Disappearances (2 page)

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.

“What do you think ‘undercover agent’ means?” the heavyset man asked, a broad smile on his face, widening to a likeable grin.

The man with the glasses, (what was his name?) pushed them up again, squinted more than ever, but smiled genuinely.

So she told them everything. The black stallion’s return, Cody, Paris, the shootings, the close calls, the Amish people’s frustration with the local police.

At the mention of Paris, Dave Sims’ eyes bore into hers. He shook his head from side to side as she mentioned the narrow escapes.

“Do you have any idea of the danger you are living with?” he finally ground out, his face turning a dark shade of red.

“Are you here alone, every day?” the thinner man asked, keeping himself professionally in check.

“No. I work at the Caldwell … Aspen East. Aspendale,” she stammered.

“Your husband?”

“A farrier. Works for Richard Caldwell.”

“Where is this horse named Paris?”

“In the barn.”

They all looked at one another, compressed their lips.

“Do you have the registration papers?”

“Yes. In fact, I do. They were one of the last things I brought from my parents’ house. I’m … it’s been a bit over two months since we’ve been married.”

“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Can we see the papers?”

“Yes, of course.”

She found them in the pocket of the notebook, where she had filed more important documents until she could arrange them properly in Mark’s bottom file drawer. When she produced the papers they needed, Dave Sims extracted an envelope from an inside pocket of his coat. They all bent their heads, clucked their tongues, read portions out loud, then sat back. Dave Sims told Sadie she was the owner of an extremely valuable horse who was in grave danger and would have to be taken away if she wanted the horse to stay alive, or wanted both herself and Mark to remain safe.

“But you can’t take Paris!” she burst out, unashamed now, her only thought how much Paris would miss her, how unhappy she’d be away from Truman and Sadie and Mark and Wolf. In the end, she gave in. There was no other way.

W
HEN MARK ARRIVED HOME
she threw herself into his arms and cried and sniffed and mumbled and blew her nose, her eyes red, her nose swollen, her hair disheveled, until he led her to the new beige-colored sofa with the gray cushions. He told her to stop crying, calm down, and start all over.

He held her hands and stroked her back reassuringly as she repeated her story much slower this time, hugging him and begging him to try and do something about Paris. They simply could not take her away.

“And the thing that worries me just as much—what in the world will happen to Dorothy if she finds this out? She’ll be beside herself without those children.”

Mark said she wouldn’t have to know, and Sadie said that wasn’t one bit fair, that it was better to tell her, which is what she did when she went to work the next day.

She went straight to Richard Caldwell’s office, glad to hear his voice welcoming her in, glad to hear every word he had to say about her and Paris.