The Amish Blacksmith (43 page)

As I had hoped, Eric was able to shed a little light on things. Just as he'd predicted the last time we'd talked, thanks to my work with January, other members of the Chester County horse crowd were now lining up around the block to get the contact info for Natasha's “humble Amish blacksmith” who also happened to be a horse whisperer.

“Natasha's a businesswoman to the core,” he said, “and she knows the value of in-house talent. I'm sure she'd be willing just to send referrals to you if you wanted, but she's going to try it this way first. I mean, think about how much more lucrative for her—and cushy for you—it would be to make your services part of what Morningstar Stables has to offer.”

I understood what he was saying, and while a part of me was flattered by her machinations, another part of me was bothered by them. Why hadn't she been honest with me from the start? Why offer me “assistant stable master” when what she had in mind was so much more specific than that? I liked the woman, and I respected her ability with horses, but I didn't appreciate being bought like a commodity, especially under false pretenses.

Before we hung up, Eric offered to do for me what so far Natasha had not, which was to circulate my contact information so that those who wanted to avail themselves of my services could get in touch with me directly.

“All part of the dream, man. Don't forget about that,” he said, and I knew he was right.

But I also knew that once Priscilla left, for some reason my desire to work with troubled horses seemed to ebb a bit. It wasn't as if I didn't want to do it at all, but more that I just didn't want to do it right now.

I told Eric I appreciated his help but wanted to wait on that until my apprenticeship was complete and I could make a more formal arrangement with my employer. Boarding the occasional horse so I could work with it in my off time was one thing, but taking in a steady stream of clients and using the shop phone as my point of contact was quite another.

It was my conversations with Natasha that finally drove me to write a letter to Priscilla. I'd been wanting to do so for a while, but I could never decide how to start it off or what to say. Would she even want to hear from me? Or was she hoping to cut all nonfamilial ties with Lancaster County completely, just as she'd done once before? Those were the questions that held me back,
but once I had a horse-related topic to tell her about, I figured I might as well give it a shot.

I penned my first note to her on a Thursday evening in July, just after the sun dipped below the horizon and a deep violet hue rose up in a broad swath across the orange sky. I saw it as I was walking to the cottage after a long and tiring day, and it made me think of Priscilla's eyes, those same eyes that could see things to which others were so often blind. That's when I knew I had to write.

Dear Priscilla,

I hope your return to Indiana went well. I know Amos and Roseanna appreciated your call to tell them you arrived safely.

I thought you might like to hear that January is still doing fine. Natasha called recently to offer me a job and said that the horse has never seemed happier. Remember the golden retriever that was there in the stable that night? His name is Atticus, and he and January have become the best of friends.

Sincerely,

Jake Miller

P.S. I didn't take the job, but it felt kind of good to be asked.

Of course, I wanted to be open and honest about writing to Priscilla, so before I sealed the envelope, I made sure to tell Amanda about it and offer up the letter for her to read. She didn't even bother, waving off the very thought and saying, “Of course
you
of all people are going to write to her. I don't care. I assumed you already had.”

Amanda's words startled me a bit. Why me of all people? Trying not to sound unsettled, I asked her what she meant.

She gave a grunt. “Don't you remember, Jake? You were the one who fussed at me for not writing to her myself the last time she went away. You were like, ‘Didn't you ever contact her? Didn't any of your friends?' You and I kind of argued about it.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, tucking the letter back in my pocket.

Later that night, on my way home, I sealed the already stamped-and-addressed envelope and detoured over to Lincoln Highway, dropping it into a roadside mailbox there.

In the days that followed, I forced myself not to ask if any mail had come to the house for me. I knew Roseanna would tell me if it had—though just to be safe, I sometimes paused at her little desk area beside the kitchen to glance at the current stack of mail.

Near the end of July, about three weeks after Priscilla left, I started the process of refinishing the wood floors in the second bedroom of the guest cottage. The first step was the sanding, which I did in the evening hours. It took longer than expected, but I found I enjoyed the work, especially the way I could lose myself in the repetitiveness of it all. Sometimes I could go an hour or two without thinking—not even about Priscilla or her challenge or the fact that she hadn't written me back.

I wrote a second time.

Dear Priscilla,

I thought you would like to know that Owen and I gave Voyager a new set of shoes today. He continues to seem happy here. He fits in nicely with the other horses, and Stephen takes very good care of him.

Write back when you get a chance. I know you are probably real busy settling in there. How is your Aunt Cora? How are the apples? Is it picking time yet?

Sincerely,

Jake Miller

Once the floors were sanded, it was time to put down the first coat of varnish. It went on smooth and looked great, but the fumes were so potent I ended up having to sleep over in the big house that night.

The next morning I came downstairs in the pearly gray light of dawn to start my chores. I stopped in the kitchen to get the coffee going, partly because the rest of the Kinsingers would appreciate it and partly because I hadn't slept very well. I was pretty sure Roseanna had put me up in Priscilla's old room, and the fact that I'd made zero progress on my promise to her—to somehow figure out why I always kept my feelings at bay—weighed on me heavily.

Thinking of her now, I decided to take a peek at yesterday's mail. While I waited for the coffee to brew, I crossed over to Roseanna's desk and, mug in hand, was startled to see, right on top of the pile, the very thing I'd been watching for—a letter from Priscilla.

Except it wasn't to me.

Instead, this envelope had been addressed to Amos and Roseanna. Though I was disappointed for myself, I was pleased for their sake. As far as I knew, this was the first communication from her to anyone here other than the one phone call she'd made upon first arriving in Indiana.

As the coffeepot began to sputter and fill across the room, I found myself gazing down at the envelope, thinking how pretty Priscilla's handwriting was—much more legible than mine, and more graceful than Amanda's or my mother's. My eyes moved to the postmark:
Elkhart, Indiana
. A place I'd never been. I couldn't even imagine it.

How very far away she was.

“Go ahead,” Roseanna said from behind me, making me jump. That, in turn, caused her to laugh. “Good thing there wasn't coffee in that cup, or it'd be all over the floor by now.”

I was embarrassed for having been caught poking into their business, but Roseanna didn't seem to see it that way. Before I could apologize, she again told me to read it.

“Go ahead, Jake. It's okay,” she said as she moved to the cabinet to retrieve a cup of her own. “Sounds like she's doing real well.”

I wanted to play nonchalant, maybe even offer a glib, “Nah, that's okay.” But the next thing I knew, Priscilla's letter was in my hands and I was drinking in every word.

Dear Onkel Amos and Aendi Roseanna:

Please forgive me for waiting so long to write back to you. It has taken some time to get into a good routine with my great-aunt. She fell in the bathtub the day after I arrived and fractured her hip. We were all very busy seeing to her needs and rearranging things at the house so that she could come home to recover. She is doing much better now, back to her usual jokes and banter, and she has told all of us to stop babying her or she will run away and never come back.

I've also been busy learning how to manage the orchard. Aunt Cora has ten acres of apple trees, a mix of Red Delicious and Goldens. Her father planted the oldest trees when she was little, and there are about five hundred of them, give or take, so there is much to do. My grandparents own the property next door, and their son—my mother's brother—and daughter-in-law help run the orchard, along with a hired man who works a few hours a week. But you might remember that my grandparents also keep bees and sell and manufacture honey, so they are quite glad that I am here and can take some of the work load off of them, especially during picking season, which has just started for the Reds.

I haven't had much time to socialize. I know I promised you I would make a point of doing that, and I will, eventually. Right now the days are full with
caring for Aunt Cora and learning everything I need to know about the trees. She sold her horse a long time ago, so my grandfather is letting me use one of his for transportation until I can buy my own. I miss Voyager. My grandfather's borrowed horse is forever in a bad mood. Daadi says he's just old and doesn't like change. Jake might find that funny. Once my time frees up a little more, I will have to write and ask him for pointers.

I'd better sign off here as Aunt Cora will be wanting her supper soon.

Thank you again for all you have done for me. I am sorry if I disappointed you by staying such a short while. I know you said not to worry about that, but I so very much want you to know that I did not leave because I was unhappy there. As I told you from the beginning, I was fairly certain that my stay would only be temporary. I am glad I felt God's leading to come back to Lancaster County, for many reasons, including the chance to visit my parents' graves and renew the hope that I will see them again in glory.

I am sorry for all the trouble I caused you when my mother died. I want you to know that I was not in the barn when she fell, as everyone assumed (and I never contradicted). Instead, I had been out on my father's horse and away from the house without her permission. Mamm and I had argued earlier that day and I was angry with her, so I snuck out of my room
when she wasn't looking. This is why I was so racked with guilt after that, because only I knew the truth, that had I been where I was supposed to be when the accident happened, my mother would never have died.

Now that I am older, I have a better understanding of God's sovereignty and His plan for our lives. He numbers our days, and for us to think otherwise is arrogance. But I am sorry I didn't tell you this before. Please forgive me for letting you believe something that wasn't true all these years.

I don't know if I will see Lancaster County again, but I hope it comforts you to hear that I am not the broken girl who left there the first time. I still miss my parents very much, but God walks with me in my loss. He did then and does still.

Much love,

Priscilla

I reread the part of the letter where she mentioned my name, glad and surprised that I had been in her thoughts when she wrote it. I also reread the line about not seeing Lancaster County again. And I read it a third time. It made me strangely sad to think I wouldn't see her again, ever.

I wrote to her again that same night.

Dear Priscilla,

This morning, Roseanna let me read the letter you sent her, and I thought you should know how pleased she was to get it. That was nice of you to take the time to do that, especially because you seem pretty busy.

As for pointers on that cranky horse, have you considered pfeffernusse cookies? Oh, right. That only works on cranky blacksmiths.

If I think of anything else, I'll let you know.

Sincerely,

Jake

The next day Owen was again quiet in the shop and distracted by his thoughts, but this time it didn't bother me. That's because I was distracted enough by my own. The truth was, I wanted to honor my promise to Priscilla, but I couldn't decide how to start. The obvious place to begin was with my mother, but I honestly didn't know how to ask her if something terrible happened to me when I was little that I either didn't remember or had put out of my mind. It seemed such an odd question to ask. She'd want to know what in the world brought it up, and I'd have to have some kind of answer that didn't take a week to explain. I also couldn't help but think a question like that would hurt her somehow, almost as if I was accusing her of not watching out for me or something. Perhaps over the weekend I could sit down with one of my older siblings, maybe Thom, to see if he could help me sort this out.

When Owen and I were finishing up the last shoeing job, I got out the broom to sweep up all the shavings while he tamped down the nails. I wanted to ask him if he'd ever been told he buried his feelings, but it seemed like such a ridiculous question. And he'd certainly want to know why I was asking. What would I say then
? Oh, your cousin Priscilla, remember her? She told me I dash away from any emotion that runs deeper than a rain puddle.