by Mary Ellis
His mother, who usually kept a low profile during stable business, murmured four deadly words regarding her husband’s sole possible solution to their financial situation: “Good grief, another mortgage?”
Jake stated his argument succinctly. After all, he was a former member of the Charm high school debate team. While he made his case, his mother nibbled her cereal and his dad stoically remained quiet. Afterward, Virgil and Keeley shrugged their shoulders in typical teen fashion. They seldom formed opinions except for which video games to purchase or what movies to watch on family movie night. Jake waited, barely able to draw breath.
Finally, Jessie set down the spoon and cleared her throat. “Well, since we paid all that money to sire the colt, we might as well go the distance. It’s too bad Jake feels unable to train the horse by himself.”
He might have hoped for a bit more confidence in his plan and diplomacy from his sister, but at least she had voiced her support. “Thanks, Jess.”
“I’ll come home weekends to keep giving tours. That will bring in some income until winter.” She shot a smile in his direction.
Virgil poured more cornflakes into his bowl. “I don’t know what I can do other than my chores.”
Keeley propped her head on her hand, fighting off sleep. “You can have my babysitting money to help pay this guy.”
Taylor looked at her husband, meeting his gaze without speaking.
Ken opened his palms. “Just to make sure everyone understands the consequences involved, to pay this second mortgage we’ll have to cut our budget down to basics. It could work to our advantage in the end, but there are no guarantees a pro can take the colt all the way to the winner’s circle. If Eager to Please fails to measure up, we might lose the farm to the bank and have to rent a house somewhere.”
“That would be the worst-case scenario,” said Jake, grinding down on his back teeth.
No one spoke. No one moved except for Virgil and Keeley, who continued to eat as though it were any other weekday breakfast. “If there is no more discussion,” said Ken, “may I see the hands of those who wish this family to go deeper into debt to improve Eager to Please’s chances as a three-year-old?”
Jake’s hand shot up first, followed by Jessie’s, and, after a moment, Virgil’s. Keeley peered from one of her siblings to the next, a little surprised. But because she seldom disagreed with her brothers and sister, she lifted her arm.
“Those opposed?” asked Ken. Taylor joined her husband in opposition. “As your parents, we could override this vote because we bear the financial responsibility for the family, but we won’t.” He met Jake’s eye. “There comes a time when a man needs to follow his gut instinct and his dreams. You have your chance, son. Use it wisely. Start checking the availability of good trainers who are willing to move to Charm.”
“Thanks, Mom and Dad,” he croaked, oddly choked up.
There was no need for more speeches. A much paler Ken Brady reached for his Cincinnati Reds ball cap and strode out the back door. His mother scraped the rest of her breakfast into the garbage disposal and left for her morning run. Taking a few deep breaths, Jake headed to the computer in their office on legs wobbly with excitement.
THREE
I once was lost, but now am found
People didn’t get any nicer than Sarah and Isaac Stoll. Especially Sarah. Rachel had been a guest at their farm for two days, and she had yet to do farm chores around the place. Now she was on her way to take the tour of Twelve Elms Stables in Sarah’s buggy, but at least she’d washed the dishes and swept the kitchen before leaving.
“You won’t know if Twelve Elms would be a good place to work unless you see it for yourself,” declared Sarah that morning.
Rachel hugged Sarah so hard she yelped like a dog. “Goodness, you Lancaster folk are a hugging sort, jah?” Sarah squirmed to escape.
“It’s me, not the whole county. I like to show my gratitude.”
“A simple danki will suffice. I pity the poor man or woman who offers you a job if that’s how you react to the loan of a horse and buggy.” She laughed good-naturedly.
“I try to control myself with strangers,” Rachel said, smoothing her palms down her skirt.
“See that you do. If you like the looks of this stable, why not ask if they’re hiring? Here are two bottles of water and a ham sandwich for your lunch. Be on your way before you miss the tour.” Sarah practically pushed her out the door.
In case I like the place? What was not to like? A beautiful split rail fence enclosed rolling pastures for half a mile before Rachel reached the entrance of Twelve Elms. The driveway was wide enough for two cars to pass side by side or, in her case, one tour bus and one horse-drawn buggy.
Avoiding the main parking lot for obvious reasons, Rachel tied her horse to a tree in a grassy area, hung a feed bag around his neck, and gave him a bucket of water—all supplied by Isaac Stoll. She hurried to join a group of people with name tags clustered in the shade. “Are you folks waiting for the tour?” she asked.
“We are,” answered a gray-haired woman who stared at her attire. “Are you Amish?”
“I am. Is this where we buy the tickets?”
“It is,” said the woman. “Are you interested in horses?”
“I am.” Rachel blushed to her earlobes, embarrassed by her string of two-word answers, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Fortunately, a pretty woman and a young girl walked down the steps of a building marked “Office.” They approached the group with very white smiles.
“Good afternoon,” greeted the older of the two. “I’m Jessie Brady. Welcome to Twelve Elms. If you’re here for the tour, please pay my assistant—also known as my sister, Keeley—six dollars and then climb aboard the red wagon.” She pointed at a conveyance that contained at least twenty benches. With open sides and twin Belgians harnessed to the slats, the wagon had a charming Conestoga cover to keep the hot sun off passengers’ heads.
After paying the little girl her money, Rachel climbed up with forty other eager tourists. While they rode up and down lanes separating fenced pastures from fields of oats, barley, hay, and alfalfa, the guide relayed plenty of information. According to Jessie, Twelve Elms had a deep artesian well, two springs, two creeks, and a grist mill from a bygone era. When they arrived at a historic waterwheel, Jessie stopped the wagon. Just about everyone other than Rachel pulled out cameras to take photos.
Jessie turned to the group and explained each crop they had passed, including how each type of grain was planted, harvested, and stored until needed. “Everything fed to our livestock or animals boarded here has been grown on this farm. We use a minimum of pesticides and fertilize only with composted horse manure. It’s a natural form of recycling. Are there any questions so far?” She scanned the benches where people were listening politely. The mostly senior citizen crowd smiled but no one raised a hand.
Rachel bravely raised hers for the third time during Jessie’s narration. “How do you determine which grain mixture to use for a particular breed of horse?”
“That is a good question.” Jessie set the brake just as they stopped in front of the office. “We use a manual that’s published by the U of K Department of Equine Sciences. Basically, the formula takes into account the age of the animal, their level of physical activity, the breed, and several other factors. Let’s disembark our luxury train and head inside the indoor arena. If anyone would like to feed Buster or Bess here a treat, a basket of apples is under that tree.” She tied the horses’ reins to a fence post.
“Goodness,” muttered a woman. “I’m not putting my hands close to that horse’s mouth. Did you see the size of those big yellow teeth?” Her companions chuckled as they filed toward the barn.
Only Rachel chose to reward the hardworking Belgians for their efforts. “Your teeth aren’t yellow,” she murmured close to one ear. “They are the color they’re supposed to be.” She held out a red apple in her palm. The mare named Bess sucked it up with her tongue.
Rachel startled, but she kept her hand steady while offering Buster a treat. “What’s to be afraid of?” She selected two more apples from the bucket.
“But I am surprised you know so much about Thoroughbreds. They are too high-strung to be used for buggy horses. They would bolt the first time a car blew its horn. And they surely wouldn’t pull a plow if their lives depended on it.”
Rachel stepped back before she turned to face the tour guide. The young woman seemed in no hurry to rejoin her group. “I love horses and read everything I can get my hands on about Thoroughbreds. I hope I didn’t annoy you with my questions.” She absently fiddled with her kapp ribbon.
“Are you joking?” Jessie tipped up her cap to wipe her forehead. “It’s wonderful to talk equine with someone instead of fielding the usual questions from a group. ‘Do you offer pony rides for children’s birthday parties?’ or ‘Where are the restrooms?’” Her dimples deepened with a smile.
“Although Bess is a beauty, I would love to see your Thoroughbreds up close. High-strung or not, there are no prettier horses in the world.”
“You are singing my song.” The young woman tugged off her gloves. “Jessie Brady. I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, reintroducing herself.
Rachel hesitated, thrown off by her expression for a moment. “Rachel King. And the pleasure is mine.”
“Let’s join the others in the arena, where my younger brother and sister are putting on a demonstration. Then when the group heads to our ice cream and gift shop, I’ll take you into the barn to show off my favorites. We don’t allow large groups near the stalls. It’s too crowded, plus some ladies prefer horses at a distance or on postcards.” She pinched her nostrils to illustrate her point.
Feeling like a trained pony herself, Rachel smiled and nodded her head for the hundredth time that afternoon. “I would appreciate that.”
When the performance ended, Keeley led the group out of the arena, and Jessie took Rachel into a huge gambrel-roofed barn, the size of which she had never seen before. With wide aisles and oak plank floors, the stable contained stalls made of polished wood with porcelain water troughs that were large enough for six horses. Everything was clean, orderly, and well ventilated. “Wow,” she murmured, letting her gaze travel skyward. Without an overhead hayloft, no barn swallows nested in the eaves as in Amish barns. No cats prowled the hay bales, searching out mice for lunch.
“Yeah, our guests definitely have nice accommodations. Look around all you like.” Jessie leaned against a post.
Rachel peered into one stall after another at mares, stallions, geldings, and foals—each more magnificent than the next. “Does your family own all of these?”
“Goodness, no. Most are boarded here in between horse shows or for some type of training or because we’re keeping a close eye on a pregnancy. Another one of our barns has horses for trail rides, barrel racing, and that sort of thing.” She straightened and looked at her watch. “We’d better get back to the group. I need to pass out brochures about our services before folks start to leave.”
“Why are there no cats in the barn?” Rachel couldn’t resist one last question.
“I have two cats in the house, Luke and Leia. But some owners don’t like cats around skittish horses. You use a Standardbred with your buggy, right?”
“Yes. I have my cousin’s gelding today.”
“That breed, as well as draft horses, don’t spook nearly as easily as Thoroughbreds.”
Rachel and Jessie rejoined the crowd exiting the gift shop. Everyone carried dripping ice-cream cones or bags of souvenirs. A few grandchildren marched out with stuffed pink ponies. While Jessie passed out flyers, Rachel entered the shop and wandered the aisles, in no hurry to leave the farm. She purchased a scoop of butter pecan in a cup to eat on her way home. Intent on not making a mess from the ice cream, Rachel didn’t notice Jessie leaning against an elm along the walkway.
“Let me ask you a question.” The English woman pushed off the tree trunk. “Would you like to stay for supper with me and my family? I think Mom is making chili and corn bread tonight.”
Rachel blinked while ice cream dripped from her spoon onto her dress. “No, thank you. I’m expected for supper at my cousin’s farm. Besides, I need to return her rig in case she needs it.” She dabbed at the stain with a paper napkin.
“Of course. Nobody would sit down for dinner with a pack of strangers, no matter how much they like horses.” Jessie laughed easily while she kept pace at Rachel’s side.
“It’s not that.” Rachel felt her face grow warm. “I’m sure your family is nice, but I’m already a guest in someone’s home. I don’t want to…press my luck. I believe that’s how you Englischers say it.”
“I understand, so I’ll stop beating about the bush and ask the real question on my mind.” Jessie forged ahead without drawing breath. “You aren’t looking for a part-time job, are you? Because I sure could use someone to take my place when I return to college this Sunday.”
A second glob of butter pecan hit Rachel’s skirt. This one would remain ignored until laundry day. “A job? Here at Twelve Elms?”
“Yep, giving tours three days a week. I think you know almost as much about horses as I do. I can teach you the stable history stuff and what kind of services we offer. What do you say?”
“I say yes! When can I start?”
“Hold on. Before you get too excited, we only pay minimum wage.” Jessie shrugged. “That’s all I make.”
“Minimum wage will be enough.”
“We give fall tours on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Would that schedule work for you?”
“It’s perfect. The other days I can help my cousin on her chicken farm. I need to earn my keep.”
“Oh, wait a minute. Maybe you’ll only want to do the Wednesday and Friday tours.” Her blue-eyed gaze scanned down Rachel’s dress and full-length apron. “Our Saturday tour takes place on horseback instead of using the farm wagon. I doubt you’ll want to climb on a trail horse wearing your long pretty dress.”
In a fraction of a second, two ideas shot through Rachel’s brain: I would be able to ride the lush hills and valleys of Twelve Elms mounted on one of their fine horses. And I can spend workdays doing what I love best—talking about horses. She answered without hesitation. “That won’t be a problem because I’m still on rumschpringe. That means I haven’t officially joined the Amish church yet. I have a pair of blue jeans and a couple T-shirts. I also have tennis shoes but no leather riding boots with a heel.” She lifted one foot for display.
“You’re allowed to do that? Wear jeans and shirts that advertise Twelve Elms Stables?”
“For now I can, until I am baptized.” Rachel lowered her foot to the ground while her palms began to sweat.
Jessie stared at her feet. “Say, what size do you wear?”
“Seven and a half.”
She grinned. “Then riding boots won’t be a problem either. I have tons. I buy every pair I find at the Goodwill Store. Folks purchase them on a lark and then end up donating them to charity without ever wearing them out.”
“Maybe you could sell me one of your spare pairs? I’ll pay you from my first check.”
“Done deal. Wait here and then I’ll walk you to your buggy. I put together a notebook for Keeley to use. You can take it home to study. Could you be here by nine o’clock tomorrow to start training?”
“You bet.” Rachel swallowed hard. “Thanks, Jessie. I’ll work hard and do the best job I can.”
“I know you will.” Jessie stuck out her hand.
Shyly, Rachel shook for the second time that day. Shaking hands wasn’t common among Amish women.
She was sure it was the first of many new experiences to come.
Jake leaned back in his father’s chair and rubbed his neck. He’d been at the computer so long, his back was stiff and his neck had developed a painful crick.
“How’s it going, son?” Ken spoke from the office doorway, sipping his fourth cup of decaf.
Jake almost fell over backward in surprise. “Good, real good.” He waited until his feet hit the carpet before replying. “Come take a look at what I’ve set up.”
Ken pulled up a chair and made himself comfortable.
“I updated our website with the services we provide along with our price schedule. I posted recent photos of events we’ve held. Most of the information on our site was pathetically out of date.” He tapped on each photo to enlarge it.
“Great job. That looks very professional. Your night classes at the community college were well worth the money.”
“I know I need to get out of the barn every now and then and help build a client base.” Jake leaned back judiciously this time. “I started a blog that I’ll update once a week with new photos and scheduled events. That way we won’t have to wait for a website redo. Twelve Elms will have a calendar page for upcoming barrel races, dressage shows, children’s rodeos, and charity events like that polo club competition we held here. Horse lovers who subscribe to our blog can leave comments and ask questions. Groups can even make reservations to take a tour. There’s a link to the blog from the website.” Jake clicked on the link and then turned the monitor toward his father.
“Very impressive.” His dad nodded with approval. “A couple of old-fashioned horsemen have joined the twenty-first century.”
“I’m just getting started. I set up a Facebook page for the business and a Twitter account too. The blog will feed updates to both to save time.”
“I’ll take your word that that’s a good thing.” Ken’s eyes crinkled into a web of deep lines.
“It’s the way companies advertise these days, Dad. Folks use Google instead of paging through the phone book. I’ll have a tech buddy of mine optimize our search engine placement.” Jake tapped the link to their Facebook page.
