The Amish Blacksmith (13 page)

“Oh.” Ryan's laugh faded. “No, not at all. Gosh, Steffan Peters was almost fifty when he took gold at the Pan Am games a few years ago. And then there was that guy from Japan at the London Olympics—he was like seventy or something, wasn't he? Dressage isn't about age, it's about precision and training and having the ability to work with a horse in a really unique way.”

He explained how, in dressage, the riders communicate with the animals physically, using arm and leg movements. They train their horses to understand all of their different, very specific physical cues, and the best horses will respond by doing exactly what's being asked of them.

“When it's done well,” he said as he slowed and put on the blinker, “it's kind of amazing to watch, warmbloods or not.”

Ryan turned off the road onto an expansive paved entrance. He came to
a stop at an ornate wrought iron gate, reached up to the overhead visor, and pulled out a small device. A remote control.

“Welcome to Morningstar,” he said as he pressed a button and the gate began to swing open. When it was wide enough, we pulled through to the other side, and he used the remote again, this time to close it behind us.

He continued on much more slowly, following a long driveway that stretched before us, surrounded on both sides by pristine pastureland. In the distance stood a massive stone-and-timber home surrounded by smaller buildings in the same graceful style.

I must have sucked in my breath because Ryan laughed.

“Told you they were rich. And established, if you know what I mean. That house has been in the Fremont family for a hundred years.”

As we drew closer, I could tell that the entire place—house, stables, and grounds—wasn't just beautiful but perfectly manicured as well. I'd seen a lot of nicely maintained Amish yards where I came from, but none that was even close to being this perfect nor this big. We continued on past the house and down a ways, finally pulling to a stop in what looked like a small parking lot. As we got out of the vehicle, Ryan took a cell phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, and held it to his ear.

I assumed he would tell me where to go from here, so as I waited for him to get off the phone, I stood there trying to take it all in. The place was really something, even if it was over-the-top fancy.

“Not answering,” he said, shoving the phone back in his pocket. “Come on, we can leave the car here and just walk if you want. You can see more that way.”

We set out on a stone path which meandered past a covered patio, a gazebo, and a rose garden before rounding a hill. As we neared the top, I caught a glimpse of the stables on the other side.

They were huge, the biggest I had ever seen, stretching out like an elongated, one-story version of the house. On both sides were riding rings, one small and one big, though neither was in use at the moment.

We followed the path the rest of the way down to the stables, crossing another smaller parking area and going inside. As I stepped through the door, I was hit with a wall of cool air—a sensation so utterly out of context that it took me a moment to figure out what it was.

Air-conditioning,
I realized, and then I had to stifle a laugh. I was plenty familiar with air-conditioning, of course, as was any Amish person who had
been to stores or banks or other public places in the heat of the summer, but this was a new one on me. Air-conditioning in a stable? I couldn't imagine such a thing. I also couldn't wait to tell Amos, who would get a good kick out of it as well.

I followed Ryan farther inside, astounded at the beauty of the building's interior. Each stall was timbered in gleaming, treated pine. The painted, cement-floor alleyway in between the stalls was clean enough to eat off of, and there wasn't even a hint of the scent of manure. We passed four horses: a pair of warmblood mares, one obviously pregnant, and a couple geldings I assumed Natasha was boarding. Next came a foal and its mother, a russet beauty with a creamy star on its forehead. Nearby their stall sat a young stable hand on a bench, trying to untangle a rope.

“Natasha around?” Ryan asked her.

She tilted her head toward the nearest door. “Last I saw, she was heading out that way. But that was a while ago.”

I followed Ryan back outside, where a pair of workers were putting in a row of fence posts.

“Have you guys seen Natasha?” he asked. The two men simply shook their heads.

“Sorry about this,” Ryan told me as he turned to go back inside. “I know she's around here somewhere.”

I was about to follow him to the door when movement in the nearby pasture caught my eye. Glancing over, I did a double take when I spotted the single most beautiful horse I'd ever seen. It was a mare, solid white, standing at the crest of a hill. She was staring off into the distance, her nose twitching in search of a scent, her ears pricked, and her white mane and tail lightly fluttering in the breeze. I stepped closer, placing my hands on the split rail fence as I gazed out at her.

“Told you she was something,” Ryan said in a soft voice, coming to stand next to me.

“Huh?”

“That's Duchess.”

Duchess. The one Natasha was pinning her hopes on to win the big dressage championship.

“Well, the name fits. That horse totally looks like royalty.”

“Yeah. Too bad she—” He cut off his own thought midsentence, as if realizing almost too late that I was a consultant here, not an employee, and
therefore it was none of my business. Instead, he just whipped out his phone again and pressed a button.

While he stepped away to talk, I returned my attention to the magnificent horse in the field. For some reason, part of a verse from Revelation popped into my head:
I saw heaven opened, and behold, a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True.
Surely, the horse I was gazing at now looked a lot like the one the verse described. I couldn't imagine a scene more glorious.

“Okay,” Ryan told me, interrupting my thoughts. He put the phone away and gestured toward the stable door. “Natasha's coming. She'll be here in a sec. In the meantime, I'm supposed to show you January.”

“January?”

He took off walking. “The horse you came here to work with.”

It took me a moment, but then I caught up with him—literally and figuratively.

“I thought I was here to help Duchess,” I said as we moved back inside.

He let out a laugh, as did the girl who was still on the bench with the rope.

“I told you, man,” he said, shaking his head, “nobody fools with Duchess but the boss.”

He led me toward the end of the building, coming to a stop at one of the last stalls. Inside stood a dark, caramel-hued mare with a honey-blond mane and tail, a beautiful palomino. I could tell she'd recently been bathed and brushed, as there wasn't a smudge of dirt or waste on her.

The horse looked up at our approach and immediately looked away, one ear swiveled in our direction. She shifted the weight on her back legs from a resting position to a poised one, as though she were preparing to dash off if need be. I slowly approached the railing so that she could smell me and look at me again if she wanted. She swung her head from side to side and chuffed.

“She has some issues,” Ryan said.

“I can see that.”

I was about to ask him for details when we both heard footsteps. I turned to see Natasha striding toward us, Eric on one side of her and an older gentleman on the other. She held a halter lead in her hand, and though she was now in jeans and boots—far more appropriate for her surroundings, I thought—gold and diamonds still flashed at her neck, wrists, and ears.

“Natasha,” I said when she was closer.

“Jake,” she replied with a nod. She turned to the gentleman beside her and introduced him as her stable master, Ted Wilding.

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said, shaking the man's hand.

He seemed cordial but tentative, as if wondering what a mere blacksmith—and an apprentice at that—could do for this horse.

“And of course you know Eric,” she added, gesturing toward my friend.

I was hoping Eric and I might have a chance to talk once I was done here, but he responded by saying he was just on his way out. “I only stuck around this long so I'd be here when you came,” he added with a smile as he pulled a business card from his front pocket and held it toward me. I took it from him, a little puzzled until I saw that he had scribbled a number on the back.

“That's my cell,” he said. “I know you're not exactly a phone guy, but call me sometime. We need to chat.”

His words were accompanied by a meaningful look, which made me curious. Truth be told, I wanted to walk him out right now just to learn what it was he had to say. But I knew that wouldn't be appropriate, so I simply gave him a nod, pocketed the card, and assured him I'd be in touch.

Once he was gone, Natasha was all business again, stepping forward and lifting the latch on the horse's stall to open the door.

“Want me to bring her out?” she asked, glancing my way.

Before I could respond, the mare took a few steps backward, her eyes wide.

“Let's wait,” I said. “I'd like her to get to know me a little bit first. How about if we just chat for a few minutes so she can acclimate to the sound of my voice?”

“All right,” she said, though I could tell she was a woman who didn't like to be kept waiting.

“What's her name again?” Moving around Natasha, I took one step into the stall myself. “January?”

Natasha nodded. “The previous owner said she was born on New Year's Day. At first I thought the name was corny, but it's grown on me.”

I turned my attention to the horse and spoke in a calm, gentle tone. “Well, that's a nice name. Hello, January.” I took another step, but then so did Natasha—a little too quickly. In response, the horse lifted her head and seemed to zero in on the lead in Natasha's hand.

“How about you give the lead to Ryan? There's no need to use it right now. I'll just take a look at her here in the stall.”

Natasha wordlessly passed the halter and lead to Ryan while I took another step inside.

“How long have you had her?” I asked.

“About five months. I bought her from a top stable in North Carolina.”

I took another step and reached into my pocket for one of the apples I'd put in there earlier. “And when did the behavior start?”

“She arrived here a little skittish. I chalked it up to being in a new place. But if that's all it was, she should be getting better by now, not worse. The longer she's here, the more familiar this place should seem and the more comfortable she should be. But that's not what's happening. It's the opposite, in fact.”

I asked Natasha about the horse's feeding habits and how often she was exercised. I took another step farther in so I was just a few feet away from January's head. I took a bite of the apple to draw attention to its scent and then placed it in an open palm and extended my arm. January hesitated only a second before stretching her neck and wrapping her lips around the fruit in my hand. The apple disappeared into her mouth. As she chewed I placed one hand on her jaw and the other in the nose hold.

“What kind of life did she have with her previous owner?” I asked as I gently swept my free hand up the horse's head.

“She was competing in dressage and won a couple regional competitions. But then her owner fell ill and had to pull out of all that. It's been a year since she's competed. But she was well cared for if that's what you mean. She comes from good stock. And her coloring is exceptional.”

“She's a beautiful horse,” I said, working my hand up to the area known as the poll, just past the ears. Having swallowed the apple, which had helped to distract her, January was now fully aware of my touch. She shook her head, and I waited until she stopped again before I continued. I laid my hand feather light on the atlas muscle near her neck, barely touching her at all. I wanted the mere warmth of my hand, not its pressure, to show her I meant no harm and that she had no reason not to trust me.

I could sense that the muscles in her neck were tense, and as I moved down her shoulder to the scapula, the tension increased. I slowly followed her spine down to her hind quarters, stopping every few seconds to let her respond to me if she wanted to. I had read that a shake of the head, a chew, a yawn, even a long blink were all signs that my light touch was encouraging her to relax. She barely allowed herself the luxury of a blink.

Something was causing January to be constantly vigilant. She was perpetually in preflight mode, even though she was clearly eating a healthy diet,
was groomed regularly, and got plenty of exercise. It would take multiple sessions to get this horse to let down her guard and allow herself to trust me. I turned to Natasha and explained the situation.

“Are we talking every day, every other day, what?” she asked, nearly hoping, it seemed, that I could snap my fingers and make her horse better.

“Every day would probably be best,” I said. “I'm thinking her relief would come in small increments. I can show you and Ted some of the techniques I know. They really aren't that hard. You don't have to be an exp—”