The Amish Blacksmith

by Mindy Starns Clark

  She’d bought him to rescue him from the slaughterhouse.

  SIX

  There was no reason to linger once the details for Voyager’s transport were taken care of. I don’t think I had ever been in and out of a horse auction so quickly before. We left the stables to head back toward the parking lot, but we hadn’t gone more than a few yards when I heard someone calling out my name. I turned to see Eric, this time standing next to an Englisch woman and motioning me over to join them.

  I asked Amos if he would mind waiting and then walked over to join Eric and the woman he was with.

  She looked to be in her later thirties, and though she was attractive, her silky blouse and off-white pants were wholly out of place for the dust and dirt of a horse auction. Gold jewelry flashed at her neck and wrists, a gauzy scarf fluttered across her shoulders, and her shiny hair was a vibrant auburn. When I drew close to her, I could detect the fragrance of what had to be expensive perfume. The wedding ring she wore featured a sizeable diamond, bigger than any gem I had ever seen before.

  Eric smiled at me. “This is the guy I was telling you about, Natasha. Jake Miller. The best student in our class at farrier school by far.”

  Before I could object to his praise, the woman stuck out her right hand. “Natasha Fremont.”

  We shook. Her skin was smooth and cool, her grip firm.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  Amos had a number of Englisch customers who trucked in their horses for shoeing every eight weeks or so, some from as far away as Baltimore, but none who seemed as fancy as this woman. I recalled what Eric had said about her deep pockets, which I supposed wasn’t all that uncommon in her neck of the woods. Adjacent to Lancaster County, Chester was one of the most affluent counties in all of Pennsylvania and brimming with horse owners, trainers, and breeders, as it had been for centuries. No doubt, this woman was a part of that group, people who belonged to country clubs and lived on big estates and paid more for a single horse than I would earn in a year.

  “Did you find a horse for your daughter?” I asked, wondering if they had called me over so that I could recommend a couple of healthy options for them. I had seen some excellent Saddlebreds in the stalls that morning, older animals that had grown into gentle, mature beasts perfect for giving lessons to young riders.

  “Eric tells me you’re not the average blacksmith,” she replied, ignoring my question. “You’re a horse whisperer.”

  That we were so very quickly not talking about riding horses or blacksmithing threw me for a second. “Uh… well, it’s more that I have a way with horses,” I managed to say. “I’ve been able to gentle a number of agitated ones, calm a few spooked ones, and soothe a few nervous ones. That kind of thing.”

  “But you’re not licensed.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s just something I’ve read up on and been interested in since I was little. I have a knack for it, I guess.”

  She regarded me a second, happy with my answer it seemed, but surely trying to decide if she wanted to continue talking with me.

  “I have a three-year-old mare that I want very much to breed,” she said. “I spent a lot of money for her, but something is bothering her. She spooks at just about everything. It’s disturbing and disappointing. I can’t even show her to prospective stallion owners right now because she comes across so poorly. I’ve been around horses all my life, and I can’t figure out what’s up with her.”

  “Have you checked with your—” I began, but she anticipated my question.

  “I’ve had the vet out twice, and he’s assured me that physically nothing is wrong, and that it’s likely stress related. But for the life of me I can’t figure out what this horse could possibly be stressed over. I was just telling Eric about her, and he said he’d run into a friend here who had some experience with this kind of problem. I’d like to know if you will look at her.”

  Ever since my apprenticeship had begun, I’d been hoping for this very thing, for someone in the world of the Englisch to approach me to ask about therapy for their horse so that I could begin to make inroads there. This was the moment I’d waited for, but now that I had a prospective Englisch customer standing in front of me who had actually sought me out, I was tongue-tied.

  “Well, uh, I could… I could probably do that,” I finally said, sounding like a five-year-old.

  She didn’t seem to notice or care. “When? Can you come today?”

  “Today?” I echoed, now like a four-year-old.

  “I live in East Fallowfield. It’s about thirty miles from here, near Coatesville. You only need to look at her and tell me what you think. I’ll pay whatever fee you charge.”

  The fact was, it was a good day for me. Weekdays were pretty much out of the question unless I asked Amos for the time off, and I really didn’t want to do that. Tomorrow was Sunday, which belonged to God. So today would actually work.

  The way she was standing there so expectantly, I had a feeling she wanted me to ride back with them now. But I had Amos and Priscilla to think about, both of whom were waiting patiently for me to take them home. Not only did I need to do that, but I still wanted to work with Patch a little as well. And it wouldn’t hurt to give myself some time to collect my thoughts and mentally revisit everything I had learned in school and on my own. It also occurred to me that I would seem a bit more professional if I told this woman that the afternoon would be better.

  “Mrs. Fremont, I—”

  “Please call me Natasha.”

  “Okay. Natasha, I’m already lined up to treat a horse as soon as I get home, but perhaps if you would like to send a car over sometime this afternoon?”

  “No problem. Where do you live?”

  “We’re in northeast Gordonville, sort of between Leola and new Holland.”

  “Oh, sure. That’s even closer. What’s the address?”

  I pulled out my wallet and extracted one of my business cards, a bit worn at the edges from having spent several months smashed inside the billfold. Printed on my card along with my name and the silhouette of a horse in midtrot was my title—apprentice blacksmith—as well as the address of the blacksmith shop and the shop’s phone number.

  She looked at the card and then at me. “Apprentice?”

  I wasn’t sure how to reply without sounding defensive or immodest, but then Eric spoke.

  “Jake went to school to learn the job in depth,” he told her, “and not just to familiarize himself with the process like I did. Since then he’s been working at it full time. He is a blacksmith already. The apprenticeship is just to learn each facet of the business for when he eventually goes out on his own.”

  “Oh?” She met my eyes.

  I gave a half nod. That wasn’t exactly it, but close enough.

  Natasha studied my card again. “You’ve a phone?”

  “It’s in the shop. Yes.”

  “All right, then. Shall we say two? I’ll send someone to fetch you.” Natasha reached into her handbag and pulled out one of her cards, slick and glossy, and handed it to me. Printed on both sides in full color was an image of rolling pastureland and well-groomed horses grazing contentedly.

  Natasha Fremont, Morningstar Stables. American Warmbloods. East Fallowfield, Chester County, Pennsylvania. Warmbloods were show horses. No wonder the card alone looked as though it cost ten bucks.

  “Two o’clock,” I said.

  “Until then.” She stepped away from me, taking big strides, as if she were off to acquire the next thing she wanted.

  “I’ll catch up,” Eric called after her, and then he turned back toward me.

  “Hey, thanks so much—” I started, but he cut me off.

  “No problem.” He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “So is that the niece you were talking about?”

  He looked over at Priscilla, who was standing with Amos, still waiting, her attention on something far, far away.

  I turned back toward Eric and gave him a nod.

  Flashing a grin, he slugged
me on the arm. “You bum. I heard ‘niece’ and I’m picturing another eight-year-old like the kid I’m here shopping for. You didn’t tell me she was grown—and that she just happens to be super hot. Are you seeing her?”

  “Eric—”

  “Sorry, that’s right. Courting. Are you courting her?”

  I shook my head, trying to understand the emotion rising up inside of me in response to his questions. He wasn’t being disrespectful, really, and it wasn’t as though he was leering at her or anything, yet I found myself growing irritated just the same. More than irritated, I felt… what? Defensive? Protective? Whatever this thing was that was rising up in my chest, I swallowed it back as I did most strong feelings—especially those that were negative—and told him no, but that the girl I was courting was every bit as beautiful.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said, giving me a grin and a clap on the back.

  He told me he’d see me later at Natasha’s, and then we parted ways, with him rushing off to catch up with her and me moving much more slowly as I returned to Amos and Priscilla. Maybe Priscilla was beautiful, but that beauty was marred by a difficult, emotionally charged personality. Our time here at the auction had only served to make that more clear.

  “Trouble?” Amos asked when I reached him.

  “No, not at all. My friend’s associate raises warmbloods in Chester County. She has a horse with behavioral issues she wants me to take a look at. I’ll be going over there this afternoon.”

  “I see.” He gestured toward the parking area and the three of us turned and headed in that direction.

  “Warmbloods? What’s that? All horses are warm blooded.” The question had come from Priscilla, and it was directed at me. She seemed calm now, almost repentant, which had to be why she was attempting to initiate a normal conversation.

  I was still somewhat irritated at how ungrateful she had been to Amos, not to mention how she’d ignored the both of us for the past hour. When I didn’t answer right away, Amos did, with a glance toward me.

  “I think the term has to do with size and speed. Horses can be hotbloods, warmbloods, or coldbloods.”

  Priscilla turned her attention to him. “Huh. I thought I knew practically every horse breed there was.”

  “It’s a classification, not a breed,” I snapped. “Hotbloods have less muscle mass, which makes them small but fast, like racehorses.”

  “Jake’s right,” Amos added in a kinder tone. “Thoroughbreds, Arabians—both are considered hotbloods.”

  “Like Voyager,” Priscilla said, under her breath. Then, to me, “Voyager is a hotblood, right? I mean, his breed is Thoroughbred but his classification is hotblood. Ya?”

  “Ya,” I said, trying not to sound as irritated this time. I had to admit that her persistence and humble demeanor were slowly bringing me back around. For a girl who always seemed to want to look as though she knew more about horses than anyone, it couldn’t be easy to ask us—to ask me, in particular—such rudimentary questions.

  “So what are coldbloods?”

  “They’re bigger but slower,” I explained. “Like Percherons. Belgians.”

  “Draft horses,” she replied, nodding.

  “Ya,” Amos said. “We Amish need our animals to be patient and calm, strong and durable, so we usually go with coldbloods. They don’t spook easily, and they can be very powerful.”

  I knew what Amos was driving at, that Priscilla’s purchase today of a hotblood had been utterly impractical. I glanced at her, but if she understood his insinuation, she didn’t seem to care.

  “So if hotbloods are small and fast and coldbloods are big and slow,” Priscilla persisted as we reached the end of the cars and started along the row of buggies, “then warmbloods would be halfway between the two?”

  Amos shrugged. “Suppose so. Jake?”

  “Not really. The term ‘warmblood’ has to do with breeding. It takes something like five generations of equestrian sport bloodlines, chosen for excellence in dressage and jumping, to qualify as a warmblood.”

  Priscilla looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Okay. I get it. Warmbloods are for show. Except, what is dressage?”

  “It’s a type of competition that involves horse and rider working together to execute various moves, some of them fairly difficult.”

  “Have you ever seen it done?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

  “No, but I can imagine it. Some people call dressage ‘horse ballet.’ ”

  “Horse ballet,” Priscilla repeated, rolling the words around on her tongue. “Sounds beautiful.”

  “Sounds fancy,” Amos scoffed. “Glad we don’t have many dealings with show horses at the shop.”

  “You don’t?” Priscilla glanced at me. “So how do you know this stuff?”

  I shrugged. “I learned about it at farrier school. We were tested on the various breeds and classifications and types of competitions and things.” I didn’t add that I’d paid special attention to those particular lessons in the hopes that someday I could expand the farrier part of my own blacksmithing business to include non-Amish-owned horses as well.

  Amos seemed intrigued by that, and as we finally reached our buggy and came to a stop, he asked if there was anything unique to shoeing a horse for dressage.

  “The most important thing is that it be done very carefully and precisely,” I said, moving to Big Sam and giving him a welcoming pat before untying him from the hitching rail. “Dressage horses need free and even movement, so you have to work with that in mind. As a farrier, you should compensate for asymmetrical pasterns and such. You also use a more squared off shape for the toe, and make sure the heels are fitted full. Otherwise, it’s pretty much the same.”

  Our conversation drew to a close as they climbed into the buggy and I tended to the horse. We were quiet as we started off toward home, all three of us remaining silent throughout the ride, each ruminating on our own thoughts. My mind kept going back to my interaction with Natasha. I realized she hadn’t asked me what I charged for my services. She’d just said that she would pay whatever that was. I supposed that meant that cost didn’t matter to her, but I knew I needed to firm up an hourly rate of some kind. Or maybe a flat fee, depending on the health of the horse and how many sessions it might take to help her.

  When we arrived at the Kinsinger farm, Amos told Priscilla she could have the last stall in the bigger of the two horse barns for Voyager, who would be delivered later today.

  “Jake and Stephen usually muck out the—” Amos began, but Priscilla cut him off.

  “It’s okay. I mean, thanks, but I’ll take care of everything myself.” She shot me a pointed look, and I realized the comment had been directed primarily at me.

  Amos started to walk away, but Priscilla reached out with her hand to stop him. “Thank you, Uncle Amos. Thank you for letting me get the one I wanted. I will pay you back for him.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he said, shaking his head. He seemed glad of Priscilla’s gratitude but still a little flabbergasted at having bought a four-year-old former racehorse, a hotblood that had never done an Amish thing in his life.

  Amos continued on into the house as she turned and headed for the building that was to be Voyager’s new home. I trailed along behind her, leading Big Sam into the stable for a brush down after his long morning.

  As I worked, Priscilla busily checked out the stall Amos had offered her. I decided now seemed as good a time as any to ask her about what I had seen earlier that morning, with her and Patch. The only trouble was, I didn’t know how to start. No matter which way I phrased things, it would sound as if I’d been spying on her.

  “Here goes,” I muttered to myself, and then much louder, “Say, Priscilla?”

  From three stalls away, she looked up at me.

  “I couldn’t help but notice, uh, what you were doing with Patch this morning.”

  She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Patch?”

  “The horse in the stable next
door. The one in bad shape that you thought was mine.”

  Her narrowed eyes widened as she realized I had been observing her without her knowledge.

  “I mean, you obviously weren’t just hanging out with him,” I stammered. “I could tell you were doing something. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I left.”

  Priscilla pursed her lips and looked away.

  “So what were you doing?” I prodded. I really did want to know.

  “I wasn’t ‘doing’ anything.” She grabbed a pitchfork that was leaning against the wall and skewered a hay bale next to it.

  “I don’t mind that you were in there with him. I’m just curious.”

  She swung her head around. “Mind? Why on earth should you mind?” She tossed the hay bale into Voyager’s empty stall—with some effort—and snapped a tie with one of the pitchfork’s tines.

  “I just said I didn’t.”

  “And I just said why on earth should you.”

  “Because Patch is my business, not yours.”

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she just jabbed even more furiously at the hay.

  As much as I wanted to know what she had been doing and how she had figured out what she claimed was the root cause of Patch’s problem, this was way too much drama for me. “All right. Fine. Don’t tell me.”

  I turned from her and continued brushing Big Sam. I couldn’t believe how prickly this woman had become in the years since I’d seen her last. Where was the cute little kid who used to follow me around babbling about horses? She’d been replaced by this snappish, sensitive person who was barely civil. I wasn’t sure if she was that way with everyone or just with me, but if that’s how it was going to be with Priscilla Kinsinger, then the best thing for me would be to just avoid her. Which wouldn’t be too hard, considering she preferred to keep to herself anyway.

  I no sooner had this thought than I remembered my promise to Amos, that I would befriend his niece and show her around. There wouldn’t be an official youth gathering until next weekend’s singing, but some of the young people were planning to get together for a volleyball game at the Chupp farm tomorrow evening. Amanda and I were going, and I knew Amos would want us to take along Priscilla as well. I sighed in exasperation, knowing I had to set things right with her now so I could extend that invitation to her later.