Trudy’s Uncle Vernon was so impressed with what I’d managed to accomplish that he tried to pay me extra for it after all. I refused—a deal was a deal—but somehow by the time Priscilla and I were ready to go, the back storage rack of my buggy was weighed down with an entire flat of fresh-picked strawberries, five big jars of pickles and preserves, two loaves of bread, and a shoofly pie.
Priscilla had been quiet during much of the stopover, but as we drove away, I detected a sly smile on her lips.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, really. What?” I pressed. She looked like the cat that ate the canary.
“It’s just… well, I think Trudy has a little crush on you.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Ya, she does. And trust me, I would know.”
“Oh, yeah?” I asked with a laugh. “I assume you’re speaking from personal experience?” I expected her to laugh in return at my mention of her long-ago attraction to me, but she didn’t.
“Don’t make fun,” she said instead. “It’s not a joke when a young girl has her first crush. And yes, I do mean from personal experience.”
My laugh sputtered away. Had her little crush on me back then been more than just a girlish passing fancy?
“Oh. I didn’t mean…that is, I…I wasn’t making fun of you,” I sputtered. “That was such a long time ago, and I…” My voice fell away. I was just making things worse.
She turned from me, sighing gently. “It’s all right, Jake. I know you thought I was just a rough-and-tumble tomboy who hung around the blacksmith shop because I liked the horses.”
“But you were a rough-and-tumble tomboy who hung around the blacksmith shop because you liked the horses.”
“Yes, but that’s not the only reason I lingered in the shop.” She swung her head slowly back to face me. “I hung around because of you.”
And there it was. Though she’d been just a child back then, her feelings for me really had run deep—or at least as deep as they could have at that age. I felt terrible for having ridiculed her now.
“That’s so sweet,” I said by way of apology. “I shouldn’t have laughed.”
“It’s okay,” she replied, and then she grew silent.
My mind, however, was now racing with questions.
“So what was it that you…that attracted you to me?” I asked, unable to stop myself. I wasn’t fishing for compliments. I really just wanted to know.
To my relief, Priscilla smiled. Then she shrugged.
“You saw me,” she said.
“I saw you?”
“Ya. I was practically invisible to everyone, but not to you. You always said hello to me. Always. Sometimes it was all you said, but you said it. You saw me.”
For some reason, her words saddened me. Had she really grown up feeling invisible? “Of course I did. Like I told you the other night, you were a neat kid.”
She took that in and then continued. “As a little girl, I thought you were so nice. I guess as I grew older, it just kind of struck me one day that you had even more going for you than that. Like…” Her voice trailed off, and with a glance I could see that her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink.
“Like what?” I prodded, trying to keep my tone light but really wanting her to keep talking. “Go on. Don’t stop.”
She smiled, waving away her embarrassment. “Like, I don’t know…” Again, her voice trailed off as she seemed to dig around in her memory for an example. “There was this one time you came over to help Owen fix a busted axle on the family wagon. I was about twelve then, which would have made you sixteen. I remember I was sitting on an old tire swing in the front yard, just watching, and you had to pick up a big heavy pile of iron rods all by yourself. I’d already thought of you for years as Owen’s nice friend who always talked to me about horses. But that day, I don’t know.” She shook her head, a slight smile coming to her lips. “You were just so strong. And handsome. And kind. I’d never really looked at you that way before, but that day…I guess you could say you came to change an axle and ended up stealing my heart.”
She grew quiet after that, and after a long moment, I thanked her for telling me. I didn’t remember that particular event myself, but I did recall the time period, and how it seemed that little Priscilla had begun looking at me in a not-so-little-girl way. Somehow, I had never imagined that the tomboy could fall for anyone—at least not very deeply, especially given her young age. Clearly, I had underestimated her feelings for me back then.
Curious, I was about to ask at what point her love had finally begun to wane when I remembered the tragedy of her young life. That adoring little girl had been forced to grow up very fast, no doubt leaving things like childish crushes far behind.
I changed the subject instead, and to my relief, conversation flowed easily as we drove. Priscilla seemed more talkative than usual, and I wondered if that was because she was nervous about our destination. This wasn’t going to be easy for her, to see her mother’s grave. But until we got there, I intended to seize the opportunity and keep her talking. After all, just like with horses, the more I could learn about her, the better able I would be to help her.
In answer to my questions, she began to tell me about her life in Indiana and some of her relatives there. I could see she was fond of the aunt and uncle in LaGrange who had taken her in six years ago, but her eyes really sparkled when describing a beloved great-aunt who lived next door to her maternal grandparents, on a small apple orchard in Elkhart. Priscilla did not bring up the widower who was also in Indiana, waiting for her answer on a marriage proposal. I really wanted to know more about him, but I couldn’t figure out a way to broach such a personal topic, so I had to leave it alone for now.
Instead, I asked her if she’d made any decisions about staying in Pennsylvania beyond the end of the summer, and she replied that that was presently on hold, that she was still waiting for God’s guidance regarding why He had wanted her here in the first place.
“Any word on the nanny job?” I asked, thinking of our chance encounter yesterday afternoon when she’d been on her way back from the interview.
“Ya, they left a message this morning. They went with someone else.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s just as well.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really want it anyway.”
I reminded her of what Amos had said that first night at dinner, about how instead of getting an outside job, maybe she could take over more of the duties at home, freeing Roseanna to put in extra hours at the quilt shop.
“Ya, I was thinking about that too. I’d be happy to do it as long as it’s something Roseanna wants as well. I know money’s tight for them right now, and they could use the extra cash.”
It was an odd statement for her to make, and I was quiet for a moment as I considered her words. From my perspective, I couldn’t imagine anything to be less true. How could money be tight for the Kinsingers when Owen and I had a steady stream of customers in the farrier shop from morning to afternoon?
I said as much to her now, and her response surprised me. Though work was steady on the horseshoeing side of the business, she said, things weren’t going nearly as well over in the welding shop.
Kinsinger Blacksmith and Welding had always had more farrier customers than anything else, but I hadn’t realized quite how unbalanced the situation had become until Priscilla said that as far as she could tell, there was barely enough work on the welding side for two people. Considering how skilled both Amos and Mahlon were at what they did, that was a real shame.
She and I both grew silent after that as my mind was busy going over this new information. There had been a lot of times lately when Mahlon wasn’t even around, but I’d just thought he was off doing deliveries or something. Now I felt kind of dumb for not seeing this before. More than likely, he’d either been out trying to drum up more business or looking for a side job that might carry him through this current financial crunch. These thou
ghts concerned me, but I decided to put them out of my mind for now, as we were nearing our destination.
Once we crested the hill and the cemetery came into view, I could sense Priscilla’s body stiffening next to me. This couldn’t have been easy for her, and I half expected her to tell me to turn the buggy around and take her home. She didn’t say a word, however, and soon we were pulling to a stop over on the grass alongside the fence.
We climbed out of the buggy and then just stood there for a moment, staring at the rows of headstones. It occurred to me that she wouldn’t know where to begin to look for her mother’s headstone because she hadn’t visited the grave before. To look upon the long field of the departed and not know where to start would surely be daunting.
“I can help you find her marker,” I said gently.
She took a step away from me and moved toward the rows. “I know where she is.”
I stared after her a moment before suddenly realizing that of course Priscilla would know where her mother was buried. Sharon would be right next to Daniel. Priscilla had no doubt been to her father’s grave, perhaps many times.
I didn’t sense that she wanted me to accompany her, so I looped Willow’s reins around a fence post and leaned against it as my horse bent her neck to nibble weeds.
Priscilla stopped about thirty yards away at a section of the cemetery that enjoyed a bit of shade from a towering oak. I watched as she knelt on the grass in between two small, raised rectangles of carved stone. A gentle breeze toyed with the strings of her kapp, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was lost in the moment, her body perfectly still. She wasn’t close enough for me to see the features on her face, so I couldn’t tell what effect being at her mamm’s grave was having on her. I just hoped it wasn’t serving to feed any guilt she still had about how her mother died.
I wanted to give Priscilla enough time here, but as the sun sank lower in the sky, I began to wonder if we were lingering a bit too long. Visiting the grave of a loved one could be a good thing, a healthy way to find closure and be reminded of faith and our belief in eternity. But it could be a bad thing as well, an opportunity to wallow in sorrow and grief, nursing the ache of loss.
After waiting as long as I thought I should, I finally strode with quiet purpose to where Priscilla knelt, coming to a stop behind her. Looking down, I read the two stones, each of which held exactly four lines of information: name, date of birth, date of death, and age at death. I was aware of the fancy-type headstones that Englischers often used, but our cemeteries were always like this. Identical stones, identical listings, and nothing else. It was our final act of humility and community, to be buried in such a way that no headstone was ever more elaborate than any other.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded without looking up. “We can go,” she said, but she made no move to rise to her feet. Instead, she reached toward the stone bearing her mother’s name and touched her fingers to the etched words there, almost as though she were laying her hand on her mamm’s fevered brow. Then she got to her feet and, without turning to me, began to walk back to the buggy.
It wasn’t until we were pulling out onto the road that she spoke again.
“Danke, Jake. I know you had a lot to do today. It was kind of you to bring me here.”
“You’re welcome. Did you find what you were looking for?”
She hesitated a moment, causing me to glance over at her. She was staring out at the passing fields of green all around us. “I guess you could say that.” When she looked back at me, I could tell she had indeed found some sort of answer at her mother’s grave, but I had no idea what it was.
TWENTY
There was still about an hour of sunlight left when we got home, so I unloaded the pile of goodies the Fishers had given me, stopped at the main house to give Roseanna first pickings, and then headed to my cottage to put away the rest. I moved quickly, eager to get in some time with January before dark.
I worked with her again the next morning, making some headway but not nearly as quickly as I had with Patch. There was something different about January’s case, though I hadn’t yet figured out what it was.
On Wednesday afternoon, right after the shop closed for the day, I headed over to the back paddock where January and Willow had been sunning themselves since lunch. Rainstorms were in the forecast for early evening, so I needed to take advantage of the time I had until then. The paddock, which was really just an elongated oval, was bigger than the round pen near the barn that I usually used. My intention was to work with January there, watching her, walking the oval with her, and bonding.
Once I rounded Mahlon and Beth’s house and the back paddock came fully into view, I saw that Priscilla was standing just outside the oval, her arms bent at the elbows as she rested them on the rail. Voyager was at the water trough drinking, Willow was standing nonchalantly in the center, and January, a few feet from Priscilla, watched her from the corner of her eye.
January was the first to sense my movement. The horse raised her head, looked at me, and then turned away. As I came closer, Voyager noticed me as well, but only Willow came over to greet me when I reached the fence.
Priscilla and I hadn’t interacted at all since our time at the cemetery, mostly because she’d seemed in a bit of a funk since then. I was figuring out that was her way, to draw up inside of herself when faced with difficult situations, but it bothered me to see her dark and distracted frame of mind drag on like this.
I nodded her way as I let myself in through the gate, but she barely acknowledged me in return, so I decided to leave her alone for now. Turning my attention to Willow, I gave her a good scratch under her jaw. Just to be polite, I would have done the same with Voyager as well, but I didn’t dare bring on the disapproval of his owner. Instead, I continued on past him to January, who seemed skittish at my approach, but at least she let me close enough to grasp her halter and hook on the lead rope.
I began our session by spending several minutes there at her side, gently working my hands across the planes of her sleek body, from the front of her muzzle to the back of her cannon. As I did, I kept my breathing even and deep, my demeanor calm and relaxed but in charge. January seemed to respond somewhat positively, especially once I moved to her other side and repeated my actions again.
By the time I was finished and ready to take her for a walk around the ring, I glanced toward the fence line and was surprised to see Priscilla still standing there. What was she doing? Did she intend to stay the whole time?
Then again, I realized, it wasn’t exactly as if she were watching me. She was more just sort of staring off into the distance, her eyes empty and unfocused. Sad.
With a tug of the lead and a click of my tongue, I started around the ring with January, allowing the rope to loosen in my grip as she began moving along steadily at my side. I was glad to see that for the first time all week, the horse never once paused or jerked or showed other such blatant signs of fear. I could tell by her eyes and tail that she was still on alert, attentive to her surroundings, and scanning for any and all possible threats, but at least at this point she seemed to trust that I would deliver her safely around the ring.
After our second loop, it struck me that it might be helpful to see her from a slightly more removed perspective. Priscilla was still over at the fence, though no longer gazing off into the distance. Instead, Voyager was there with her, and she was doing that thing she did with her head, leaning in close to his. I hated to interrupt their little moment, but I decided to request her assistance. Not only would it help me in my work with January, but my hope was that it might help Priscilla too, by pulling her out of this incessant fog.
She didn’t seem to mind when I asked, and soon we had traded places, with her slowly walking January around the elongated oval track and me sitting on the fence, observing. She led the horse with less authority than I would have liked—pace uneven, path less exact—but at least it allowed me to observe the horse from afar. I focused in on Januar
y, looking for signs of anxiety or mistrust—from the way she held her eyes, nose, and jaw to the tension in her shoulders and hips to the posture of her tail. By the time they had made it three-quarters of the way around the ring, I was pleased to see that my efforts with the warmblood this week had netted at least some results. Her problem wasn’t solved yet by any means, but at least her progress was sufficient enough that I felt we could move on to the next step.
When Priscilla drew closer, I took back the lead rope from her and thanked her for her help. I assumed that at that point she would call to her own horse and they would leave, but instead she surprised me by returning to the fence and leaning against it again, clearly intending to stay and watch some more.
“I’m not sure if you want Voyager in here for this part,” I told her as I led January out to the center of the pen. “I’m going to do some pressure-release exercises with her, and they may spook him.”
Priscilla stared at me for a long moment, her mouth growing tight, her eyes narrowing. “Voyager is free to run to the other end of the paddock to get away from you if he needs to.”
Whatever that was about, I pretended not to notice the attitude. Instead, I just tuned her out entirely and got to work.
I started by pulling from my pocket a plastic grocery store bag I’d brought for just this purpose. Turning toward January, I kept my hold on the lead rope with one hand while I held up the bag with the other and began squeezing and shaking it to make it crinkle.
The skittish animal didn’t like that one bit, but I kept at it just as I had with the big rubber ball the other morning, moving patiently through the process of challenge, wait, and reward. This we did over and over until she finally began to accept the fact that she could trust me to protect her despite this crinkly thing between us.
Finally ready to up the ante, I gave her an extra carrot for good measure, retrieved my training stick, and hooked the plastic bag onto the end of it. Holding out the stick in front of her, I gave it a few shakes as the wind caught the bag and made it rustle even more.
The Amish Blacksmith Page 20