The Amish Blacksmith (10 page)

“I doubt he'll want to pull a cart,” Amos said, after I'd inspected his hooves and legs and determined he was in adequate health.

But Priscilla wasn't listening. She was at the horse's head, letting him nervously nuzzle her hand and familiarize himself with her voice and scent.

“Something tells me that's not going to be a problem,” I said. Priscilla hadn't bought that horse to pull a cart.

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

S
IX

T
here 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.