by Mary Ellis
Jake waited for Bob to climb into the backseat before he slipped into the front passenger side. No matter how many years they attended this horse sale, his father always enumerated the exact same sequence of events. But Jake said nothing. With a two-hour drive to Lexington, there was no sense starting out on the wrong foot.
That afternoon the registration process went smoothly, as he figured it would. Jake scratched the brindle filly from the sale roster and then verified the pedigree and particulars for each horse they planned to auction. Bob stabled the horses and left to spend the evening with longtime Lexington cronies. The Brady father and son checked into their hotel and then headed to their favorite steakhouse for dinner, where they dined every year. Three times horsemen interrupted their meal with questions about Eager to Please. Everyone had heard the tales about their colt. And no, he was not for sale.
Jake fell asleep that night with visions of moneybags dancing through his head like sugarplums at Christmas. The attention Eager to Please garnered didn’t drop off during breakfast the next morning. Several old-timers stopped at their table in the hotel dining room to shake Ken’s hand.
“I brought my checkbook if you want to put Eager to Please on the auction block,” said one man, slapping Ken on the back.
“I didn’t know you had a million bucks lying around, Frank.” Ken grinned with pleasure.
“A million dollars. What did you pour in your orange juice this morning?” His friend picked up the glass and sniffed. Both men laughed good-naturedly.
“Wait until after the Florida yearling races, Mr. Holt. That price is bound to go up,” Jake added in a far more serious tone.
“Anything is possible in this industry.” After another hearty backslap, Mr. Holt returned to his breakfast table.
“Bob brought me a copy of today’s sale program while you were in the shower—hot off the presses.” Levity faded from Ken’s face.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Ready to order?” asked a sweet-faced waitress.
“I haven’t looked at the menu yet,” said Ken, “but I guess I’ll have what I get every year.”
“Why mess with a winner?” She punctuated her question with a wink.
“Two eggs over easy, rye toast, two buckwheat cakes, country ham, and keep the coffee coming.” Ken handed her the menu and flexed his knuckles.
“I’ll have the blueberry pancakes and coffee. Thanks.” Once the woman left, Jake added, “You’re mighty brave when Mom’s not around.”
“She does keep me on a short dietary leash, but there’s something we need to discuss before we’re interrupted by more Eager to Please admirers.” Ken tapped the closed program with his finger.
“What’s that?” Jake took a gulp of juice.
“You seem to have omitted an important detail when listing the particulars for that coal-black colt.”
He kept his gaze steady. “At the registration table I read from my notes prepared at home.”
“There’s no mention about the difficult delivery. You didn’t say that the dam died giving birth to that colt.” Ken watched him over his coffee mug.
“Why on earth would I reveal that? You don’t write a short story about every horse for sale. You just list their physical description and give complete details of the bloodline.”
His father set his jaw. “There’s a line for other significant information. Buyers have a right to know that the horse might have suffered oxygen depletion until we were able to get him out. That could affect his neurological development and temperament down the road.”
Jake glanced around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “Please, Dad, keep your voice down. No way would any other seller list that fact.”
Ken stared at him. “Then those other sellers would be unethical.”
Jake sighed. “If I would have listed possible oxygen deprivation at birth, the price would drop significantly. We need these yearlings to fetch decent prices this year, especially since I gave in and let Keeley keep the brindle filly.”
“The price they bring should reflect the potential of the horse these people are buying—nothing more and nothing less.” His dad sounded like a mystical sage sitting high in the Himalayas, dispensing wisdom.
Jake’s mouth dried out as his irritation grew. “We have no idea if the colt was adversely affected during birth. Some horses and people survive oxygen loss with no lasting effects. The vet thoroughly examined that horse and pronounced him sound.” He leaned across the table. “People would think us foolish to list that detail.”
Ken’s face darkened. “Those who would think our integrity foolish must possess none themselves.”
Jake gritted his teeth. They were two bulls squaring off in the pasture. “Rich folks can afford to take that kind of high road. We can implement the high road once we put Twelve Elms on the right track.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing you right. This isn’t how your mother and I raised you—”
“Here you go, boys. Breakfast is served.” Their friendly waitress set down two steaming plates of food. “More coffee?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Father and son spoke simultaneously.
“Why don’t we eat and think this over carefully.” Ken picked up his fork and knife.
Jake stared at his pancakes dripping with melted butter and maple syrup with a waning appetite. His dad had a point. And they were family besides business partners. He forced himself to eat half the stack before continuing their discussion. “I know you raised me to have a strong code of morals. And I should be grateful, but in this business how will we survive following the Good Book letter for letter?” He set down his napkin. “We don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, son. God’s way…or the other.”
For a full minute in the busy hotel restaurant, time stopped like in one of those silly romantic comedies when two people in a crowd reach some impasse.
Ken sipped coffee, wincing from the hot temperature. “I would like you to talk to the director. Tell him some details were inadvertently omitted.”
Jake slouched in his chair. “You realize that since the program has been printed, any additions, deletions, or changes must be announced before the auction starts. Instead of a one-line memo in a program filled with trivia, now they’ll broadcast the information over the loudspeaker, giving the detail far more importance than it deserves.”
Ken shrugged with nonchalance. “That’s on you, son. But I’ll feel better knowing the colt will bring exactly what he’s worth. And so should you. Now, let’s eat up and get to the sale. I want a good seat.”
And so should you…
No doubt he should, but at the moment that wasn’t the case.
They finished breakfast, checked out of the hotel, and drove to the auction site. Little was said on the way other than comments on the weather or Lexington’s heavy traffic.
Bob greeted them with his customary cheeriness. The man always stayed overnight with a cousin, sparing Twelve Elms the expense of his hotel room. “I’ve given all five sale horses a final brushing. They look good, don’t they? There’s been talk around the barns about Eager,” he said. “Grooms gossip like old women at a quilting bee.”
“So I’ve noticed,” said Jake. “Excuse me, Bob. I need to stop at the registration counter before we sit down.”
“Didn’t you get the program I left at the front desk for you?”
“Yeah, thanks, but I forgot something about one of the horses. Save me a seat in the arena.” Jake strode off to discourage more questions. Let his dad tell the manager about his bad decision.
Although he possessed little ability for fortune-telling, his prophecy about the black colt had been correct. The horse brought half the selling price he should have. All told, the annual auction disappointed Jake in more ways than one. Every business required a concise plan of action, yet he wasn’t remotely on the same page with his father.
During the next few days after the rodeo, Rachel lived the normal life of an Am
ish woman. She attended church services on Sunday with Isaac and Sarah, arriving and departing in their horse and buggy. On Monday, she and Sarah washed clothes and ironed shirts and dresses. On Tuesday they cleaned house from top to bottom, and then they baked bread and desserts for the rest of the week in addition to their regular farm chores. They got along fairly well because Sarah made few comments and asked only one question regarding Saturday. Her comments amounted to: “I suppose you’re not hungry after all the gourmet food at the fancy shindig,” and “I hope young Mr. Brady isn’t getting any big ideas about you.”
Her sole question consisted of: “Where did all of these scented beauty products come from?” Picking up the basket, Sarah turned it left and right to study.
Rachel pulled off the ribbon and cellophane. “I’ll unload it in the bathroom linen closet. There’s enough to share, so take whatever you like.” She explained the silent auction at the fund-raiser and the bidding process, neglecting to mention the final price paid by Jake. Charity or not, that would have branded him as reckless in Sarah’s eyes forevermore.
Her placid life changed abruptly on Wednesday. When she came in from work, Rachel found a letter from home on the kitchen table…opened.
“Grossmammi has a few things to say to you,” said Sarah. The delicious smell of chicken soup filled the room as she stirred the pot. “I suspected she would.”
“You’ve already read my letter?” Surprised, Rachel picked up the two sheets with her grandmother’s fine, neat script. Sarah had never invaded her privacy before.
“It was addressed to both of us, so of course I did.” Sarah dropped more vegetables into the soup.
Sure enough, two names were written on the face-up envelope: Mrs. Sarah Stoll and Miss Rachel King. Rachel carried the letter into the living room to read, where a warm fire burned in the potbellied stove. A strange sensation of dread lifted the hairs on her neck as though she’d been caught shirking chores as a child.
Dear Rachel,
I pray this letter finds you in good health. Your grossdawdi, Beth, and I are well and happy to have the harvest behind us. I will let your schwester fill you in on the Lancaster news since Beth hears more gossip than me. And because I have a more important bone to pick with you.
Rachel slumped onto a chair close to the fire. The heat felt good in the cooler-than-average weather.
Your cousin says you wear English clothes at your new job. I don’t understand why you don’t work for Sarah and Isaac—those who put a roof over your head and food on your plate. Sarah told me their chicken farm keeps growing. Isaac must build another new barn before next spring. And if you must work with horses, can’t you find a Mennonite horse farm? Too much time spent with Englischers only leads to too much worldliness. You know what happened to Amy’s brother-in-law. His job on the English logging crew led nowhere but to his downfall. Do not wander foolishly from the path of righteousness.
Come home. We miss you.
Grossmammi
Rachel buried her face in her hands as a wave of sorrow washed over her. She visualized her mother and grandmother rolling out pie dough at the kitchen table. She and her sisters had always been in charge of the fruit fillings. They would eat more blueberries, cherries, or apples than ended up baked in any pie.
But grossmammi was wrong to blame Englischers for Elam Detweiler’s fall from grace. Amy’s brother-in-law had been smoking, drinking beer, and sneaking out at night long before he worked on the logging crew. No one knew where Elam had gone after he left Paradise, Missouri. Nora had been his last tie to the Amish lifestyle. When she married Lewis, nothing remained to keep him in town.
Rachel folded the letter and jammed it into her apron pocket. She would wait for a cooler head before writing back. Was she like Elam? Absolutely not. He was rebellious, contrary, and opinionated besides being fascinated with Englischers. She merely wanted to ride Thoroughbreds. That did not put her on the road to ruin.
At least Sarah hadn’t told their grandmother she was courting Amish and English alike. Grossmammi probably would board the next Greyhound bus headed west. She smiled, picturing the white-haired matriarch marching up Sarah’s driveway with her satchel in one hand and shaking her index finger. How she loved that woman. Sarah probably didn’t want to panic loved ones back home until Rachel refused to come to her senses, but one of her two Amish beaus had already dropped from the competition. Last Sunday after church, Becky told her that John Swartz had returned home. That left only Reuben Mullet who had shown any real interest in her. And she spent too little time at Plain social events to meet new people.
Lately she preferred walking the forest paths in the evening or staring out her bedroom window while thinking about a tall, blond-haired man with brown eyes and a tender heart. So maybe, deep under her skin, she wasn’t that different from Elam Detweiler after all.
Friday morning Rachel crossed swords with her cousin for the second time that week when she arrived in the kitchen wearing English clothes.
“Why are you dressed like that?” asked Sarah.
Isaac peered up over his newspaper and frowned. “Do you want me to hitch up the rig?”
“No, danki. Not today.” She smiled at him before turning her focus to Sarah. “Jake is picking me up because after work I’m going with him on an errand.” Rachel hurried to pour a mug of mental fortification. “So I might as well wear English clothes.”
“What kind of errand?” Isaac’s bacon started to spatter in the pan.
“He’s picking up four cats from the vet that have been spayed or neutered and given their shots. These were strays that found their way to Twelve Elms. We’re taking them to a no-kill shelter near Somerset. Once they’re fixed, they have no trouble finding homes. The Bradys already have three cats.”
Sarah shook her head. “Don’t bring any here. Chickens don’t like cats.”
“I promise I won’t.” She gulped her coffee and created a sandwich with scrambled eggs in between two slices of toast.
“Will you be home for supper after dropping off the cats?” Sarah lifted the bacon from the pan with tongs.
“No. When we’re done Jake wants to try a new all-you-can-eat pizza buffet. Ten different kinds each day.”
“Pizza is pizza. It all tastes the same.” Sarah thumped the plate of bacon on the table. “This sounds very much like a date.”
Swallowing her mouthful of sandwich, Rachel dabbed her lips. “That’s because I suppose it is. I told you I planned to court both Amish and English and not get serious with anybody.”
“Can I have a refill on my coffee, fraa, if you’re not too busy butting your nose in Rachel’s life?” Isaac’s question curtailed discussion at the Stoll breakfast table.
When Jake picked her up fifteen minutes later, Rachel practically ran to his truck. All too soon they arrived at Twelve Elms, where work pulled them in different directions. But she didn’t mind. The November weather was mild. Flocks of migrating birds drifted overhead in large patterns, and she would spend the day with Bess and Buster on the tour wagon. What could be finer? Spending the entire evening with Jake. And she had that to look forward to all day.
Promptly at four o’clock, he walked into the stable office. She and Keeley had been cleaning and organizing after their last tour. “Ready to go?” he asked. His hair was still damp from a shower.
“Give me five minutes.” Grabbing her tote bag, she headed into the ladies’ room. With her heart pounding in her chest, Rachel washed her face and hands, changed shirts, retied her ponytail, and rubbed on peach hand cream. After a spritz of raspberry body mist, she studied herself in the mirror. She looked…English. That had never been her goal, yet it had crept up on her like fog. For a moment she felt guilty. But the moment passed when she saw Jake at the foot of the office steps.
“You look nice and smell good too,” he said.
“Gosh, Jake,” called Keeley through the open window. “You need to watch some romantic movies or take lessons or something. You are so
lame.”
He blushed to a shade of bright red. “I should have waited to say anything until we were alone. Keeley is like a tick that crawls up your pant leg and burrows under the skin. You scratch and scratch, but you can’t rid yourself of her.”
Rachel took his hand. “Don’t worry. We have one of those in the King family too. Her name is Beth.”
“So saying you smell nice isn’t the stupidest compliment you ever received?” He tightened his hold on her hand, his embarrassment gone.
“Not by a long shot. The Kings are famous for left-handed compliments. When I was learning to cook, my father loved to say, ‘This doesn’t taste nearly as bad as the last time you made it.’ Once my mamm told me, ‘Thank goodness your sore throat is gone. Now you can sing like a regular frog instead of a dying one.’”
Jake drew her close, slipping his arm around her waist. “The Bradys and the Kings have more in common than anyone would have guessed.”
Rachel should have batted away his bold gesture. Such displays of affection were forbidden in the Plain culture, even among engaged couples. But she didn’t. Another line had been crossed between them, and that worried her far less than it should.
At the vet’s office, Dr. Bobbie Kirby greeted Jake like an old friend instead of a client. “Your four new adoptees are ready to go, Jake. Fit as fiddles with all their shots. They’re very friendly too. Don’t worry about bringing the carriers back soon. Just use them for your next delivery. There will always be more stray cats in Casey County.”
“Thanks, Doc. What do I owe you?” He extracted his checkbook from a back pocket.
The vet placed a statement on the counter. “I wish vet bills were at least tax deductible. You sure pay enough during a calendar year.” While Jake wrote out the check, Dr. Kirby studied Rachel, who stood by the door trying to keep a low profile. “Who are you?” she asked. “Jake’s new girlfriend?”
Before she could reply, he answered, “I wish, but no, we work together and are just good friends.”