The Amish Blacksmith (11 page)

“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.

“Listen, Priscilla, I didn't mean—”

“To insinuate anything?”

“Huh?”

She grunted. “You said when you saw me earlier with Patch, you could tell I was doing something. Why not say what you really meant? You could tell I was doing something
weird
. Something nutty. Something a crazy person would do.”

I gaped at her. “What?”

“That's what you were thinking, isn't it?”

“No. Of course not. That's not at all what I meant. I wasn't asking because it was weird. I was asking because I was curious.”

“Oh, really?”

I stopped what I was doing, turned around, and looked her fully in the eye. “Yes, really. You obviously have a way with horses. As someone who also has a way with horses, I was just curious if that was a kind of technique or something.”

For some reason, my words nearly brought tears to her eyes. She looked down, blinking furiously as she mumbled an apology.

“It's okay,” I told her, wondering if she was always this way, if she felt every little thing in her life so deeply. She'd been here less than a day and had already experienced more ups and downs in that time than I usually did in a month—or maybe even a year.

When she didn't reply, I turned back toward Big Sam to finish my brushing.

“I just get so tired of it, you know?” she said finally, her voice so soft I could barely make out her words.

“Tired of what?” I asking, glancing at her over my shoulder.

Startled, she whipped her head up, and by the look in her eyes I had a feeling she hadn't meant to say that last part out loud.

“Tired of what?” I asked again, as gently as I could. I wanted her to know she had nothing to fear by being honest with me. I wasn't related to her, I
wasn't part of the reason she left Lancaster County, and I wasn't part of the reason she came back.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Of people pointing their fingers at me and reminding me how peculiar I am. I'm tired of it.”

It hadn't occurred to me that someone like Priscilla, who seemed so out of touch with those around her, would be fully aware of how she came across to others. I suddenly felt ashamed for how Amanda and I had spoken of her the night before. That's probably how everyone spoke of her.

And she knew it. No wonder she'd grown up to be so touchy. Just like a horse who was constantly in flight mode, Priscilla probably had to live her life always on the defensive.

“If I were you,” I said, “I'd be tired of it too.”

She stared at me, wordless, for a long moment. Given her surprise, I decided there probably hadn't been many in her life who had willingly validated such statements. After all, it was human nature to brush over those sorts of things and simply claim they weren't true. “Don't be silly,” folks would say. “People don't think of you that way.” But they did, and she knew they did. The fact that I'd been willing to acknowledge it, out loud, seemed to have a thawing effect. She visibly relaxed.

“I honestly can't remember a time when people didn't look at me as though I were from another planet,” she said. “Just because I like to keep to myself, because I'm good with animals, especially horses, and then all the stuff with, well… I just… I just wish people would stop paying attention to me at all.”

I had no idea how to respond to that raw and honest statement, but I did know that being good with horses was the one thing that had bonded us way back when, and it could be the common ground that drew us back together now. Once she was reminded of that long-ago connection and of how much I loved horses too, then maybe she'd let down her guard a bit and actually allow herself to befriend me again.

If that happened, then perhaps that would encourage her to relax a little bit with others as well and stop acting so aloof. Amanda and I would have an easier time getting her into the community of young adults in our district, Priscilla could finally make some friends, and my promise to Amos would be fulfilled.

“I think it's great that you have a way with horses, Priscilla. If you recall, I kind of do too, or at least that's what people say. Patch is here because he has some behavior issues, and his owner asked for my help. I know how
I
do it, but what's your technique?”

Again, I could sense her gauging whether or not to trust me.

“I don't have a technique,” she said after a long pause. “I can just tell when they're upset or afraid or bored or confused. They have emotions just like we do. And their emotions are different, just like ours are. A scared horse is different than an angry horse, which is different than a sad horse.”

That didn't sound so terribly odd to me. “So what were you doing with Patch when I saw you this morning? I really would like to know.”

She hesitated a moment before going back to her work with the hay. “I was listening to him.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. This had become very weird. “Listening?”

Priscilla huffed as though I had understood nothing she had said so far. “I was paying attention to him, to his body, his unspoken language.”

“Oh.” That made at least partial sense to me. I had learned how to recognize stress in a horse by noting the physical cues, but nothing in farrier school or my own experience had instructed me on how to hear a horse tell me he'd been abused by a man.

Priscilla tipped her head. “What?” she said, in an annoyed tone.

“I'm just… I was just wondering how Patch told you he'd been… uh, abused by a man. That's all.”

Priscilla shook her head and continued tossing forkfuls of hay into the open stall. Stubble flew everywhere. Was she not going to answer me?

“Can't I ask?” I said, laughing lightly.

“Can't you guess?”

I paused to sort through any possible ideas I might have as to how Patch communicated such a thing. I was stumped.

“No.”

“You think he whispered it in my ear?” she said crossly.

I couldn't help but laugh again. “Did he?”

Priscilla stood erect and leaned the pitchfork against the stall's back wall. “According to Scripture, only two animals have ever spoken,” she said, hands on hips. “The serpent, to Eve, and the donkey, to Balaam. Otherwise, it's not a part of God's plan for animals to talk to humans.”