“I thank Ya, Lord, for this fine food, and for the woman who cooked it, and for the way Ya led me here to meet her. Amen.” Ben peeked at Miriam through half-open eyelids, savoring the way her lashes brushed her cheeks. Whatever her silent prayer was about, it seemed to be making her awfully happy. And again, that left him feeling like a kid who’d found the first girl he wanted to kiss—even though he and Polly had kissed a lot, those years he’d courted her.
Miriam opened her eyes and then glanced at the clock. “If there’s anythin’ else ya want to say before Naomi and the girls get here, we’ve got about half an hour,” she remarked as she unwound the edge of her cinnamon roll. “Not that I’m expectin’ big, important announcements.”
Will ya marry me, Miriam? Will ya let me be a part of your life here in Willow Ridge?
Ben chuckled to cover the twitch of nerves that thought had caused him. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be blurting out such things before it was a good idea. “If ya have suggestions about workin’ for the bishop today, I could use them. Not that I’m nervous or—”
“Hiram loves to make everybody squirm a little.” She smiled at Ben as she cut into her eggs. “He raises the finest draft horses around. Sells them at a premium price to folks all around the country, too.”
Ben’s lips lifted. “You’ll never convince me a Belgian’s better than a Percheron—but that’s all a matter of what you’re wantin’ a horse for. A personal preference,” he added matter-of-factly. “I’ll give Hiram his money’s worth of work, but he’ll be gettin’ no discounted prices just because he’s the bishop—nor because I want to curry any favor with him.”
As Ben caught the end of his cinnamon roll between his teeth and uncoiled it, an inch at a time, Miriam held her breath. Her sticky buns were an everyday thing here in the bakery, yet this man closed his eyes as though nothing had ever tasted so good.
He caught her watching him. “I’ve got to tell ya straight-out,” he murmured, “that this warm, fresh roll will be the best thing that happens to me today.”
“Puh!” Miriam wiped the yellow yolk from her plate with a section of her roll. “And here I thought I was gonna be—”
Ben crooked his arm gently around her neck to bring her face within inches of his. “I want to kiss ya silly right now, woman,” he said under his breath. “But if I do that, there’ll be no keepin’ my concentration while I work at the bishop’s. If you’ll save me some kisses for later, though . . . maybe when we take a look at that land along the river?”
Miriam could only gaze into his hazel eyes and nod. It wasn’t smart, the way she already wanted him to have her land—and much more than kisses. She cleared her throat, fighting the urge to taste that dab of frosting on his upper lip. “Unless I miss my guess, Hiram and Tom Hostetler and Gabe Glick’ll be havin’ a little get-together this mornin’, considerin’ the way the bishop behaved at his party,” she murmured. “Usually they eat their breakfast here after Tom’s milked his herd. Then they mosey over to Hiram’s office in his barn to talk over any church business.”
Ben considered this. He backed away from Miriam and the kiss he craved so they could finish their meal, even though his insides still rumbled like a storm about to blow in. “For your sake, it might be best if I’m not here when they come to eat. So I’ll arrive at Hiram’s bright and early,” he said in a low voice. “He told me he had a full day’s work . . . but I’ve got ideas about how to spend my evenin’, and they don’t include shoein’ horses nor steppin’ in anythin’ he spreads around.”
Miriam chuckled. “I like your attitude. Fightin’ fire with fire.”
Ben wiped his plate clean with the last chunk of his roll and then popped it into his mouth. He grinned at her, chewing . . . looking like a little boy scheming something up. “Ya might’ve been married to a farrier, Miriam,” he murmured as he scooted his stool back, “but you’ve never known fire the way I’m gonna stoke it up. Can ya handle that?”
Miriam swallowed hard. Had she gotten herself in too deep by flirting with this handsome newcomer she knew so little about? “Jah, I can,” she heard herself reply in that same low, smoky voice.
“I thought as much. See ya later, perty girl. Nothin’ I like better than a stroll along the river at sunset.”
Oh, but that smile told her things about Ben Hooley—and about herself. She stared in his direction long after he went to fetch his wagon, and then roused herself just in time to put on a fresh kapp and apron. She was mixing a new batch of sweet dough when Naomi came in.
Her partner’s brown eyes went immediately to the sink, where two plates had been rinsed. “Hmmm,” she said in a rising voice. “Bet I know who put that kitty-cat grin on your face, don’t I, Miriam?”
“Get used to it!” Miriam replied as she playfully widened her eyes. Then she chuckled—at herself, mostly. “But if I shut myself into the fridge or I forget to take these pastries out of the oven, smack some sense into me, will ya?”
Naomi chortled. “Look busy, now! Your girls were startin’ down the lane when I got here.”
Chapter 11
“All right, big fella, I’ve finished with your buddy, Saul, so it’s just you and me. Savin’ the best for last,” Ben murmured as he tethered the stallion to a ring in the barn wall. “And we’re gonna get along just fine.”
Goliath had been watching him with those alert brown eyes ever since Ben had entered Hiram’s barn this morning, and rightly so: every Belgian here knew he was a stranger, rather than a trainer or a stable hand. Ben had begun by shoeing the youngest horses, soon to be sold, and worked his way through the five mares, to get the two majestic stallions accustomed to his scent, his voice, his presence. Hiram’s horses lived better than a lot of people he knew: the large barn was warm and the air smelled of sweet, clean straw.
Ben eased around the massive Belgian, admiring his conformation and size. At nineteen hands and probably twenty-six hundred pounds, this stallion demanded his respect. Ben rubbed the sore spot on his chest, recalling when his Percheron had spooked. If Goliath nailed him with a swift kick, it would bring all his plans to a halt for a long while—and Ben didn’t want the bishop getting the best of him through his horse’s hooves. Not when he was already planning out the new mill and his evening with Miriam . . . and more.
Ben stroked the stallion’s lustrous sorrel neck, running his hand down its muscular shoulder and leg. Then he placed a massive front hoof on his thigh. “You’re a gut boy, Goliath,” he said in a low, singsong voice. “Doin’ just fine now, fella.”
Goliath stood quietly, as he’d been trained to do. It was peaceful here in the barn—a prosperous place to be a horse—and the stallion seemed to know how good he had it. Ben quickly rasped the clinches from the outside of the hoof and then positioned himself with the hoof turned up between his thighs. His lap and farrier’s chaps acted as a tabletop, giving him a flat surface as he pulled the nails and popped off the old shoe. With his hoof knife, Ben cut away dead tissue and then trimmed the edges with his nippers.
The stallion shifted but stood calmly. “Gut boy, Goliath,” Ben repeated as he grabbed his rasp. “We’ll get this leveled off for ya . . . now put your foot on this stand and we’ll file away the flare so’s that perty new shoe’ll fit ya just right.”
Goliath stood loose and relaxed, his breathing smooth and even. He was a wonderful horse to work with, and Ben made a mental note to compliment Hiram Knepp on his training staff.
A side door swung open and then a burst of boyish laughter and rapid-fire footsteps echoed inside the barn. The horse shifted and shook his mane. Ben stepped out of the way just as a badminton birdie flew into view and pinged against Goliath’s haunch.
“Hey there! You boys know better than to—” Ben swatted at another birdie fast enough to keep it from striking the horse, and then strode toward the two young intruders as they came after their birdies. Despite the bandannas they wore as bandit masks beneath their stocking caps, he recognized the bishop’s twins, Joe
y and Josh—surely spitting images of Hiram at that age. “There’ll be big trouble if I have to fetch your dat.”
The boys stopped and gawked at him. “What’re you doin’ here?” one of them challenged him.
“And who are ya, to be in the barn when Pop won’t let us near his horses?” his twin chimed in.
“I’m the farrier your dat hired. Ben Hooley,” he said, extending his hand.
The boys kept their distance, looking around him to see where their birdies had landed.
“And why aren’t you boys in school?” he demanded.
“Puh! Too little for school!”
“Puh! Not goin’ until next year—but they’ll have to make us go!”
Ben looked sternly at them, wondering how Hiram or any of the other Knepps told these two apart. Boys would be boys—and a bishop’s kids were no different—but Ben wondered why he was hearing such sass. Had he smarted off that way, his mamm would have washed out his mouth with soap and then reported to his dat, who would have adjusted his attitude out back of the barn later that day. Ben knew better than to chase after these two and discipline them himself, however. “Are ya gonna go along now? Or do I have to let your dat know how ya spooked Goliath so’s I had to waste time settlin’ him down again?”
“Pop don’t scare me!”
“Can’t whack us if he can’t catch us!”
The boys darted around either side of Ben to retrieve their shuttlecocks, oblivious to how close they got to Goliath’s huge back hooves, before sprinting away. The stallion shifted from foot to foot, tossing his head. With the bam! of a door farther back, Ben went to check on the ornery boys while the horse settled himself. What these young fellows needed was closer supervision and more chores . . . tasks like his aunts, Nazareth and Jerusalem Hooley, had been quick to assign him even before he sat in their classroom.
Down the aisle between the stalls he strode, noting fine workmanship that might well have been the Brennemans’. From what he’d learned during his breakfast conversation with Seth, Micah, and young Aaron, they turned out a lot of cabinets in their shop and did on-site construction, as well. Just the sort of help he’d need soon if his ideas about a mill worked out.
Ben quietly opened the door the two boys had slammed and peered around a large tack room, but the twins had already disappeared through another door in the back. It smelled of fine leather in here, and the walls were lined with glistening black collars, hames, and traces that were definitely for showing and parades rather than farm work. From what he’d seen in a catalog for the upcoming Belgian sale, where the prices had widened his eyes, most of Hiram’s horses were sold to breed and show rather than to haul Plain farmers’ plows and hay wagons.
Ben looked up and blinked. Mounted on a crossbeam at the back of the room was a screen, somewhat smaller than most televisions he’d seen. The picture was divided into quarters, and when one of them flickered, there he was, standing in the doorway of the tack room!
He closed the door behind him, shaken yet intrigued. He’d worked for a good many English breeders who had sophisticated security setups, but such electronics were surely not condoned on Old Order farms . . .
But when you’re the bishop, who’s to say ya can’t have such contraptions?
Ben decided not to challenge Knepp about his discovery. Hiram had seemed pleased when he’d arrived so early to work, and that he was making good progress before the bishop left for breakfast at the Sweet Seasons—as though their confrontation in Miriam’s orchard had been set aside. Ben’s rumbling stomach told him it had been several hours since he’d enjoyed his eggs and that sticky bun in Miriam’s kitchen, but he wanted to finish with Goliath before he got something to eat.
From across the large barn, he could hear the stallion still stomping his foot. Ben slowed his pace and his breathing so he’d be calmly in charge before he approached the horse tethered at the far end of the aisle. While he wondered at Hiram’s naming both good-natured stallions after Old Testament villains, he had no doubt that such massive male animals could put him out of work quicker than he could duck or jump away. It was well worth a few extra minutes to stand here, out of the horse’s sight, while Goliath calmed down.
Ben gazed up into the barn’s sturdy crossbeams . . . admired the majestic heads of the horses he’d already shod, waiting . . .
“I’m tellin’ ya, Hiram, that move ya made on Miriam on Sunday’s been causin’ quite a stir! Not your best idea to force her hand in front of everybody!”
Ben’s jaw dropped. That sounded like Tom Hostetler, but his voice was far more insistent than when he’d been delivering Sunday’s sermon. Ben realized then that the large glass windows he stood beside, where the blinds were shut, probably formed a wall of Hiram’s office.
“Jah, what were ya thinkin’?” came another man’s voice. “Next thing we know, some younger fella from the membership’ll be tellin’ ya to get a room! That’s not what we need at a church gatherin’.”
Ben’s lips twitched, even though this topic still raised his dander. It was surely talk the bishop didn’t want him to overhear, yet there was no point in returning to Goliath’s stall yet.
“There comes a time when a man must behave in an unconventional way to make a woman see the light.”
Ben frowned. Once again Hiram Knepp was assuming his will should override anything Miriam Lantz wanted or believed. Ben had hoped to be out of here by three, but this loud talk was a way to get a feel for what he might expect if he and the bishop had words again—and Ben figured they would, indeed.
“Ya didn’t score any points back when ya tried to sell her bakery buildin’,” an older fellow pointed out. “Seems to me Miriam’s got even less reason to hitch up with ya now that you’ve made a fool of yourself—”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Hiram replied, in such a tone Ben could well imagine the smirk on his face. “That Hooley fellow from off the road’ll be the one to take the fall, mark my words. He’s thinking to settle here—and catch Miriam while he’s at it—but he’s playing right into my hands.”
Ben’s heartbeat sped up. What sort of a preachers’ meeting was it when a bishop—the spiritual leader of Willow Ridge—said such a thing about a potential new resident? It wasn’t like he was an aimless drifter living off the goodwill of these local folks. He would provide farrier and welding services that had died with Jesse Lantz, and he was about to build a mill that would bring a whole new market for their farmers’ grain, and provide new products that would create more sales for several of the local shops. And if his younger brothers settled here, it would also add a fresh bloodline to the local population—something to be considered in small Plain settlements like Willow Ridge, where the same families lived and intermarried generation after generation.
Ben almost banged on the office door to let Hiram know just what he thought—
Return not evil for evil . . . love thy neighbor as thyself . . . forgive not seven times, but seventy times seven . . . His dat’s voice reminded him of Jesus’s teachings about how to handle folks who provoked his temper. Better to let the preachers take Hiram to task while he finished his own work, for the sooner he finished with Goliath the sooner he could spend time with Miriam at the river.
Quietly Ben strode down the center aisle again, toward the stallion. He hummed a tune from the Ausbund—not that the massive Belgian would recognize a hymn about grace when he heard it. Goliath pricked up his ears and stood more quietly as Ben walked up to stroke his head and neck, drawing his hand down the horse’s muscled shoulders. “You’re a fine, fine fella,” Ben murmured. “You and me, Goliath, we’ll finish our job if ya just forget all about those ornery boys, ain’t so?”
On he chattered, in a low, soothing cadence that kept the stallion listening . . . cooperating. Ben finished in about half an hour, and as he was leading Goliath back to his stall, the office door opened at the other end of the barn. Tom Hostetler and the men Ben recalled as Gabe Glick, another preacher, and Reuben Reihl, th
e deacon, walked out ahead of Hiram. Seeing him with Goliath, they waved and went on their way.
The bishop came toward him, watching the way he handled his prize stallion. “My boys give you any trouble?” Hiram asked, gesturing at Goliath and over toward Saul, down the row.
“Not a lick. Fine animals you’ve got here.” Ben paused, considering how to word the rest of his response. “Your twin boys, though, nearly got themselves kicked when they came runnin’ through the barn, hittin’ badminton birdies at Goliath while I was shoein’ him. It’s a credit to your trainers that we didn’t all get hurt.”
Hiram scowled. “I’ve told them repeatedly that they’re not to come in here. Annie Mae lost track of them again—” The bishop’s tone told Ben that Annie Mae would catch more of a talking-to than Josh and Joey, but then he smiled and pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Glad you stopped in Willow Ridge when you did, Hooley. Safe journey to you after you finish your work here.”
Ah, but ya know nothin’ about the work I’m about to do!
Ben nodded, his thoughts whirling around what he really wanted to say . . . but he followed the bishop’s script—for now. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya, Hiram. Have a gut rest of your day, now, and a real successful sale.”
Ben loaded his tools into his wagon, clucked to Pharaoh, and then rolled on down the road. His stomach rumbled, but he had no doubt that Miriam would soon feed him wonderful-gut food—and feed his soul, as well.
That evening, along about five, Miriam’s heart was soaring; Ben Hooley was carrying her picnic basket and holding her hand as they strolled past the apple orchard toward the back acreage of the Lantz farm. Pharaoh and her own four horses nickered from the corral as she and Ben strolled past, while cardinals and mourning doves called to their mates. Even though the autumn breeze was brisk now that the sun was descending over the western hills, Miriam had never felt warmer. Ben had asked about her day at the café and had told her about his run-in with Hiram’s twins . . . and for the first time since Jesse had passed, Miriam was sharing moments with a man who cared about her and her world. Even though Rachel and Rhoda were her constant companions and Naomi Brenneman knew her inside and out, Miriam hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the company of an adult . . . a male who didn’t expect her to follow his rules.
Autumn Winds Page 9
