The Amish Blacksmith (14 page)

“Can't you come and do it?” Natasha said, frowning. “I'll send a driver over for you. And I'll pay for your time in transit. Both ways.”

“Thank you, but I can't—”

“I want you to do it. I haven't seen her this calm in more than a month. Eric was right. You have already gotten further with her than any of us. Please?”

I wanted the work. I definitely wanted the work. I liked puzzles—and January's condition certainly puzzled me. Plus this was a great inroad into the
Englisch
horse world. The problem was that I didn't have two hours a day to spend treating this animal. There was just no way I could take that much time outside the shop.

“I'll pay you double your rate,” Natasha said, thinking I was hesitating because of money. It really had nothing to do with that. And I didn't want word to get around that Jake Miller charged double to people who could well afford it.

“It's really more a matter of consistency,” I said. “I think January would be best off with shorter stretches of treatment several times a day.”

Natasha considered this for a moment. “How about if we brought her to your place? Eric told me you're working at a blacksmith shop on a big Amish farm. Surely there would be room to take her in there as a client.”

I didn't remember having told Eric the “big Amish farm” part, but it was true. There would be room for January over at the Kinsingers', especially once Patch was gone. Then again, keeping Trudy's Morgan for a few days was one thing. Boarding this fancy horse for the duration of her treatment was another.

“How about it?” Natasha prodded. “Can she stay with you while you work with her? I'd pay her board and feed. And if you need to hire someone to exercise her, I'll pay for that too. I want her to have your treatment, Jake. I don't want anyone else doing it. And I don't care how long it takes.”

Her solution left me speechless for a moment. All I could think was, what on earth had Eric told her to get her to trust me so completely, not to mention
so quickly? The horse show crowd was usually disdainful of the Amish when it came to their animals, probably because the Amish were primarily farmers, and farmers as a whole treated their horses differently than those in the show horse world treated theirs. To farmers, horses were just one more kind of animal, albeit a useful one.

People like Natasha, however, saw horses as all kinds of things: friends, companions, loved ones, moneymakers, symbols of wealth and prestige, entertainment, and more. Natasha had to know we saw things differently. Yet here she was, ready to send this fancy show horse off to an Amish farm, sight unseen, and entrust her to a mere blacksmith—and an apprentice at that.

It sounded so odd, though I knew she could put her trust in me. On the how-I-saw-horses scale, I landed somewhere about halfway between the two positions. I did consider horses to be a step above other animals, yes, but not so many steps up as to be our equals. Overall, I guess I tended to think of them as
employees
, with a job to do, and I as their boss. The way I saw it, like any good manager my role was to facilitate their efforts in such a way that they could work to the best of their abilities.

That's why I knew I was up to the task with January, and in fact I didn't think she could be helped any other way. It was obvious Natasha didn't want to be trained on the technique and take a stab at it, nor that her stable master had time to fool with it either. I wanted the job, but I had to be realistic.

“I'm not a professional,” I cautioned her. “I don't have a license or extra insurance or anything. If you bring her, I'm afraid it will have to be at your own risk.”

“If you want me to sign something, I'll sign something. I don't worry about stuff like that. At least not with her.”

“You're sure?”

Natasha gave me a nod. “She wasn't bargain basement by any means, but her price tag wasn't as high as some of the animals around here. If it makes you feel any better, let's just say I can afford this particular risk, relatively speaking.”

“I guess it could work,” I said slowly, which Natasha immediately took as a yes.

“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “When can I bring her? Tomorrow?”

Sunday was not an option.

“How about Monday afternoon around four? My last customer is at three.”

“Four o'clock it is.” Natasha said happily. “Do you require a down payment? Can I write you a check? Can you take a check?”

I smiled. “I do take checks, but I do not require a down payment. If you've a special feed you have her on, bring that along, and her halter and lead.”

“Will do. And how long do you think she will have to stay with you?”

I honestly didn't know. “Right now let's give it a week and see how she does. Then we can decide from there.”

“A week,” Natasha repeated, though I couldn't tell if she thought that sounded too long or too short or what.

“You can stop by and check in on her as often as you like,” I offered.

Moving forward, Natasha reached out and patted January's nose. “Taking her to another strange place won't make it worse, will it?”

I had to tell her that it might. “Sometimes things get worse before they get better, but I'll do my best. I'm optimistic.”

Natasha seemed to consider my words, and then with a nod and a handshake she left me to attend to the details with Ryan and Ted. Once we had everything worked out, Ted left as well. Before I was ready to go, however, I had one more thing to do. As Ryan waited patiently nearby, I went back inside January's stall and repeated the steps I had taken with her earlier, this time while standing on her left. I'd learned long ago that you had to work both sides of a skittish horse when you were with her, or you were only solving half the problem. By the time I was ready to go, January was more docile, and I had high hopes that she and I would get along just fine.

Ryan and I retraced our earlier steps back to the car. On the way, we again passed the riding rings, only this time one of them was in use. To my delight, the horse being ridden there was Duchess, and with a start I realized the rider sitting atop her was Natasha. Somehow, the woman looked completely different in the saddle, much more calm and relaxed yet also somehow intensely focused. I might not even have realized it was her if not for the telltale vivid auburn ponytail sticking out from the back of her riding helmet.

I paused to watch, fascinated by what I was seeing. They were in a canter, but then the animal slowed and began to do the strangest sort of step, an odd but rhythmic hopping-type action. Though the movement itself seemed completely unnatural for a horse, something about it was very compelling, perhaps because Duchess just looked so light on her feet, almost as if she were dancing. Horse ballet indeed.

“Incredible, aren't they?” Ryan said in a soft voice, from where he stood beside me, also watching.

“What is that, what they're doing? What's that called?”

“That's the piaffe. It's a dressage move. Didn't you ever see this on the Olympics?” Before I could reply, he chuckled, adding, “Oh. Right. Got it. No TV, no Olympics.”

Finally, I tore my eyes away from the bizarre performance and we continued on toward the car. As we went, I just kept thinking two things.

First, that the show horse world was a bizarre place indeed.

Second, that thanks to Eric and Natasha, my dream of owning a blacksmith and horse-gentling business had been fully revived in the course of a single day.

E
IGHT

W
hen I arrived at home, a horse trailer was pulling out of the driveway, and I realized Voyager must have just been delivered from the Stone Road Auction. Sure enough, as I climbed from Ryan's truck and thanked him for the ride, I spotted Amos and Priscilla leading the animal to the back paddock, probably to let him stretch his legs after his transport to the farm.

Though I would have liked to get a closer look, I figured Priscilla would appreciate some time alone to get to know her new horse. So instead of following them, I headed for the main house. I needed Roseanna's help with an idea for Patch I wanted to try. After that, my plan was to call Eric from the phone in the shop to find out what it was he needed to tell me.

First things first. I found Roseanna in the kitchen, kneading a bowl of bread dough, and I asked her if they had any old, used hats they could spare.

“What's wrong with the one you're wearing? It's in a lot better shape than any I may find around here.”

I explained I would be using them to help train a horse who had a fear of hats, and thus old and bedraggled was fine. That seemed to be enough for her. She finished up with the dough and covered it with a towel, and then she asked me to set the bowl on the back of the stove while she washed her hands. After drying them on a towel, she left me alone in the kitchen and
then returned a few minutes later with one very tattered black hat and three straw ones. I thanked her profusely, especially when she said she didn't need them back. Taking all four hats from her, I went back to the barn.

I rooted around in the storage closet until I came up with three garden stakes and a small tarp. Next came a quick detour to the tool bench, where I nailed each straw hat onto the end of each of the three stakes. Outside at the pen, I set the three hat-stake creations on the ground beside the fence, added to that the old black hat plus the hat from my own head, and then I covered everything up with the small tarp. I needed to keep it out of Patch's sight until I was ready for it.

Finally, it was time to get him. I went to his stall in the smaller barn, glad to find that he seemed to be in a docile mood. He didn't flinch as much at my approach as he had the last time I took him out, which told me we had made some progress already.

I grabbed some carrots on our way, and it almost seemed as if the horse knew exactly what we were about to do. I could feel him leading me to the pen, and once I latched the gate and led him to the center, he tossed his head as if to say, “Okay, I know the drill. Go ahead and drop the rope.”

This I did, freeing him to trot around the circle and work off some nervous energy. When he finally came to a stop, I just let him stand there for a few minutes, catching his breath as I spoke in calm tones, showing him by my voice and body language that there was nothing to fear.

He seemed to relax—until I reached for a carrot, which he clearly took as a signal that I was about to approach his flank. Smart fellow, good memory.

I hesitated long enough for him to calm back down, and then I continued forward.

Walking toward him, I noticed several important cues that allowed me to gauge his fear level. Not surprisingly, his tail was down, his nostrils quivering, his eyes wide—all signs that he was preparing for flight—but beyond that he didn't skitter or jump or paw the ground as he had in our last session. It was as if he wanted to bolt but was willing to wait and see first whether that would be necessary or not.

I reached him without incident and he snatched the carrot from me, chomping away on it as I stood there at his side and slowly ran my hand from poll to dock.

“Good boy,” I cooed. “Good, good boy.” And I meant it. I was proud of him. We really had made progress.

Returning to the fence, I retrieved another carrot and tried again, and then again, both to reinforce the behavior and to convince myself that he was ready for the next step.

Once I was satisfied, I crossed over to the pile I'd left by the fence, reached under the tarp, and came out with the old black hat. So far, this animal had only been tested with straw hats, but that didn't mean he feared
all
hats. My first objective here was to see how he reacted to the black one instead.

I gave a cluck to catch Patch's eye and then held up the hat for him to see. So far so good; he didn't react to it at all. Next, I tried approaching him with the hat in one hand and a carrot in the other. That, too, was a success. It wasn't until I took that black hat and placed it on my head that he seemed to grow tense. Though his reaction was nothing like it had been with the straw hat that first day, a few signs of increased anxiety were there, most notably the dropping of his tail.