Wyatt smiled. To his credit, Marcus had an exceptional memory—and he had just confirmed what had only been an assumption, about using his girlfriend’s credit cards. Wyatt took his time reaching for a pen and a pad of paper on the kitchen counter.
“Come on, McKenzie! You can’t just smile and keep your secrets—we’re being honest and speaking our minds, remember?” Marcus challenged. “How’d you know I’d been using Kristin’s credit cards?”
Wyatt looked at him, unruffled. “You said that, Marcus. I didn’t.”
The kid’s mouth snapped shut.
Rebecca was toying with her food rather than eating it. Her lips were pressed together as though she wanted to give Marcus a piece of her mind.
Wyatt smiled at her. Rebecca was showing great restraint, considering the way she’d quickly vented her objections when she was talking to him. He poised the pen over the paper. “So let’s talk about references. What’s the name of the auction barn where you were working? And whom should I contact there?”
Marcus exhaled loudly. “Borntreger Auction Service in Quarrytown,” he muttered. “I reported to Jake Borntreger, the owner. After that I was working for Enos Keim in Elizabethtown.”
Wyatt stopped writing. “So in the three weeks since our phone conversation, you left the auction barn to work for Keim—and you’ve already quit that job?” he asked. “What do I need to know about that?”
Marcus rolled his eyes as though dismissing the situation—or Keim—as too stupid to talk about. “He’s Old Order—older than God!—and he got on my case for not cleaning out the stalls just right,” he ranted. “And he told me I shouldn’t have a case of beer in my car, and that I shouldn’t have a car—that I should get around with a horse and buggy!”
“So why’d you take the job with Keim in the first place?” Rebecca blurted. “You knew he was old—and Old Order—when you asked about the position, right?”
Wyatt winked at her, glad she was expressing the exasperation he, too, was feeling about Marcus’s attitude and answers. The real question was why Marcus had been mucking out stables when he was supposedly a top-notch trainer who could pretty much choose his positions and salary. Once again Wyatt remained quiet, waiting for more information the kid might reveal after the silence made him antsy.
Resentment flashed in Marcus’s pale green eyes. “Okay, so I sorta stumbled into the job with Keim because he needed a farmhand and I needed the money,” he admitted. “And I left because I got pulled over by the cops. Again.”
Wyatt gave him a point for honesty. “Sheriff Banks’s report says the officer in Pennsylvania suspected you were drunk, but you passed the breathalyzer test so he let you go with a warning,” he filled in. “So you left because you figured Keim was going to fire you anyway?”
“Yeah.” Marcus set down his fork, probably figuring he’d be asked to leave.
Wyatt reached for the sheriff ’s report as he considered his next move. He still needed a trainer—and soon—but could he tolerate Marcus’s arrogance? Did he really want to expend the energy it would take to turn this kid around—if indeed Hooley would cooperate? He didn’t need to call Jake Borntreger or Enos Keim, because they would complain about Marcus’s attitude rather than giving him a positive recommendation as a trainer.
When Marcus caught sight of the letterhead bearing the logo of the sheriff ’s department, his expression became more contrite. And he kept quiet.
“We’ve discussed your employment record, so let’s move on to your personal qualifications,” Wyatt suggested, tapping the letter with his pen. “Ben gave me the impression that you no longer live at home because your parents have sent you packing—which isn’t all that common, from what I understand about the Amish culture’s emphasis on forgiveness and family ties,” he added purposefully. “And your girlfriend—or maybe more than one of them—kicked you out for using credit cards without their knowledge or permission. Correct me if I’m wrong, Marcus.”
Marcus crossed his arms as though bracing himself for what came next. “You got it right. But how you learn about this stuff is beyond me.”
Wyatt bit back a smile. The kid was admitting that he found Wyatt McKenzie more informed and intimidating than his previous employers. Would that inspire him to behave more maturely, to assume some responsibility?
“Seems to me you’ve burned all your bridges, Marcus—not to mention that you attracted the attention of the law yesterday before you were even in Willow Ridge an hour,” he added. He held the kid’s green-eyed gaze. “If you decide not to work for me—or if I decide not to hire you—where else can you go? What other kind of work can you do, if you’re not training horses? How long can you keep running?”
Marcus focused on his plate. He seemed to be considering Wyatt’s questions carefully. “Why do you care?” he finally whispered.
Again Wyatt gave the young man credit for expressing himself. Maybe it was time to share some personal experience so Marcus wouldn’t think he took information without sharing any. Maybe he’d feel inspired enough by Wyatt’s checkered past to believe that there was hope for his own future.
“Let’s just say I know something about getting caught by a couple of girlfriends,” he confessed softly. “I used my looks—and my air of having money—to get invited into their lives. Then I blew it by charging stuff on their cards just for the thrill of getting away with it. Stupid move, with serious consequences.”
Marcus considered this. “Did you have money?”
“The dad who adopted me was one of the wealthiest Thoroughbred breeders in Kentucky,” Wyatt replied with a nod. “When he found out what I’d done to those young women, he shut off my funds. Told me I’d be working for a salary until I cleaned up my act—and that I’d be totally cut off from my inheritance if I didn’t,” he added softly. “I don’t want to think about where I would’ve ended up, had he not set me straight.”
“So you’re trying to work the same miracle for me, right?” Marcus challenged without missing a beat. He gazed around the room as he dealt with his pride and his emotions—and as he figured out his options. He sat quietly for several moments, until the bluster had finally drained out of him. “Okay, so what’s your deal? What do you expect me to do?”
Wyatt watched Marcus closely. Had he actually captured the young man’s interest? Were his questions sincere?
“I’d like you to sign an agreement saying you’ll work here for a probationary period of a month—which takes us up to Christmas,” he replied. “I have five Thoroughbreds I’ve retired from the racetrack, and your first assignment will be training them to pull a rig. I want potential Amish buyers to be so impressed with these horses you’ve trained that they’ll be outbidding each other for the privilege of owning them.”
“I can do that,” Marcus said matter-of-factly. “What else? What about those Percherons out in your paddock?”
“As you know, they’re more of a long-term project because they need to mature before they’re physically and mentally ready to be reliable draft animals,” Wyatt pointed out. “I’ve got some Belgian yearlings coming in a couple weeks, as well, and because I have no experience with these breeds, I’ll be relying on you to get them accustomed to halters and harnesses—”
“And they need to learn how to behave around people and kids and loud noises and car traffic so they won’t spook while they’re hitched to wagons and plows,” Marcus put in quickly. “If they’re not handled correctly at a young age and if they don’t get worked every day, there’ll be no controlling them once they’re full grown.”
“That’s the way I understand it, yes. And you’ll be teaching me to handle them, too.”
“Truth be told,” Marcus went on in a low voice, “unless those Percherons have already had some handling and paddock work, they’ll need quite a bit of extra effort. They’re already big suckers—”
“I’m relying on you to assess their level of competence,” Wyatt said. “And I’ll expect you to write up a proposed sche
dule for their training first thing, so I can build in pay bonuses as they achieve the levels of success you set for them.”
“Fair enough.” Marcus nodded, his handsome face alight with interest. After a moment, he looked at Wyatt again. “You gonna call Enos and Jake?”
“Why would I do that? We know what they’re going to say, don’t we?”
His lips twitched. “What happens if I screw up?”
“Define screw up.”
Marcus cleared his throat. “What if I get hauled in for another DUI?”
“Someday you’ll lose your license. I can’t—won’t—fix that for you.” Wyatt leaned forward, hoping the kid realized the responsibility involved in what he was about to offer. “After your probationary period, if you’ve proven yourself to be the best horse trainer in America,” he added lightly, “we’ll set up a repayment plan for your credit card debt—and what you charged to your girlfriends—so you won’t have that shadow hanging over you. If you put some of your money aside each pay period, you’ll have a nice cash cushion one of these days.”
Marcus’s dark eyebrows rose. “That would be a first.”
“What do you think, Marcus?” Wyatt asked earnestly. “You’ll either succeed or you won’t. You’ll either stick with it or you’ll go running down the road with your tail between your legs again.”
Marcus’s expression shifted between a hopeful smile and a somber stare as he focused on his plate. “All right,” he murmured. “Where do I sign?”
“You’re going to commit to staying at least until Christmas?” Rebecca asked. “Getting miffed or running off—or telling Wyatt he’s too controlling—won’t be options if you agree to what he’s offering you.”
“Yeah, I get that.” Marcus’s gaze went from Rebecca to Wyatt again. “What kind of pay are we talking about?”
Wyatt was pleased to hear this question. “Along with providing your apartment, I’ll pay you a hundred dollars a day the first two weeks, and after that it’ll double if you’re behaving like a model employee and citizen around town,” he replied. “Come Christmas, we can negotiate a living wage and some of those perks you were talking about earlier—like the TV and the computer and such.”
Marcus counted with his fingers, doing the math. “That’s potentially forty-two hundred bucks by Christmas.”
“Yup.”
“All right. I’m in.”
Wyatt fought the urge to slap the table and shout yes! He had a long way to go, training Marcus in much the same way the kid would be working with his horses—step by patient step, with some allowances for backsliding. “I’m delighted you want to work for me, Marcus,” he said as he reached for the agreement he’d written up. “This new enterprise is a total change from what I’ve spent most of my life doing, and I can’t make this dream come true without your help.”
Marcus skimmed the contract before signing it with a loopy, adolescent-looking signature. Wyatt signed on the line beneath Marcus’s signature, and extended his hand. “Welcome aboard, Marcus,” he said as the kid gripped his fingers. “It’s a big moment—the beginning of a new career for both of us.”
Relaxing in his chair, Marcus studied Wyatt. “So why’d you leave big-time Thoroughbred racing in Kentucky and New York to come here, of all places?” he asked. “I mean, I thought the towns around Lancaster County were pretty rural and behind the times, but Willow Ridge is . . . well, from what I’ve seen on your older website, you’re taking a major step down.”
Wyatt smiled at the astute question. “Maybe for me, down is the new up,” he replied softly. “I got tired of the competitive back-biting in racing, and really tired of keeping up appearances with the social set who make that world go around.
“Let’s face it, if Thoroughbred racing suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth, yes, a lot of wealthy folks would lose their livelihoods,” he continued earnestly. “But racing is a sport, a pricey hobby. If there were no more draft horses, however, Plain folks couldn’t farm or feed their families.”
“Why does that matter to you?” Marcus asked with a shrug. “I’m guessing you could live out the rest of your life without working another day—”
“And what sort of life would that be?” Wyatt interrupted. “Why bother getting up in the morning? Willow Ridge and its people feel genuine. I can make a difference here—and so can you, Marcus.”
The kid looked startled by that idea. “Right now I’ll settle for having a job and a place to bunk, thanks,” he said as he picked up his fork again.
“You’re welcome.” Wyatt smiled at Rebecca, who appeared slightly incredulous about how the interview had progressed. “After breakfast, I’ll show you around the facilities and you can meet the horses. I have high hopes for what we’ll accomplish together as time goes by.”
Chapter Six
As Rosalyn cleared away used paper cups and napkins from the serving table at Simple Gifts on Saturday afternoon, her head was spinning. She picked up the nearly depleted tray of Lena Witmer’s decorated Christmas cookies so Nora could place a fresh tray in its place. “This is the third big tray of cookies we’ve put out, jah?” she whispered in disbelief.
“Our open house is a huge success!” Nora replied happily. “I’ve called Lena, and she’s bringing us another tray soon. If you’ll refill the cider crock, I’ll ring up the ladies who’re waiting at the checkout.”
Rosalyn nodded, happy to comply. Although she loved working in Nora’s store, the afternoon’s crush of customers intimidated her. She was delighted by the customers’ enthusiasm, however, and by their sincere interest in the wreaths she’d made, and in Loretta’s colorful rugs and Edith’s baskets. She poured the steaming, fragrant cider into the crockery urn and wiped its spigot, looking up when the bell above the door jingled. Six more ladies came in together, exclaiming at the store’s decorations and the array of pottery, walnut furniture, decorative linens, and Christmas items they saw.
“Oh, I have to have this star for my kitchen!” one of them cried out. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
Rosalyn’s heart hammered. Nora had encouraged her to mingle with the customers—especially to make conversation about the wreaths she’d crafted—so she made her way over to the lady who was admiring the star-shaped wreath covered with whole nuts. “Do you have any questions?” she asked shyly. “That’s one of the wreaths I made—”
“Well, it’s exactly what I’ve been looking for,” the lady said as she held it out so her friends could admire it. “I don’t want a lot of fussy red and green decorations in my kitchen, so this is just perfect—and it’s such a treat to meet the young lady who made it, too!”
Rosalyn’s cheeks went hot. “Denki,” she murmured.
“Do you have any others?” one of the other women asked eagerly. “I bet the greenery wreath on the front door is yours, too—”
“Jah, it is,” Rosalyn admitted.
“—but I’d rather have something I can store and use year after year.”
“I’m with you, Sandi,” a third woman in the group put in. “Live wreaths are beautiful, but you have to hang them outdoors. And when they’re dead, they’re dead.”
“Well, I have a pinecone wreath on this wall,” Rosalyn said as she led the group between the rack of patchwork jackets and the table covered with table linens. “And as you go up the stairs to the loft, you’ll see one with silk greenery and gold pinecones—the one with the dark red bow. The wreath beside it is made from ribbon candy and sprayed with sealant, so it should last a long time, too.”
“Oh, look at the silk one! It’s the perfect size to hang above my fireplace,” Sandi remarked eagerly.
“The bright colors in the candy wreath are so cute!” the friend beside her put in. “I want that one, please.”
“Do you take orders, dear?” a fourth member of the group asked. “I don’t want to be a copycat and get one just like Rae’s with the nuts on it, but could you make me a round one—maybe a little bigger? With a red bow?
”
Rosalyn was so amazed she could hardly think. Her fingers trembled as she jotted the information she needed for the larger round wreath. When the bell above the door jangled again, she forgot to breathe. The tall, muscled silhouette in the doorway could only belong to one man.
Why would Marcus be coming into the store? Let’s hope he keeps his attitude to himself.
Her cheeks prickled with heat as she stole glances at him, but she reminded herself about the business at hand. Several customers approached the cash register at the same time, so Rosalyn began removing tags and bagging items while Nora rang up purchases.
Nora leaned close to her. “I have the second cash register set up at the other end of the counter. Do you suppose you could run it?” she asked in a hurried whisper. “I know I haven’t had a chance to show you how it works—”
“I’d mess up everything I tried to punch in,” Rosalyn replied nervously. The cash register’s keyboard and electronic screen reminded her of Rebecca Oliveri’s computer—which might as well have come from Mars, as foreign as it seemed.
“Not to worry, dear, we’ll be fine,” Nora reassured her. Smiling at the purchase-laden customers in the line that snaked between the display tables, she called out over their chatter. “Thank you for your patience, ladies—and for making our open house such a huge success!” she exclaimed. “Please enjoy some cookies and cider while you wait for us to ring up your sales.”
Moments later, Rosalyn looked up in surprise. Her hands paused on the Christmas banner she was rolling in tissue paper. Marcus had stepped behind the checkout counter. He set something slender and silver on the ledge beneath the counter as he studied the other cash register.
“Do I tap in the numbers and hit Enter?” he asked Nora. When he touched a key, he didn’t seem the least bit surprised that the screen lit up. “This looks similar to the one I used at the auction barn where I worked.”
Nora beamed at him. “Jah, and once you’ve entered all the items, you hit the tax button, and then the total,” she explained. “I’m right here if you need help. Bless your heart for jumping in, Marcus.”
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