Wild Horses (Sadie's Montana #1)(8)

There was a pause.

“Huh-uh. No. Dunno. Just… No! Somebody bring a trailer. What? Up on Butte Road. Where? So there’s no trailer?”

Jim paced, went to the truck for a pair of gloves, still talking, listening, talking.

“Listen. I ain’t stayin’ here all day. Either Jeff brings a trailer or I’m callin’ the boss.”

Jim hung up angrily. Sadie hesitated, then stood up and faced Jim.

“You go get the trailer. I’ll stay here.”

“No you ain’t.”

“Yes, I’m not afraid of this horse. I’ll stay here. Just go. Hurry.”

“Listen, little girl. You ain’t stayin’ here by yerself.”

“Yes, I am. I will. No one will go by here that’s dangerous. We can’t let this poor, sick horse lying in the middle of the road. Someone else will hit him. I’ll be fine. Just go.”

Jim stared at Sadie, then shook his head.

“All right. I’ll go fast. Be back soon. But…”

“No, Jim. Just hurry.”

The truck roared to life, eased carefully onto the road, and disappeared around an outcropping of overhanging rock. The snow kept falling around Sadie and the horse. Little swirls piled up in the strangest places, as if the snow was trying to wake up the inert form on the cold ground. It settled into crevices in the animal’s ears, which were so soft and lifeless, and formed tiny drifts in the soft, black hairs. The long, sweeping eyelashes even held tiny clumps of cold particles, making the horse appear to have no spark of life. It looked completely dead.

Sadie shivered, then knelt again.

“Come on, come, boy. Wake up. Don’t die now.”

She kept talking, more to instill confidence in herself than to elicit a response from this bony, wasted form. Even if he was still breathing, he was indeed a very sick horse—probably too sick for anyone to try and revive.

She straightened as she heard the unmistakable sound of a vehicle, though muffled, the way vehicles sound in the snow. Probably someone I know, Sadie assured herself in spite of her thudding heart.

A large, red cattle truck came plowing around the bend, much too fast on road conditions like this.

Irritation replaced fear, and Sadie stayed in the exact same spot, knowing the truck’s occupants would see her much better than one thin horse half covered with snow.

Suddenly it registered in her brain that the road was icy, and she might very easily be hit. She began flailing her arms, screaming without being aware that she was, jumping, and shouting. She was in danger of being swallowed by this monstrous red cattle truck.

Suddenly, the driver saw her but applied the brakes too hard. The truck slowed, skidded, zigzagged, righted itself, and came to a lopsided halt with its two left tires in a ditch by the side of the road.

Everything went quiet except for the jays screaming in the treetops and the sighing of the cold wind in the alders. The truck door slammed and a very irate person plodded in front of it, his beefy, red face supporting his battered Stetson, which he pushed back before yanking it forward over his face again.

“And just what do you think you’re doing, young lady? Don’t you know this is a very good way to get killed?”

Sadie met his angry gaze, then lowered her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I…well… Look.”

She waved her arms helplessly, gesturing toward the still form on the road, now almost covered with snow.

“What the…”

He smashed his Stetson down harder until Sadie thought his hat would hide his whole head completely and just sit on his shoulders. But somehow she guessed he could see because he said the same thing again.

“What the…?”

He bent lower and asked, “What’s wrong with him? He ain’t dead, is he?”

“I think he’s dying.”

“How are you going to get him off the road?”

“I don’t know.”

She explained what happened, about Jim leaving, and assured him he’d soon be back for her and the horse. The beefy man whistled, then motioned to the truck, moving his arm to indicate that he wanted the rest of the occupants out.

“Mark, get over here.”

Sadie watched a tall person jump down from the truck. Not really jump, more like bounce, or pounce like a cat. He was huge—tall and wide with denims and very dark skin. His steps were long and lively, and he reminded Sadie of a horse one of her uncles owned in Ohio. He seemed to be on springs and hardly ever held still long enough to… well, hold still.

She thought he was Mexican, except Latinos generally were not this tall. She wondered if he was Italian with that dark skin. Or Indian. Or maybe white but just spent a lot of time in the sun.

He didn’t smile or say hello or even notice her. He just stood there beside the beefy man and said nothing. He was wearing a navy blue stocking hat. Everyone wore Stetsons or leather, wide-brimmed hats of some sort here in Montana. The English did, anyway. English is what the Amish people called other people who were non-Amish. This was because they spoke English.

His clothes were neat and very clean—too clean to be an ordinary cowpuncher. But why was he wearing a stocking hat?

“What do you think, Mark?”

Mark still said nothing but lowered his huge frame easily and felt along the horse’s neck, flanks, and ribs. He lifted the soft muzzle and checked his teeth, then rubbed his ears.