Wild Horses (Sadie's Montana #1)(80)

Dorothy had a fit. She waved her long-handled wooden spoon. She spluttered and talked “a blue streak” in Mam’s words. She became so agitated one morning that Sadie watched her snapping little eyes and the heightened color in her cheeks with dismay.

Small, plump, and clearly disturbed, Dorothy stepped back from the stove and retied her apron. Retying her apron always meant a serious lecture, one that did not allow for any joking or smiling from Sadie.

“It’ll be the death of you, Sadie Miller, you mark my words. That big black one will attack you. You think you know something about horses, young lady, but you don’t. They’re unpredictable, same as all wild creatures.”

“But…” Sadie started. She was promptly cut off.

Closing her eyes self-righteously and lifting herself to her full height—which was still not very tall—Dorothy put both fists to her soft, round hips and snorted.

“Don’t even start, young lady. Your parents need to know about this. Yer puttin’ that little Reuben in danger as well. You simply ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

They were harsh words, coming from Dorothy.

Oh, shoot, Sadie thought.

“It ain’t right, Sadie.”

“But, Dorothy, please listen. You have no idea how much I loved my horse, Paris. We don’t have the money to buy a horse like her now. And this palomino is even prettier, or she will be. She’s so perfect, and surely if I can tame her, she’ll be mine.”

“That there thinkin’ is gonna get you in serious trouble. You don’t know whose horses they are. And if they’re wild, you got the government or the state of Montana or whatever to wrestle with. An’ you know how weird you Amish are about stuff like that. Nonresistant and all. You don’t stand a chance.”

Sadie let her shoulders slump dejectedly. Perhaps she should listen to Dorothy and at least let her parents know what she was up to.

Dorothy turned, brushing back a stray hair, and began scraping the biscuit pan. She nodded her head toward the stack of breakfast dishes.

“Best get to ’em.”

Sadie swallowed her defeat, fighting back tears. Dorothy meant what she said, and going ahead with this adventure was just being openly rebellious and not very wise at all.

Halfheartedly, Sadie began scraping the bits of food clinging to the breakfast plates. What a mess! Whoever cleared the table could have put the scraps in one bowl and stacked these plates cleanly.

Suddenly she became so angry, she turned, faced Dorothy, and said, “You could have scraped these leftovers at least.”

“Hmmm. A bit hoity-toity now, are we?”

“Yes, we are. I mean…yes, I am!”

She whirled and flounced away from the kitchen, pushing open the swinging oak doors with so much force that there was a resounding whack and an earsplitting yell that could only have come from the boss, Richard Caldwell.

Sadie was horrified to find him leaning heavily against the wall, holding his prominent nose while tears began forming in his eyes.

“Oh!” Sadie’s hand went to her mouth, her eyes wide as she realized what she had done. She had lost her temper so that she swung those doors hard enough to smack them into Richard Caldwell who was just about to walk through to the kitchen.

His nose was clearly smarting, his expression boding no good for the person who had pushed the doors open. Blinking, he extracted a blue man’s handkerchief from his pocket and began dabbing tenderly at his battered nose.

“You! Of all people,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry,” Sadie whispered.

“I’m okay. What got you so riled that you came charging through like that?”

“Oh, nothing. It was just…”

Sadie lifted miserable eyes to Richard Caldwell’s face. “Well, Dorothy made me mad.”

Richard Caldwell snorted, wiped his nose tentatively, then stared down at her. “You aren’t going to cry, are you?”

“No. I mean…” She had never fought so hard in all her life to keep her composure. Reuben said if you thought of jelly bread, potato soup, a washcloth, or any object, you wouldn’t cry or laugh, whichever one you didn’t want to do. He assured her it really worked, but it certainly did not work now. Sadie even thought of white bread with a golden crust slathered with fresh, soft butter and homemade grape jelly, but it did absolutely no good. She simply stood in front of her big, intimidating boss and began crying like a little girl having a bad day at school.

She felt his big hand on her shoulder, steering her into his office.

“Sit down,” he said, too suddenly and too gruffly to be very kind.

“Is it all Dorothy?” Richard Caldwell asked.

Sadie couldn’t talk. She couldn’t say one word with her mouth twisting the way it did when she cried and her nose and eyes both running.

Richard Caldwell handed her a box of tissues from the desk, and she grasped at them, a simple act of redeeming her broken pride.

“Well, it’s not really Dorothy, or is it? I don’t know. She’s been going on and on about the danger of taking Reuben to feed the wild horses. She says my parents need to know. And … if they find out, it’ll be the end of my dream to have that palomino horse … to have … Paris.”

Richard Caldwell sat behind his desk, leaning on his elbows. He studied her intently, a mixture of emotions playing across his face. He cleared his throat a few times, as if that would delay having to say what he would eventually need to tell her.