Keeping Secrets (40 page)

Oh, they had their times, like Mark’s sliding into his silences, becoming absorbed in a sort of blackness when she least expected it. She would always revert to self-blame, her shoulders tightening, a headache developing, watching his morose face with a sort of hopeless intensity. What have I done? What have I said to bring this on?

She would be completely miserable, afraid to approach him, until she remembered his past and the awful times after his mother left with a real estate agent, leaving eight-year-old Mark to care for his five younger siblings.

The slightest put-down, often going unnoticed by Sadie herself, could bring on those quiet times. A dark fog, as impenetrable as the proverbial pea soup and about as messy to clean up, surrounded him.

Sadie had been raised in a secure, loving home, imperfect perhaps, as most homes tend to be, but completely normal. Her three sisters, Leah, Rebekah, Anna, and one brother, Reuben, all younger than herself, had been loved, disciplined, and nurtured.

Their mother, Annie, endured mental illness that resulted in hospitalization. In the end, it only bound them closer, enveloping the family in a shroud of thanksgiving for Mam’s well-being.

Sadie was often quick to speak her mind, the words tumbling out happily before she thought of their consequences. Mark would be hurt, returning to that place where only he knew, leaving her floundering, reeling from the rejection in his eyes.

The latest bout had been brought on by her happy evaluation of the oak kitchen cabinets. Sitting back in her chair, wrapping her soft, white robe securely around her waist, she crossed her legs, kicking her slipper-clad foot, shaking back her long, dark ponytail, saying simply how no one could build cabinets the way a cabinetmaker could.

“They just know exactly what they’re doing, don’t they? Such perfect raised panels on their doors!” Forgetting, like a dummy, that he had built the ones in the office and had been terribly proud of his accomplishment and the money he had saved by doing it himself.

He had nodded his head, agreed, using words to that extent, finished his coffee, and abruptly left the table, returning to the recliner. He stayed there without offering his usual Sunday-morning dish-drying assistance.

Amish people hold church services in a home every other Sunday. This is an old tradition, allowing the ministers and deacon to visit other communities if they feel so inclined. Church members have an in-between Sunday, allowing long sleep-ins, leisurely breakfasts, a day for resting, visiting, Bible-reading, studying German, or, as is often the case, simply relaxing and doing nothing.

Which is exactly how that Sunday turned out. Doing nothing. Not one thing. Finally her insides were in knots. The book she was reading gave her the creeps. Her legs became so restless she thought they might run away by themselves. She wished she had never married Mark Peight. She wanted to slam doors and spill a whole container of water over his head or pound her fists into his chest.

What she did do, finally, was kneel by his recliner and beg him to tell her what was wrong. But he feigned sleep, grunted, stuck up an elbow as if to shake her off, rolled on his side, smacked his lips in the most disgusting way, and resumed breathing deeply.

Sadie got up and walked blindly to the kitchen, then stood in the middle of it. She wanted to go home. She wanted to lay her head on Mam’s shoulder and, smelling the talcum powder that always wafted from her, cry great big alligator tears and ask Mam why she hadn’t warned and better prepared her little girl?

She felt like a buoy anchored to the sea floor, tossed about by the waves. But she stayed right there in the middle of her kitchen, anchored to the beautiful floorboards by her marriage to him. Oh, he made her so mad!

It wasn’t right, this anger. All her life, she had been groomed to be a submissive Amish housewife. The husband is the head of the house, and his wishes are to be respected. Your life is now no longer your own.

No doubt.

Your life is doled out in portions by his moods. If he falls into a black one, your life could be measured by the tiniest measuring spoon. Approximately one-eighth of a teaspoon. Barely enough to keep a person going. No cup runneth over here.

Ah, well. She knew their life together would not be perfect, the way he had always been so hard to understand. But this? This standing in the middle of the kitchen, completely afloat, by that tall dark stranger sunk into a vile mood for which you were unprepared.

Then he would get over it, usually by going off to work the following morning, his lunchbox swinging in one hand, the red and white Coleman jug of ice water in the other, his faithful driver and coworker, Lester Brenner, waiting at the end of the yard, idling the diesel engine of his pickup truck.

Mark was a farrier and a good one. He shod all of Richard Caldwell’s horses, as well as those of the Amish who owned more than one horse, and still the telephone messages kept coming.

After he spent a day doing hard physical labor, getting out among people, talking, forgetting himself, he would return home a changed person. Smiling, his arms enfolding her, her head fitting so perfectly into that hollow of his shoulder, she would smell the rich odor of horses and his own musky, salty essence. She would close her eyes and thank God for her husband, forgiving him another time of blackness.

That was when the eighth of a teaspoon turned into immeasurable quantities, and Sadie’s life made great, big, happy sense, like a tree filled with great rosy-cheeked apples, its roots by a blue lake, watered constantly by the love of God.

So when it was Tuesday morning, and the snow was coming down thick and fast, too fast to attempt a drive to her mother’s house, she decided to unpack some of her extra things and wash the dishes, fold the towels, and store them in the bottom drawer of the bureau in the living room. It was a job she had meant to do at least a month ago and still had not accomplished.

She was unwrapping a set of salt and pepper shakers, the newspaper around them aged and crumbling from being stored in her parent’s attic for many years. Mommy Hershberger had given them to her on her tenth birthday. Purple grapes with green leaves swinging from a sort of tree, all made in shining ceramic. Oh, my. And she had thought they were so cool back then.

Smiling, she put them on the countertop to be washed in soapy water, then she retrieved a small white basket filled with yellow plastic roses, the greenish faces having changed color from the heat of the attic, waxy, smelling like old plastic. Grimacing, she pulled out the artificial flowers and threw them into the trash can with the old newspapers, then set the white basket by the purple salt and pepper shakers.

She had just found a small cedar chest with a glossy top, a gray and white kitten smiling from the lid, surrounded by pink flowers and a red handkerchief. Ugh. A gift from a names exchange in seventh grade. Oh, dear. She should keep it.

Barking from Wolf, Mark’s large gray and silver dog, brought her head up, her gaze automatically going to the driveway. His bark was deep, full-throated, but not threatening. She watched as a black Jeep, (four-wheel drive, she hoped) made its way slowly up to the end of the yard before stopping. The driver shut off the engine.

Sadie stood up, smoothed her white apron over her stomach, adjusted the sleeves of her lime green dress, then checked her appearance in the mirror above the sink in the laundry.

Covering straight.

Wonder who would come visiting in the snow?

Three men slowly opened the doors of the vehicle as if hesitant to subject themselves to the cold wetness of the snow. They all wore some semblance of the usual Stetson hats so common in Montana—brown, black, slouched, but seemingly clean. Their clothes were presentable, clean blue jeans, tan Carhart coats. Adjusting their jacket zippers, they looked to the boards leading up to the porch.

No sidewalks or strips had been built yet, so the boards leading from the porch floor to the ground would have to do. Covered with snow, though.

Why were all three of them coming in? Usually, only one person could state their business.

Well, no use getting all flustered, she’d be okay. Once fear invaded your life, it could easily take control and make you subject to it. She’d be okay.

The leader was evidently heavyset, his large form rocking from side to side with each purposeful stride. His gray mustache hid all of his mouth, his hair tied in the back, a long gray ponytail hanging down the back of his coat.

He stopped, evaluating the slope of the boards, the accumulation of snow, before turning to his friends, saying something.

Sadie started to go to the door to advise them, then decided against it. They’d find their way.

The other two men were smaller in stature, with clean-shaven faces, not unpleasant. One wore glasses low on his nose, which he pushed up every time he squinted toward the house.

Wolf kept barking but followed them, his tail wagging. Sadie knew he was friendly, but one command from Mark could change the situation entirely, and he would attack a person or animal if Mark wanted him to.

None of the men seemed to be bothered by Wolf, completely unafraid, barely acknowledging his existence. That was odd.

They were all up on the porch now, huddled, talking in hushed tones. Should she simply disappear, glide noiselessly away, up the stairs or into the bedroom, and hide? No, that was cowardly. She was here by herself except the days she still worked at the ranch with Dorothy and Erma Keim, the garrulous spinster who had been hired to make the work load easier.

A resounding knock. Nothing timid about them, that was sure.

She wasn’t afraid when she opened the door, and when they greeted her with friendly smiles, she invited them inside, the man with the glasses still pushing them up, squinting at her as he did so.

The heavyset man introduced himself as Dave Sims, the other two shaking hands with her politely, saying their names, which she promptly forgot.

Sadie gestured toward the kitchen table.

“Would you like to sit down?”

“Actually, we will.”

Silently, they all pulled out chairs, Dave grunting a bit as he folded his large form into the chair that had appeared quite sturdy before but looked very small and feeble now.

“What we’re here for…” he began. Then, “How much do you know about the two children who came to the Caldwell place?”

Whoa. How did they know she worked there? Why come here? Why not talk to Richard Caldwell? Or Jim and Dorothy?

Taking a deep breath, Sadie said carefully, “Not very much.”

“You work there?”

“Yes.”

“Were you working when they arrived?”

“Yes,”

“What did they look like?”

“Just … well, two very dirty, poor children. Their clothes were in tatters. Too big. They just hung on their thin shoulders.”

No answer, just a nodding of three heads in unison.

“Where are they now?”

“Why don’t you talk to Richard Caldwell, the owner of the ranch?” Sadie asked, a bit hesitantly, yet braving the adversity she felt would come.

“We did.”

Instantly, Sadie felt more at ease. She visibly relaxed, let go of the hem of her white apron, which she had been twisting between her thumb and index finger. If they talked to Richard Caldwell first, and he sent them here….

Yet, there was a lingering doubt.

“They are adopted, the way we heard.”

“Yes, I think legally.”

They nodded.

Then, they all showed their identification. They worked for the government, some kind of detectives who handled special kinds of cases. (Sadie didn’t completely understand it.) Apparently, the children had disappeared with their mother. The father was a fugitive, a person of interest who was running from the law. The mother was also under suspicion, although her complete disappearance was the only reason. They needed information. Everything would be recorded. How much did she know?

Sadie told them everything from the moment the children appeared at the kitchen door, about the bag of costly jewelry, the safe where it was held, their impeccable manners, their names.

When she mentioned their names, two of them shook their heads.

“No, no. Not their real names.”

Sadie’s eyes opened wide.

“Really?”

“No. Their mother, or whoever took them away, did a good job of masquerading the real kids. Their names are Sebastian and Angelica Hartford, of the Dallas Hartfords?”

Sadie shrugged her shoulders.

“Ever watched the TV show,
Dallas
?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s more money than you can ever imagine involved.”

“These kids are victims of a serious ring of horse thieves. The only thing they ever did wrong was to have eyes and ears. They know too much, and, we’re surmising, so does their mother. There is an old, old bloodline running in the veins of some of these horses, an Arabian strain, that makes them worth thousands and thousands of dollars. There was one stable here in Montana that unknowingly housed a stallion carrying the bloodline. The horse thieves knew this. Stole a lot of horses. I think what happened, it was a mistake gone completely haywire.”

Sadie swallowed hard. The room spun, then righted itself, her breathing came raggedly now, as she acknowledged the fact that she knew a whole lot that could help these men tremendously.

But … should she?

With all her heart, she longed for Mark. He would know what to do. She had seen the identification. But why the ponytail? The mustache? Their clothes did not fit her mind’s description of a detective. Was that only the Amish way instilled in her?

You expected people to dress a certain way, to look the way you think they should. Men wore hats and suspenders buttoned to broadfall trousers. Older women combed their hair flat, wore larger coverings, wore darker, plainer fabric and colors. Young girls arranged their hair in nicer waves, wore smaller coverings, brightly colored dresses. Little boys wore straw hats, denim trousers. Everything was in order and expected to appear a certain way.

People who worked for the government wore uniforms and cut their hair close to their heads, didn’t they? She would have to know. So she asked them. Hesitantly at first, but gaining strength as she talked.