band of wild horses had gone. No one ever spoke of them anymore. Oh, the men snorted and said how incompetent the law was, unable to solve a mystery that was quite obviously under their nose. But who were they to say?

Amish people were a peaceable lot, driving their horses and buggies at a slow trot on the winding, country roads of Montana, taking care of family and friends, loving their neighbors—for the most part. If the law chose to ignore the obvious, they were in authority, and the Amish abided by their rules. No use fighting. It wasn’t their way.

So Sadie listened, her pulse quickening, but not with dry-mouthed, raw fear. Instead she had an inquisitive feeling.

There now. It had stopped, so likely she had imagined it in the first place.

A jay called from the pines. Another one answered. They screamed the way blue jays do when they’re disturbed. Then she heard a tearing sound like when a cow wraps its tongue around a tuft of grass and pulls or bites. The grass makes a soft, breaking sound. Perhaps someone’s cows wandered up here.

Sadie sat up slowly so she wouldn’t spook the cattle. They were amiable creatures for the most part, so she wasn’t afraid, although she didn’t want to start a stampede if she could help it.

She blinked.

She ran the back of her hand across her eyes and blinked again.

A horse!

Three!

Her hand went to the front of her dress to still her beating heart. The horses had not seen her. Slowly she turned her head just enough so that she could see them out of the corner of her eyes.

Her mind could not fathom the sight of the black horse. She knew he was there grazing, but it seemed like a dream. He was so gorgeous and much bigger than any driving horse or any horse in Richard Caldwell’s stables, that was sure.