A Little Bit of Charm (3 page)

Beth shrugged. “
Grossmammi
is going to be miffed, even more so than she was about us attending the wedding unchaperoned.” She shivered dramatically, as though picturing their grandmother's seldom-displayed temper.

“True enough. That's why I wrote her a long letter to explain as best as I could.” Rachel withdrew a sealed envelope from her purse. “Will you give her this when you get home?”

Beth stared at the white envelope and nodded. “
Jah
, I suppose. But maybe I'll just lay it on the kitchen table and hide in the barn until the steam clears. What about Amy?”

Rachel patted her bag. “I wrote her a letter too. I'll post it the first chance I get. I told Nora last night after the wedding. She seemed to understand.”

“Then it's all decided.”

Her plaintive words of resignation cut Rachel like a blade. She wrapped her arms around her little sister, enfolding her in a hug. “You can come visit me once I'm settled. And I promise to come home to Mount Joy too. We'll always be sisters, Beth. Never forget that.” The rocking bus, the chatter from other travelers, the scenery passing at breakneck speed, all faded away. Rachel was only aware of the skinny fourteen-year-old she held in her arms and how much she would miss her.

“St. Louis,” the bus driver barked into the loudspeaker.

Everyone jumped up to pull luggage from overhead bins and collect belongings from the seat and floor. Rachel felt Beth shrink by her side. “Don't be frightened. You're a smart girl. You have your directions, plenty of food, and money in your purse. Just remember what
mamm
used to say: ‘You're never alone in life. God is always with you. So close your eyes and let Him fill your heart.'”

Whether her words did any good, Rachel would never know. Beth was quiet during their walk to the train station and said little as they sat eating sandwiches and fruit, waiting for the next train to Chicago—the hub of the Midwest.

Feeling as low as a crawfish on a river bottom, Rachel went with her sister to the turnstiles. She handed her the tote bag of sandwiches and snacks. “Don't lose your ticket. And don't be afraid to ask questions of kind-looking ladies.”

“Promise me you'll write.” Beth's green eyes were round as silver dollars and just as shiny.

“Twice a week, every week. And because Sarah is Old Order Mennonite and not Amish, she has a phone in her house. I wrote her number on your directions. You can always call from the phone shed if you're dying to hear my voice.”

Beth laughed. “Most likely twice-a-week letters will fill my need for sisterly companionship. Don't go too sappy on me.”

True to the youngest sibling's style, Beth had already adjusted to the change, disappointment rolling off her like water off a duck's back. Rachel was able to watch her board the train for home without melting into a puddle of sorrow and indecision. Home—Mount Joy, Pennsylvania—didn't feel much like home since she'd spotted flames leaping high into the starry sky and smelled the acrid smoke that had filled her lungs and then her soul.

That night she dozed fitfully in the train station's lounge per the advice of Jonas Gingerich. More people would be milling about there than in the bus station, where she returned at first light. She
washed her face and hands and brushed her teeth in the restroom. She bought a bagel and cream cheese and pint of cold milk.

By the time Rachel boarded the bus to Louisville, excitement had built in her blood like an herbalist's tonic. She couldn't keep from grinning as they crossed first into Illinois, then Indiana, and finally into Kentucky. She thought even the air smelled different.

She arrived in Elizabethtown by late afternoon and called the number provided by her cousin Sarah. A hired driver, a sweet woman named Michelle, picked her up within two hours and drove through Charm before arriving at the Stolls' farm. A historic courthouse with clock tower soaring into the clouds dominated the town square. Stately elms and oaks spread their limbs far and wide, shading the stone walkways and park benches, where elderly men reminisced and young mothers pushed baby strollers. There was a second, new courthouse, along with the sheriff's department, café, furniture shop, post office, pizza shop, and an ice cream parlor. What more did a body need? Two white church steeples loomed above the housetops. Rachel wished she could take a photograph to send to Beth, but, of course, she'd never used or owned a camera in her life.

Charm—the name said it all. Rachel was so eager for a fresh start that she almost broke into song.

Jake Brady climbed up on his favorite gelding and spent the early morning riding the fence line—his favorite chore. But any time spent in the saddle wasn't work to him. He loved to ride, enjoying solitude away from his three younger siblings while checking the boundaries of their twelve-hundred-acre horse farm. Up and down the hills and valleys he rode, while the sun warmed his back and a sweet breeze cooled his skin. Acre upon acre of thick grass rolled for as far as the eye could see. Green grass, not blue,
no matter how he squinted or gazed sideways. He wondered if the large Thoroughbred operations around Lexington and Louisville used certain fertilizers or maybe tourists bought special sunglasses at the mall. Because regardless of the season, the pastures at Twelve Elms Stables were the same green as those in Indiana or Ohio.

No matter. Grass color wouldn't make an ounce of difference considering the yearling his family now owned. That colt showed more spirit and heart than any horse Jake had ever bred and raised. With the right trainer, Twelve Elms could have a contender. In another year, they could race him at Keeneland in a stakes race for two-year-olds. It would begin the grand march leading up to the Kentucky Derby on the first Saturday in May—every May since 1875. Jake felt a jolt of electricity in his belly each time they watched the race on TV. Lately, he'd been going to the Derby and camping out in the infield with his friends. Sitting in lawn chairs, they would study racing forms and stats for hours to pick their personal favorites. His dad, a devout Baptist, frowned on gambling, but every now and then Jake placed a two-dollar bet to win. Always to win—never to place or show. Second or third place wasn't good enough. Folks only remembered the names of winners. With Eager to Please, they would have their chance to make history. And with what they had to pay in stud fees to sire the colt, it would be the only chance they would ever get.

Arriving back at home, Jake stabled his horse and then showered in the bathroom off the utility room before strolling into the kitchen, whistling. Ken Brady sat at the kitchen table, hunched over his ledgers.

“How's it going, Dad?” Jake asked as he made a beeline for the coffeemaker.

“Fine, son. All fencing secure?”

“Right as rain.” Jake added sugar and a bit of milk to his mug and then settled across the table. Twelve Elms had miles of fences—split rail along the roadways, which were pleasant to look
at but hard to maintain—and solar-powered battery-fed electric wire everywhere else.

“Your mom left sausage gravy and a pan of biscuits before she left for work. Just needs to be heated.”

Jake scrambled up to light the burner under the skillet and pull the pan of buttermilk biscuits from the oven. “Aren't you eating?” he asked his father before biting into a flakey piece of heaven.

“Not much appetite today.” Ken pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose, but his focus remained on the ledgers.

Jake noticed dark circles beneath his dad's eyes and a neat row of furrows across his forehead. “What's wrong? Has something happened?”

“Business as usual.” Ken met Jake's gaze over his coffee cup. “The Harts and the Lanskys won't be boarding their horses here after the first of the month. Mr. Lansky has been transferred to California, so the family will be moving. And Jeff Hart lost his job at the lumberyard. They had already been having trouble paying their bills because his wife took sick. Now they've decided to sell their daughter's Saddlebred and stop her lessons.”

“Little Maddy will throw a fit. That child is used to getting her own way.”

“Unfortunately, English saddle and dressage are luxuries families can't afford on unemployment compensation. Little Maddy will have to get over it.” Ken gazed out the kitchen window to where their employees were cutting a field of oats to be ground into winter horse feed. His blue eyes looked paler than usual, as though worry had bleached the color right out of them. Jake's father was aging before his time.

“People move away and new folks come to take their place. Little girls will always love horses and talk their dads into lessons and then a horse of their own.” Jake tipped up his mug to drain the last drop of coffee.

Ken walked to the stove for a refill. “Yeah, but all of that costs
money. The trouble is when a factory closes its doors in Casey County and lays off workers with no other business opening up to take its place. Without jobs people don't move here. And without our boarding, riding lessons, and trail ride income, we'll be forced to cut our own staff.”

Jake swallowed down a sour taste in his mouth. Why did his dad always have to look on the negative side of everything? You didn't see big-time owners and trainers creeping around the horse auctions with hangdog expressions. They held their head high, walked with confidence, and left the bean counting to the accountants. They had learned a cardinal rule—success breeds success. If you acted like a winner and had faith in what you were doing, you had a chance at the garland of roses, but if you fretted and moaned and dealt with your peers like a scared rabbit, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. “Like the preacher tells you every Sunday morning, you gotta have faith, Dad.”

Ken turned his watery blue gaze on his son. “My faith in the Lord never wavers, Jake. I'm just not so sure about our recent business decision.” He took one cold biscuit from the pan and slathered on some soft butter. “We paid a king's ransom to have Pretty in Pink bred with Man of His Word. We're lucky the insemination took hold. That kind of money and no guarantees…” Ken clucked his tongue.

“The best things in life seldom come with one.” Jake mopped up the last of the sausage gravy with his third biscuit. “But now that we have Eager to Please, it's time to step up to the plate.”

“I'm not sure I understand how a baseball analogy applies to our situation.”

Jake sucked in a deep breath. “That colt has more spirit than any other horse in the stable. He practically eats his body weight in feed every day and grows stronger by the week, but I'm not a skilled horse trainer, Dad. I know my limits. Bloodlines like his
deserve a professional trainer who can take Eager to Please all the way to the top in two years.”

“Did you drink some bad apple cider? Big-buck horsemen work out of Louisville and Lexington for a very good reason. Those owners have checkbook balances in the six figures. In case you haven't noticed, we give tours to busloads of senior citizen groups to generate income, and your mom has signed up to work weekends for the extra pay.” Ken laughed as though Jake had told a good joke. “You're a fine trainer, son. Don't sell yourself short. Maybe one of those big names has written a book filled with pointers, but you'd better check the book out at the library instead of buying it at Barnes and Noble. Our checkbook balance is barely three figures.” Ken rinsed his cup and plate and placed them in the dishwasher. “I'll be at the computer in my office if you need me.” He shuffled toward the door.

Jake bit back a reply and rose to his feet. Losing his temper with his mild-mannered father had never gotten him anywhere in the past and wouldn't help now. He grabbed his hat from the rack and went in search of his sister. If he couldn't win Jessie to his side, he didn't stand a chance. And Eager to Please would never win anything better than “best in show” at the Casey County fair.

“Let me get this straight. You want Mom and Dad to take out a second mortgage on our farm to hire somebody to do
your job
?” His twenty-year-old sister, the second oldest sibling, stood in a horse stall in knee-high rubber boots with a shovel in her hand.

Jake thought it wise to grab another shovel and start filling the cart with soiled wood shavings as well. “Let's call it a business loan, not a mortgage. Only a professional trainer will know the ins and outs of the national racing circuit. He'll know which races are mandatory for a two-year-old to enter and how to get our colt ready to compete.” Jake kept shoveling while he talked, not daring to meet Jessie's eye. “We don't have to hire a top level trainer, but it takes
money to make money. Cinderella didn't go to the ball wearing homespun sackcloth. She was dressed and ready to take her shot at winning the prince.” He grinned, pleased he had alluded to his sister's fondness for fairy tales. When he glanced over at her, Jessie was leaning on her shovel, smirking.