A Little Bit of Charm

by Mary Ellis

  “Not at all. What can I do for you, Mr. Terry?” Jake leaned back in his chair away from the desk.

  “It’s what I can do for you.” He allowed a few moments to pass to pique Jake’s interest. No doubt a technique the man learned from some motivational speaker. “I head up a consortium of investors who sometimes take chances on long shots, mostly in futures and commodity trading. I’m down here in Tampa with my wife, escaping from the Midwest wind and snow. We’ve been coming to Florida for years.” Terry punctuated his comment with a pleasant chuckle.

  Jake glanced at his watch. “How can I help?” No doubt the man wanted to rent the arena for a night-at-the-races charity fund-raiser. His wife was probably too shy to call on her own. Hitchcock should have provided the stable office number, not Jake’s personal cell phone.

  “Truth is, I love the ponies. My buddies and I make a trip to Arlington Park outside Chicago our monthly outing. And I never miss the yearling races because they are so close to our condo. I’ve had my eye on that horse of yours.” A second pause in the conversation yielded the desired response.

  Jake stopped rolling his eyes and straightened in his chair. “Are you talking about Eager to Please?”

  “I certainly am. That is one fast colt, Mr. Brady. I’ve not seen that much spirit in so young a Thoroughbred since I began following the racing industry.”

  Jake’s heart swelled like a proud parent at a football game or ballet recital. “I appreciate your taking the time to call me, Mr. Terry. It’s hard for me to get excited up here in Kentucky with only a pile of stats to rely on.”

  Mr. Terry cleared his throat. “Glad to help, but I’m not calling as a member of Eager’s fan club, although I’d be happy to join if you have one. When I watched your horse run three days in a row, I called a few investors and asked them to hop a plane. With as cold as it’s been already up north, they readily agreed to a few days in the sun.”

  Jake wished he would spit out whatever he was trying to say, but impatience usually got a man nowhere. “It’s been cool and rainy in Kentucky too,” he murmured.

  “My investment team has been here a few days and like what they see. Or at least they want to believe what I’m telling them. We don’t usually invest in unproven racehorses, even those with impressive training times like Eager’s. Too much can happen to a spindly-legged colt when we’re this far from the stakes races.”

  Jake frowned in confusion, even though no one could see his expression. “Why would a group of investors be interested in my yearling? Do they plan to place a large bet on the Derby at a Vegas sports book?”

  “No, no. We’re not gamblers. We’re interested in owning Eager to Please. We would take the chance on him making it to the big races.”

  Pain radiated across Jake’s shoulders into his neck from tension. “Alan Hitchcock gave you the wrong impression, Mr. Terry. My horse isn’t for sale. We bred and raised him from one of our mares. We hope to take him all the way as a three-year-old.”

  “You ought to be mighty proud, young man, but my consortium is prepared to offer Twelve Elms three million dollars. That’s an excellent price for an unproven juvenile, certainly a good return on your stud fees and training expenses.”

  An uncomfortable queasiness churned Jake’s belly. He glanced around to make sure no one had entered the stable office unseen and was awaiting his response. But he was alone, and this time it was Mr. Terry on the receiving end of a pregnant pause. “Thanks for your vote of confidence and I’m flattered by the offer, but I will reiterate our position. Eager to Please in not for sale.”

  “I understand, but keep my cell number in case you change your mind. Three million dollars can buy plenty of dreams for a young man like you. If that colt breaks his leg or twists a gut, you’ll end up with nothing but an expensive pet and a bucketful of bills to pay.”

  Jake said goodbye and hung up as quickly as possible. He knew he shouldn’t have made a snap decision without consulting his parents. After all, Twelve Elms owned the horse, not just him. A wise man would have crunched the numbers, consulted business advisers, and then taken a vote among the interested parties. But Jake Brady wasn’t a wise man. He loved that colt like a pampered lapdog. Would a childless couple approach a large family pushing a stroller with a newborn? Because you haven’t grown too attached yet to that infant, how about selling him to us at the going rate?

  Jake looked through the rest of the e-mails with little enthusiasm. A new boarder request, contract extensions for trainers, and inquiries about spring reservations failed to hold his interest. He had done something he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t call Mr. Terry back. Instead he left the office as though stung by a bee.

  “Hey, Jake, how about lunch?” asked Keeley. She and Jessie were dunking toasted cheese sandwiches into tomato soup in the kitchen.

  “No, thanks. Not hungry. I think I’ll skip lunch and saddle up Pretty Boy.” He fled the house before one or the other asked to tag along.

  A ride up into the hills might mitigate his guilt and convince him he made the right decision. But no matter how hard he rode or what tranquil vistas he observed, peace refused to come to Jake Brady. He was an arrogant young man, full of himself and full of grandiose aspirations. He couldn’t face his parents or his siblings without talking to Rachel, or at least seeing her lovely face.

  Thank goodness she was home sick today. He could drive to the Stolls’ farm as a concerned employer, curious as to how she was feeling. But first he would stop at Flower Mart on Charm’s town square for a get-well bouquet. He probably wouldn’t tell her about the phone call. How could he talk about Mr. Terry’s offer without revealing his true nature—a selfish man who placed himself far above others, even the family he loved?

  Rachel closed the door behind Jake and tightened her grip on her shawl. Although fully dressed, she couldn’t get warm enough, despite a roaring fire in the woodstove.

  “That was an odd visit.” Sarah’s comment had been directed at the sewing in her lap. She’d stayed in the kitchen after supper with Isaac, who had spread seed catalogs across one end of the table.

  “Not so odd.” Rachel wiped her reddened nose for the fiftieth time that day. “The Bradys have been worried about me since I left a message on their answering machine. I said I was sick, but I should have clarified it’s only a cold.”

  “Harrumph. You owe them no explanations. If a person is sick, they’re sick.” Sarah pulled the fabric close to her nose and squinted at a row of stitches.

  Annoyed, Rachel chewed her lip. “Jah, but the Bradys are more than my employer. They’re my friends.” She carried the bouquet—a gift from Jake—to the sink.

  “I gathered that much by two dozen long-stemmed roses.” Sarah glared over her reading glasses. “You would think some famous Englischer had died with all those expensive flowers.”

  Refusing to take the bait, Rachel clipped the stems shorter and hunted for the largest vase in the cupboard.

  “I’ve worked in the English world, but nobody dropped by with roses when I caught the sniffles.” Sarah punctuated her statement with a cluck of her tongue.

  Rachel glanced at Isaac, hoping for his usual intervention. Huddled over the catalogs, he was ignoring both of them. “Well, maybe you weren’t employee-of-the-month.” She attempted a humorous tone but failed. She sounded snappish and mean spirited.

  Sarah set down her needlework. “I went to work and did my job. That’s really all anybody should expect.”

  Dabbing at her nose with a sodden tissue, Rachel pivoted on her heel. “That’s all Twelve Elms does expect. I’m dating Jake because I like him, not because it’s part of my job description.”

  “You’re dating him? I thought you were seeing both Amish and English men as friends?” Sarah pursed her lips in an unattractive thin line.

  “Enough, fraa!” thundered Isaac. “Leave the girl alone.” He did not glance up from his catalogs, but his shoulders went uncommonly stiff.

  “Sorry, cousin.” Sar
ah turned meek as a lamb.

  “No, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m out of sorts from this head cold.”

  Sarah sprang up and pressed her palm to Rachel’s forehead. “You’re running a fever. I’ll finish arranging the flowers and then bring you a cup of tea. You jump into bed and cover up with an extra quilt.”

  Rachel did as instructed without argument. Climbing the stairs on heavy legs, she entered her cool bedroom only half as distressed by their argument as usual. Despite her head and body aches, and even though her throat felt scratchy and her nose dripped like a faucet, Jake’s visit had lifted her spirits better than any herbal tonic. He didn’t seem to notice her bulbous nose, or how her eyes watered or that she was wrapped in the world’s shabbiest shawl. Jake had smiled, told her that Twelve Elms wasn’t the same without her, and then handed her the armful of flowers. Then he greeted sullen Sarah and stoic Isaac, wished her a speedy recovery, and headed for his truck.

  No one had ever given her a florist shop bouquet before, not to mention two dozen long-stem roses.

  And no one ever jumped in their car…or buggy…just to see if she was feeling better.

  That night Rachel fell asleep thinking about a man who made her feel cherished. She knew the ache in her heart had nothing to do with a virus or the cool temperature in the bedroom. She was in love. Tomorrow, or as soon as she was no longer sicker than a dog, she must talk to someone about what to do. Not Sarah or Isaac, not one of her sisters, and surely not her grandmother, despite how much those people loved her. Rachel needed an objective outsider. Ah-choo. With another shiver, she burrowed deep under the covers and fell asleep. But as fate would have it, cowboys riding sleek Thoroughbreds peppered her dreams all night, while black crows huddled along telephone lines, cackling and cawing with distress.

  Rachel’s virus lasted two more days with chills, body aches, sneezing, coughing, and sheer misery. Sarah behaved like a dutiful nursemaid, bathing her brow with damp cloths, feeding her bowls of chicken broth, and bringing her endless cups of tea with honey and lemon. Her own mamm couldn’t have been more devoted. Even Isaac, twirling his hat between his fingers, stuck his head inside her door several times to ask if he should fetch the doctor.

  But by the third day she was up and around, eager to leave her bedroom. The only part of her body still achy was her back from too much time in bed. Sarah refused to allow her to help with chores that day, but at least Rachel could walk the farm to stretch her legs and inhale fresh, clean air. She didn’t ask if Jake had called or made a return visit. Best to let that sleeping dog lie until she was fully recovered. After all, she didn’t know what to say to him anyway.

  Saturday morning she left another message on the Twelve Elms answering machine that she wouldn’t be at work again. She chose a time when no one would be in the office to take the call. Then she bundled up in her warmest cloak and heavy bonnet, hitched up Isaac’s rig, and left the farm before Jake heard her message. She imagined him peeling up the Stoll driveway, bearing more flowers, offering a ride to the hospital, or demanding an explanation. But no shiny pickup crossed her path on her way to the bishop’s house. And for that she whispered a prayer of gratitude.

  Rachel knocked once timidly on the side door. When she heard no stirring within, she rapped harder on the wood panel.

  “Hold your horses,” called a female voice. “This is as fast as my legs will go.” When the door swung wide, Mrs. Mast stood scowling. Then her expression changed to one of confusion. “Rachel? Sarah’s cousin from Lancaster?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she replied, adopting the polite, English term to address an older woman. The Amish seldom stood on such formality.

  “You came by yourself?” She peered around to see if others might be hiding behind porch posts.

  “Jah, I’ve come to talk to the bishop. If you don’t mind,” she added.

  Mrs. Mast blinked. “Of course I don’t mind. That’s James’s job. You’ll find him in the barn sharpening his cutting blades for next year. Talk all you want, but I would slip those muck boots over your shoes. It’s been muddy around the barn from all the rain lately.” She pointed to a knee-high pair of boots, nodded, and then closed the door.

  Rachel pulled on boots that would have fit Paul Bunyan, had he been seeking spiritual advice, and then she trudged to the barn.

  Bishop Mast’s face revealed surprise to see her in his workshop. “What can I do for you, Rachel?” he asked, setting down his files. “I didn’t see you at preaching this past Sunday. Was there something in my sermon you didn’t understand the week before last?”

  “Nein. I have more general questions than that.” She yanked off her scratchy outer bonnet, leaving her kapp in place. “About the Amish faith and the Mennonites and the Baptists.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “I’m only qualified to explain one of those—the middle one.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth.

  “I had better explain before I ask my questions.” She glanced around the neat but dusty shop, tired from the drive over.

  “Sit there.” The bishop pointed at the sole stool at his workbench before lowering himself on an upturned feed bucket.

  Rachel settled herself comfortably, smoothed her skirt, and then blurted out, “I went to an English church last Sunday—the Baptist one in the center of Charm. I liked their service. No offense,” she added, blushing.

  “None taken.” Bishop Mast splayed his hands on his knees.

  “I was invited by the family I work with, by the young man in particular. Jake Brady. He’s my boss, but it wasn’t part of my job.”

  “I wouldn’t think it would be. Sarah told me you give farm tours.” James stroked his pure white beard, which reached to his belly.

  “I’m also helping to exercise horses until the number of tours picks up.” Rachel studied the sawdust and filings on the floor.

  “Although lots of things were different in the service, lots of things were the same.” She forced herself to look at him.

  “I guess you should ask your questions, young lady.”

  Rachel nodded. “Is Baptist a different religion than Amish or Mennonite?”

  He thought for a moment. “Technically, no. All three are sects of Christianity. We worship the same God and His Son, Jesus. The fundamentals are the same.”

  “Then why are folks shunned who leave the Amish church back home?”

  “There is more to being Amish or Mennonite than simply worshipping the Lord in a church, no matter which denomination. It is a lifestyle committed to old ways, committed to the path of salvation. This life on earth will determine whether or not we one day take our place in Paradise, as promised in Scripture. Although the life you lived in Lancaster County looks more difficult than the English lifestyle to the unknowledgeable, it is easier to stay on a righteous path. The Plain sects remove themselves from the world to eliminate many temptations and the constant bombardment of sinful influences.”

  Rachel shrugged her shoulders. “You’re saying it’s easier to be Amish than to be English?”

  “It’s not easy for any Christian to find salvation, but yes, I feel it’s harder for those in the modern world to stay focused on God and Scripture.”

  She thought about that, trying to absorb what she heard. “A Christian’s heart should belong to God no matter where they worship.”

  “That is true, but there’s more going on in your heart than a theoretical discussion of sects. You need to talk to your family and friends, and then spend time in prayer. You seek an answer from me I can’t give. Decide who you are, Rachel King, and the correct path will be revealed to you.” His aged, weathered face softened with the kindness of her grossdawdi.

  “Danki, Bishop Mast. I will do what you say.”

  “And I shall lift you up in prayer many times over the next few days.”

  “You had better make that weeks, Bishop. I’ve never been quick with anything.”

  FIFTEEN

  When we’ve been there ten thousand
years

  Rachel drove back from Bishop Mast’s not in the best of spirits. Her head ached, but it had nothing to do with lingering symptoms from her cold. What had she been thinking? That she could fall in love with Jake, switch over to his Baptist church, and yet everything else would remain the same? She was one foolish woman. Blessedly, Isaac met the buggy when she pulled up to the barn.

  “Let me unhitch and tend to the horse. Go inside and warm up by the fire.” He grabbed the bridle so the gelding didn’t drag the buggy straight to his barn stall, where a full bucket of oats waited. “What errand was so all-fired important that you had to leave so soon after being ill? You were practically on your deathbed two days ago. You’re still pale as a ghost.” The man stared at her, not joking in the least.

  Steadying herself with one hand, Rachel gingerly climbed down. “Have you ever seen a ghost, Isaac Stoll?” She smiled up into his weather-lined face.

  “Jah. A couple of months ago I saw a white plastic one hanging from the ceiling at Kmart. Looked just like you.” He returned the grin.

  “Danki for taking care of the horse. I would like to warm up. It was a long drive back from Bishop Mast’s house.”

  Isaac’s eyes rounded. “You drove all the way to the bishop’s? Why didn’t you take Sarah with you? She could have driven the buggy.”

  Rachel thought about her reply. “Because I had a personal matter to discuss with him.” She picked up her purse from the seat.

  “And you didn’t want your cousin interrupting every other sentence?” He smirked rather than smiled. “I guess you Lancaster gals are no dummies.” Isaac chuckled all the way to the barn.

  She opened the kitchen door to a blast of warm air and the sweet scent of cinnamon. The room was empty, but three apple pies, fresh from the oven, lined the counter. After hanging up her cloak and bonnet, Rachel went to the sink to wash, letting the hot water cascade over her hands longer than necessary.