Wild Horses (Sadie's Montana #1)(6)

Richard Caldwell’s wife, Barbara, on the other hand, was a formidable figure in Sadie’s life—a person to be feared. It wasn’t her voice as much as the sheer disapproval that emanated from her cold presence.

Her clothes were impeccable; the drape of the expensive fabric hiding the well-endowed figure, making her appear regal. Scary to Sadie.

She did not accept Sadie, so she knew it was Richard Caldwell who hired her, not Barbara. She was only tolerating Sadie for her husband’s sake.

It was always a humbling experience to be with the Lady of the House. Whether she was cleaning, dusting, or running the vacuum, it was always the same. Sadie felt violated, silly even, knowing Barbara held only derision for the Amish and their strange ways.

Sadie always thought that if there was a true version of a woman of the world, Barbara was it: no children, no interest in cooking or cleaning, no need to care for anyone but herself.

Much of her time she spent either buying clothes or arranging them in her enormous walk-in closet. Shoes, hats, jewelry, it was all at her fingertips to be tried on, shown off to her friends, given away, or sent back if things weren’t quite up to her taste.

But Sadie knew it was not up to her to judge Barbara or condemn her. She was just being Barbara, the wife of a wealthy ranch owner. Sadie simply did her best to stay out of the way.

She loved her job, she really did. She always felt fortunate to have the beautiful old ranch house to clean and admire, and she liked being a part of the atmosphere—the hubbub and constantly-changing, colorful world that was Aspen East Ranch.

Amish children were not educated beyond eighth grade, spending their eight years in a one-room parochial school, learning the basics of arithmetic, spelling, reading, and English. They also learned German. Their first language was Pennsylvania Dutch, a dialect related to German with a sprinkling of English that kept changing through the years.

So for the short time between age 15 and marriage, most girls took jobs, normally cleaning, cooking, babysitting, quilting, or sewing. They handed the money they earned over to their parents, except for a small allowance.

When a young woman married, her parents provided most of the young couple’s housekeeping necessities—furniture, bedding, towels, dishes, and almost everything else. The gifts from the wedding completed their household needs.

Sadie often wondered how it would be to put her entire check in the bank and then have money of her own to do anything she wanted. She understood, having this knowledge instilled in her at a young age, that money, and the earthly possessions it could buy, was not what brought true happiness to any person. Rather, money was the root of all evil if you let it control your life.

No, she did not want a lot of money, just enough to buy another horse like Paris. But she had to admit to herself that she had never connected with another horse in the same way, not even close. She could never figure out why.

Horses were everywhere here in Montana; on the hills, in trailers, in barns, being ridden. Everywhere Sadie looked, there were horses of all colors, shapes, and sizes, but not one of them interested her.

Dat bought a riding horse for the girls, but in Sadie’s heart, he was just the same as a driving horse. She treated him well, fed him, patted his coarse forelock, and stroked the smooth, velvety skin beneath his mane, but she never wanted to bathe him or braid his tail and put silky, pink ribbons in it.

She still harbored that longing for just the right horse. Once, she had watched a black and white paint being led from a trailer. He bounced and lifted his beautiful head and something—she didn’t know what—stirred in her heart but only for a moment. It wasn’t Paris, and it wasn’t Ohio with Eva and the creek and the alfalfa fields.

Mam said it was because Paris was a part of her youth, and she’d never be able to recapture that youthful emotion that bound her to the palomino. It was time for Sadie to grow up and stop being dreamy-eyed about a horse named Paris. Whoever heard of a horse named Paris anyway, she said. But that was how Mam was, and Sadie still knew, at the age of 20, that Mam just didn’t understand.

Mam and Dat didn’t understand about breaking up with Ezra, either.

Ezra was a fixture in the Montana community. He was 26 years old, a member of the church, and concerned about keeping the Amish Ordnung and not being swept up into the worldly drift. A too-small covering, a fancy house, pride in the amount of money one made—those kinds of things seriously worried him.

Worried him and those around him until Sadie felt her head beginning to bow and her eyebrows elevating with these exact same worries. Her life stretched before her in one long, tedious blend of worries, concerns, cannots, and do nots, until she felt like screaming and jumping up and down and rebelling. She wanted to tell Ezra that there was not a black cloud hanging over every little thing—that God made roses bright red and daisies white and yellow instead of gray and black.

She did not mean to be irreverent, she really didn’t. She just hated the feeling of having a wet blanket thrown over her head and suffocating her freedom and her breathing whenever she spent time in his company.

Being Amish was not hard, and certainly it was no burden. It was a way of life that was secure and happy. When Richard Caldwell asked her if she’d like to take his new Jeep out for a spin in that semi-mocking manner of his, she could truthfully say no. If you don’t know any better and are taught to be content, nothing is a hardship—nothing within reason—and Sadie didn’t feel that her life was squashed down, flat, heavy, or drained of happiness.