The Amish Blacksmith (25 page)

“How long before you sent her away?” I asked. I felt bad for putting it like that, but I couldn't figure out how else to say it.

“About three months. Lorraine and I had been corresponding back and forth, and we finally decided that if Priscilla was not getting any better here,
perhaps she needed a change of scenery. The bishop and the ministers agreed, so we sent her off to my sister's with the hope that somehow she might find healing there. Heaven knows, she hadn't been able to find it here.”

Amos and I gazed out at the scene that had been the site of such tragedy as we pondered the frailty of life and the fact that none of us could see the future or change the number of our days.

“So when you asked me if she still blames herself,” he added, looking my way, “I wasn't sure how to answer you. I hope and pray she doesn't, but to be honest, Jake, I simply don't know.”

He turned then and stepped back inside the barn to extinguish the lamps. I remained in the doorway, watching the last of the morning mist disappear.

Such a sad, tragic tale all the way around. I could only hope that even if Priscilla did still blame herself, she might be willing to take a fresh look at the circumstances from back then and recognize all the errors in her thinking.

If she'd let me help, I realized, I would probably start right here. I would get Priscilla to stand in this doorway and look out across the grounds at the house where her mother died and ask how her fourteen-year-old self could possibly have heard her mother's cries from that far away.

When Amos again rejoined me at the door, I said as much to him, but he turned his gaze from the scene in front of us to face me.

“Priscilla wasn't in
this
barn, Jake. I'm talking about the other barn, the one that used to be down there.”

“Down there?”

“
Ya
. Between Sharon's house and the guest cottage, where Owen and Treva's vegetable garden is now. You don't remember it?”

I squinted, trying to think. “Vaguely.”

“It was Daniel and Sharon's barn, so I guess you wouldn't have spent any time in there. I took it down a few years ago after a wind storm damaged it. But that's where Shiloh and the petting zoo animals used to stay. That's the barn Priscilla was in when her mother fell down the stairs.”

I felt a tiny chill sweep through me at his words. Even in the dim light, I could see how close the buildings would have stood to each other. I felt certain that, had Sharon called out for help that day, her cries would have reached the barn.

I thought of last night, at the party over at the Chupps' farm, out back, when I called to Priscilla and she pretended not to notice.

I know you can hear me, Kinsinger
.

Yes, but I'm choosing not to, Miller
.

Maybe that was something Priscilla often did. Maybe it wasn't unusual for her to tune out people when she didn't want to hear what they were saying. Maybe she really had heard her mother's calls that day and simply chose to ignore them.

If so, then no wonder she blamed herself.

S
IXTEEN

I
didn't see Priscilla at breakfast.

Truthfully, I was okay with that. I couldn't mentally get past the sad notion that perhaps she
had
heard her mother calling her that day, hadn't realized the gravity of the situation, decided to ignore the summons, and learned too late at what cost. Her motivation would not have been malicious. Probably, she'd just wanted to be alone.

My prayer was that she would release any lingering guilt about what had happened that day, that she would come to accept that her mother's death had not been her fault, and that she would finally move past her grief, guilt, and pain, perhaps even to find happiness in the arms of a nice guy like Matthew—or maybe even the widower who was waiting for her back home. If Priscilla was anything like the horses I worked with and was harboring anxiety within the physical tissues of her being, then she needed to know it was okay to let go of what happened back then and move on. Perhaps at some point I might find a way to convince her of that.

Owen and I typically had a full day on Mondays, especially after all the spring plantings were in and people were back in maintenance mode, and today was no exception. Normally, from the moment he and I saw our first client at seven until we stopped for lunch at a little after noon, we were shoeing nonstop. Then, after the midday meal, we would be back at it until four
or so. We had developed a routine on our busiest days. One of us would remove the old shoes, clean out the hooves, file them smooth, and essentially get them ready for either new shoes or the same ones, depending on their condition. A good set of shoes for driving horses, with normal wear and tear, could last up to a year. The other of us would heat the shoes in the propane-powered furnace, pound out imperfections, and then nail the hot shoe in place. The nails were driven into the hoof at an angle so that the pointed ends would emerge through the hoof and then were tamped down so as not to snag on anything. The process typically took about forty-five minutes per horse, and we usually had three horses in the shop at a time; two being shod and one ready for his or her turn. Sometimes the owner would tie up his or her horse outside at our hitching post and come back for it later. Sometimes they waited and watched while seated in wooden chairs by our appointment desk. Most didn't particularly care for the aroma of burned hoof and the accompanying smoke from the hot shoeing process, and we'd see them duck out. No one complained, though, because hot shoes meant the hoof wall was the exact image of the shoe.

Owen and I also made sure that every horseshoe we nailed was properly clipped—meaning we hammered an upward turn at certain places on the shoe while the metal was red-hot, so that the shoe could clip on the hoof. A well-positioned clip helped to hold the shoe in place and allowed for greater stability on multiple kinds of surfaces.

Shoes were attached on the palmar area of the horse's hooves, which were very much like the human toenail, anatomically speaking, though obviously larger and thicker. Getting shod didn't hurt a horse any more than trimming toenails hurt a person.

It could be stressful for them the first time or two, though. That's why we always told our customers to prepare for their young horse's initial set of shoes by gently tapping on the hooves with a hammer to get the animal used to the feel and sound of the shoeing process. Some horse owners didn't shoe their animals at all, which was called letting a horse “go barefoot.” But even barefoot hooves still needed to be trimmed, just the way human toenails needed to be trimmed, especially if the horse wasn't active enough for normal wear to take place.

Among the Amish I knew, there were few horses left to lead a barefoot life. It didn't make sense not to shoe them, considering the role they played for a typical Amish family. Shoes for a horse meant protection, just as with
humans. Considering how much time our horses spent on blacktop, to not shoe them would have been an act of cruelty.

I learned in farrier school that no one is completely sure as to who invented the horseshoe—a very important device considering that a horse's massive body rests on hooves collectively weighing less than eight pounds. A thousand years after the birth of Jesus, bronze horseshoes had become fairly common in Europe, followed by the manufacturing of iron horseshoes by the thirteenth century. It was an old trade, which was perhaps one of the reasons I was drawn to it. It was a changeless art, done by hand, and unaffected—as near as I could tell—by the technology age.

When I was in the shop, even awkwardly bent over with the bottom half of a horse leg sandwiched between my knees, I felt that I was participating in something that never lent itself to the unknown or the frustration of thorny matters. It was simple. Constant. Blissfully uncomplicated for the most part. It fit my life.

I never wanted to be one to lie awake at night wondering how to undo the knotted threads of a problematic existence. It seemed such a sad expense of time. If someone like Priscilla took that as a sign that I lacked the ability to feel… well, at least I was happy, which was more than I could say for her.

Our last horse for the day was shod by three thirty. I was grateful for a few spare minutes before Natasha arrived with January. While Owen settled with the owner, I headed back to my cottage to wash up and change into a clean shirt. As I walked back, I was at once mindful of the space in between Owen and Treva's house and my cottage, where there was now a wide vegetable garden, potato patch, and raspberry bushes. I mentally took in the proximity of their house to the garden's edges. The barn Amos had told me about had to have been a small one, with just enough room for one driving horse and smaller stalls for the petting animals. Perhaps Sharon had moved their driving buggy and cart to the main barns to give Priscilla room to have her petting zoo here.

I heard baby Josef crying from upstairs as I moved past, and that sudden sound drove home the fact that if the windows had been open the afternoon Sharon died, as they were now, and if she really had called out for help, anyone in the barn would have heard her. There wasn't that much space between the house and the far edge of the garden. So either the windows hadn't been open or Sharon had been too badly injured from the fall to cry out for help. Or Priscilla had heard her mother but pretended she hadn't.

I feared the third option was the real truth of the matter.

As I was making my way across the gravel, I saw Priscilla walking up the driveway from the road. She'd been out. She saw me about the same time. Our paths would intersect; there was no way they wouldn't unless she decided to turn back. Her speed faltered just for a second as she also realized this. But then she continued toward me with even more directness, as though she was composing her thoughts. This would be the first time we'd seen each other since this morning's incident on the front lawn in her nightgown, so even though I was fine, she was probably embarrassed.

“Guder Nummidaag
, Priscilla,” I said, when I reached her. She stopped and so did I.

“Ya.
Good afternoon.” Her brow was slightly furrowed, as though she had a buffet of choices of what she wanted to say to me and wasn't sure which sentences to pick.

“Been out?” I said, trying to act as though I didn't know this was uncomfortable for her.

“Uh,
ya
. I… Treva told me about a family in Paradise looking for a nanny three days a week. I went to meet with them.”

“Oh. That's what Amanda does. For a family in Strasburg. She likes it very much.”

“
Ya
… I know.” She bit her lip.

“Did it go well?”

My question seemed to startle her. “What?”

“Your interview. Did it go well?”

“I guess. It's hard to tell. They said they have other people they still need to talk to.”

“Ah. Well, if the Lord wants you to have the job, you will.”

Priscilla nodded absently. “
Ya
.”

“In the meantime, I need your help with something, if you don't mind. Any chance you might be free tomorrow afternoon around three or four? I have to get Patch back to Trudy, and I need someone to follow me over to the Fishers' in my wagon so I'll have a way to get home once I'm finished there. I was thinking if you do it, then maybe on the return trip we could stop by the cemetery. If you still want to, that is.”

I expected her to look grateful, but instead she just nodded and said, “Okay. Listen, about this morning. I…” Her voice trailed off. She looked pained. I felt bad for her.

“You don't have to explain anything.”

At this her creased brow arched slowly upward. “Excuse me? You think I owe you an explanation? About…about what you saw this morning?”

“No, I said you
don't
have to explain.”

“I know. But by freeing me from having to give an explanation, you're implying I owe you one in the first place.”

I frowned, trying to follow her crazy logic. Why did every conversation with Priscilla have to be so difficult?

“
Is
there something you want to explain to me?” I asked.