The Amish Blacksmith (48 page)

Most of all, though, I just found myself missing Priscilla, painfully so, especially when galloping across long stretches of pasture. She would have loved every minute of it.

Dear Jake,

I am glad to hear that the job is okay and you are finally working with Duchess. Please let me know if I can help in some way. Maybe you should tell me a bit more about her.

You might also be bothered to tell me a little about how those long bus rides are going (hint, hint).

The weather here has been perfect for the apples—warm days, cool nights, and about an inch of rain per week—so everyone is optimistic we will have a good harvest this year. I've been surprised to find how much I enjoy working with the orchard, and Aunt Cora and I are getting along beautifully. As she has no children of her own, she has said that ultimately she plans to leave this place to me. I certainly don't deserve it, but I am deeply pleased and humbled at the thought.

Today I read from the book of Joshua and thought of you. In particular, chapter 6, verse 20.

Blessings,

Priscilla

P.S. I think of the fireworks too.

The days continued to roll along, fat with heat and humidity, the very air seeming thick with its own agenda. Each morning I left the house at the crack of dawn, boarded the first bus toward Chester County, changed routes midway, and then walk the last mile, arriving at the Fremonts' already glistening with sweat. My new routine reminded me a little of my time at farrier school, when I was around the
Englisch
for the better part of the day. I had forgotten how foreign that environment was to me.

Working for a fancy stable filled with rich clientele only made it that much more strange. In addition to having electricity at the ready for every function, including air-conditioning for the stables, there was a constant flow of buyers and sellers, boarders, and visitors, children and parents. The place seemed less and less like a farm to me as the days wore on, and more and more like a business.

On top of that, my Amishness remained a constant source of intrigue to just about everyone I met. It wasn't as if I could hide it, as my suspenders, broadfall pants, and straw hat always gave me away. Thank goodness for the refuge of those quiet moments when I was out on the pasture exercising the horses. No one begged to take my picture or peppered me with questions then. It was just me and whatever horse I was riding.

It was at those moments that I missed Priscilla the most. I didn't know what to make of the fact that I missed her, other than she had seen through to the very heart of me. How could I not find that attractive?

I also didn't know what to do about it. I was here, she was in Indiana. We were writing regularly now, but except for her comment about the fireworks, there was no reason to think she saw me as anything more than a friend. Why would she? She'd had a crush on me when she was a child, but that was ages ago. And she would not want to be with someone like me anyway, someone so even-keeled to a fault.

I decided I was a lot like Connor, the boy who had told her he wasn't good enough for her way back when. For him, of course, it had been a line, just something guys will say. But for me it was the truth. I really wasn't good enough for her.

But the strange thing was, the more I said this to myself, the more I
wanted
to be.

I memorized the words of the Bible verse she had sent, Joshua 6:20:

So the people shouted when the priests blew with the trumpets: and it came to pass, when the people heard the sound of the trumpet, and the people shouted with a great shout, that the wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city, every man straight before him, and they took the city.

For some reason, the first time I read that I actually had tears in my eyes. It wasn't as though I was boo-hooing or anything, but still. If my getting a little misty was a sign that I'd made some progress, then I would take it. I couldn't remember the last time I cried.

Please, God, help take down my wall.

I could see now that the process of becoming the kind of man someone like Priscilla deserved wasn't going to be quick or easy. People didn't become who they were in the span of weeks. Nor did they become someone different in likewise fashion. My prayer was that I would seek to truly please God, and that I would strive to live as only He wanted me to live. And that I would be patient.

If I could do that, then there was no limit to what He could do.

Dear Priscilla,

Thanks for the verse, more than you know. You asked about the bus ride. Here is something I realized on the way home today.

This whole time, I've been praying for God to show me the truth about myself. But maybe part of the problem is that my vision needs improving. Maybe He
has been showing me things all along. It's just that there are scales on my eyes and so I could not see.

Not trying to be profound, just something to think on.

Sincerely,

Jake

When I awoke on the Friday morning of my second week at Natasha's, I knew a few things for sure.

First, I knew I hadn't shoed a single horse in twenty-three days. I hadn't shoed any this week. I wouldn't shoe any next week. Or any week in the foreseeable future. A sense of melancholy fell over me at how my life had changed in so short a time.

Second, I knew I was making no progress with Duchess.

I needed to understand what was causing her problems, but because no one could get her to replicate those problems until she was in an arena, there was nothing more I could do to help. Except for that one particular startle response, she was already the perfect horse and needed no further gentling from me. I was a guy who liked puzzles, but I feared I had finally met my match.

The third thing I knew for sure was that as dark as it was outside, I was starting to feel even darker on the inside. The morning had come with a drenching rain, one that was supposed to continue well into the weekend.

My bus stop was less than a mile from the house, an easy fifteen-minute walk even in bad weather. Thanks to my hat and rain poncho, I managed to make it there while staying relatively dry. The morning slowly grew warmer, though, so after changing over to my second bus, I pulled the poncho off and set it at my feet. Between the grayness of the dawn and the rhythmic slapping of the wipers, the ride nearly lulled me to sleep. That's probably why, when I reached my destination, I wasn't thinking very clearly. As the brakes squealed to a stop and the door swung open, I grabbed my hat and climbed off, not realizing I'd left the poncho behind until the bus was driving away. By the time I finished my one-mile trek from there to the stables, I was every bit as wet as I would have been had I simply jumped in a creek and swum there instead.

My day didn't get much better. The horses were antsy from the rain, and almost everyone I came in contact with was surly and snappish—employees and customers alike. The only bright spot for me in the whole day was that
moment just before quitting time when the office manager came through the stable, handing out white, business-sized envelopes to each employee she passed along the way. With all of my taxes and withholdings, I wasn't sure of the exact amount I would be getting. But when I took a peek inside the envelope, I felt a deep surge of relief and satisfaction. Without a doubt, this was the single biggest paycheck I had ever received, and a great first step on the way to my goal.

To my surprise, when I got to the bus stop near home,
Mamm
was waiting for me with the buggy.

“You didn't have to come out in this,” I told her as I hopped inside and slammed the door shut against the rain.

“I didn't mind,” she said, but she didn't smile as she said it.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course. Fine.” Though clearly she was not fine at all.

And that's when it struck me. Whatever the unspoken thing was that had been bothering her since the day I moved back home, it had now finally come to a head.

I offered to drive, but she just ignored my words and lifted the reins, signaling her horse to go. He was a dapple-gray Belgian named Jasper and at seventeen hands the biggest horse my parents owned.

I settled back against the seat, my mind moving instantly into prayer. This was the moment I'd been waiting for for twenty-two days, ever since my first night back at home. It had to be. Why else would she come out in this kind of weather unless it was so we could have a difficult conversation in the privacy of the buggy, a conversation we couldn't have around others?

Please God, help tear down this wall inside of me.

“I know there's something you've been keeping from me, something about the past.”

She glanced at me, surprised.

“Whatever it is,
Mamm
, you can tell me. What do you want to say?”

She peered out at the road. “That I'm sorry.”

“
Mamm?
”

“I… I just can't let this rest anymore. I owe you an apology, Jake. Your
daed
would tell you I don't, but I know that I do.”

This wasn't at all what I'd expected. “An apology for what?”

She turned toward me, a sad smile on her face. “For looking the other way. For pretending I didn't see what I saw. I guess I thought you'd outgrow it. It happened so long ago.”

My pulse surged as I waited for her to continue.

“A few weeks ago, the first night you moved back home, you asked
Daed
and me a question. We pretended to not understand, but we knew exactly what you were saying.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that. And since then, all I've been doing is waiting—and praying you would decide to tell me soon.”

She nodded, her face looking far older than its sixty-five years.

“That night, you said you didn't have deep feelings, and then you asked us if you'd always been that way. That's what you said, isn't it?”

I nodded wordlessly.

“The truth is, no, you weren't always this way. Not at all.”

For several long seconds neither one of us said anything. The only sound was the clopping of hooves on pavement and the patter of rain on the buggy.

“You were extremely loving, Jake. Quite sensitive.”
Mamm
reached up with one hand to brush away a tear that slipped from her left eye. “The kind of child who was always taking everything to heart.”

I nodded, though I found it hard to believe. Priscilla was the kind of person
Mamm
was describing, not me. Even Roseanna said so, in those same words, that Priscilla “just takes everything to heart.”

Mamm
went on.

“When Sadie passed, your
daed
and I—we grieved so. We had not mended what was broken between her and us, and when she was gone, we knew we had lost any chance to do that. You wanted to understand why we were so sad, but you couldn't because you didn't know your sister. She was just a name rarely spoken. It… weighed on you how heartbroken we were. On those first few nights after we got word that Sadie had passed, I would hear you sobbing in your bed, and I would come to you and ask you why you were crying, and you would say that you didn't know. That's how tender your heart was.”

She swallowed hard and forced herself to continue.

“And then we brought Tyler home from the funeral, and you were there to witness every terrible moment of his grief. He doesn't remember much of that time. God has been gracious to him on that account. But you? You saw and heard it all. You saw his sorrow. His anger. His tantrums. His fear. And I was glad he had you there with him, that he didn't have to be all alone. I never once stopped to think how hard it would be for someone as compassionate as you to be present for that kind of suffering.”

She pulled the buggy to the side of the road and gave way to her own tears.

“I'm so sorry, Jake. I should have known something was wrong a few
months later when I realized you'd stopped crying for him, for us. You just… stopped. It was as though you decided then and there that it was all too much and you were never going to allow yourself to feel that deeply for anyone or anything again. I was so engrossed in my own grief and caring for my grandson that I didn't think how dangerous it was for you to do that. I just… I just was glad there was one less sad person in the house. I am so sorry. I should have done something.”

I sat there in the cab of the buggy, listening to my mother's sobs as I tried to grasp her words.

“There was nothing you
could
do,
Mamm
,” I managed to utter. “Don't be so hard—”

“Of course there was. I could have sent you over to stay with Sarah and Jonas for a while. I could have paid more attention to what was happening inside your little heart instead of focusing so exclusively on Tyler's pain and on ours. At the very least—the
very
least—I should have moved you out of that bedroom and put you in with Peter instead. At least then you wouldn't have had a front row seat, night after night, to the pain of a child who had lost his mother and his father and his home practically all in one day. ”