Flopping onto her back, Claire removed her cell phone from the nightstand and held it above her face. More than anything, she wished she’d never looked at Diane’s magazine, that she hadn’t seen the picture of Carrot Thief, that she hadn’t handed Hannah’s root beer candy to a woman who devoured every line in every issue of The Stable Life.
But she had.
To ignore it all away now would be akin to lying.
Releasing a pent-up groan, she scrolled through her contacts and stopped on Jakob. Maybe he’d be too busy to pick up. Maybe he’d be too busy to say anything more than hello. And, for the first time since they’d taken the leap from friends to more, she actually found herself hoping that would be the case. Not because she didn’t want to talk to him, but simply because she wanted to buy Esther a little more time with her beloved Carly.
Two rings later, the sound of Jakob’s voice in her ear changed everything. She wanted to tell him what she suspected and what was upsetting her so he could make it right. After all, that’s what Jakob did, wasn’t it? He made things right.
“Claire? Are you there?”
She closed her eyes tightly and mustered the smile he deserved. “I’m sorry, Jakob, yes, I’m here. How are you?”
“Crazy busy. Crazy frustrated. Same as yesterday,” he laughed.
“Then I’ll just call back later . . .” She parted her eyelashes and gazed up at the ceiling, her emotions a jumble of relief and disappointment. “Or maybe tomorrow.”
“No! I actually could use the break. Especially if it means getting to talk to you for a little while.”
“Oh. O-okay.” She caught the falter in her voice and braced herself for the veritable certainty that he had, too.
“You alright, Claire? You sound funny.”
Releasing her breath, she rolled onto her side and caught a glimpse of her aunt’s magazine on the vanity bench. “Not really.”
Any fatigue she may have heard in his tone when he answered her call disappeared in favor of worry. “Talk to me, Claire. What’s going on?”
“It’s Esther.” Then, realizing how that could be taken, she rushed on. “I discovered something this evening that is going to make her very, very sad. And I don’t know how to tell her.”
“What is it?”
“She’s not going to be able to keep Carly.”
A long, low whistle filled her ear, and she could imagine Jakob leaning back in his desk chair, eyes closed. “Oh no, did the horse reinjure her leg?”
“No.”
“Then why wouldn’t she be able to keep the horse? They’re clearly crazy about each other.”
Crazy about each other . . .
She felt a telltale prick of heat in the corners of her eyes and squeezed them shut. “The horse isn’t hers.”
A faint squeak from Jakob’s end of the line let her know she’d been a beat or two premature on the leaning-back-in-his-chair part. “What do you mean it isn’t hers? Eli bought it out at Weaver’s, didn’t he?”
“That’s a whole different aspect I haven’t even thought about yet.”
“Claire. Please. I’m not following any of this,” Jakob protested. “Take it from the top.”
“A few weeks back, a racehorse from New York went missing after the trailer it was riding in was involved in an accident on a back road somewhere along the New Jersey–Pennsylvania border.”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard about this. The driver was killed, right? And the accident wasn’t found until a few hours after the fact, yes?”
“Correct.”
“I saw something about it on a database we have, but that was it. I figured the horse would eventually turn up.”
She felt the lump rising up her throat but managed to eke out her reply anyway. “It has.”
“That’s good news, right?” he prodded.
“For the horse’s owner? Yes. For Esther and Eli? Not so much.”
“Wait a minute. What do Esther and Eli have to do with this race—”
She could almost hear his brain connecting the two horses together. And, sure enough, it did . . .
“Wait. Are you saying that Carly is this missing horse?”
Oh, how she wanted to say no, to tell him she was playing a trick on him. But she couldn’t. “Yes.”
“Did someone see Carly?”
“I did.”
“Claire, please.”
Jakob was right. She needed to just spell everything out and let the chips fall where they may. “I saw a picture in one of Diane’s magazines this morning, and although I didn’t read the article that went with it, I remember thinking in the back of my head that this horse—Carrot Thief is its name—looked just like Carly. Right down to the same shade of gray and the curly black tail.”
“Go on . . .”
“Since I don’t know much about horses, I figured that wasn’t unusual. I mean, really, there are only so many colors a horse can be, right? Black, white, brown, gray. Surely it’s not unusual to find horses that look alike.”
“But this one had the black curly tail?”
“Yes. And a penchant for root beer candy.”
“Excuse me?”
She sat up on the edge of the bed, reached across the divide between herself and the vanity bench, and pulled the magazine onto her lap. With a flip of her hand, she found herself staring down at the exact same trio of pictures that had claimed her attention that morning. Only instead of a passing glance, she took a moment to really study the horse depicted in each one. Suddenly, the similarities that had tickled at her subconscious that morning turned into full fledge smacks.
“What’s this about root beer candy?” Jakob clarified.
“Apparently Carrot Thief has a thing for root beer candies. Carly loves them, too. You remember what Esther told us about this, don’t you? That Carly is always looking to see if Hannah has more.”
Silence gave way to a strange sound in her ear.
“Jakob?”
“That’s right. I remember now.” Jakob’s sigh matched hers, and she knew he was finally getting the enormity of what this meant for his niece. And, just like Claire had done in the kitchen, he tried to find a way around it. “Okay, so Carly has a black curly tail and likes the same unusual flavor of candy. That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s this Carrot Thief horse.”
“Carly has an injured leg.”
“So . . .”
“It kind of makes sense if the animal was in an accident and then left to fend for itself in the woods.”
“How did Weaver end up with her?” Jakob asked.
“Good question. And one that definitely needs to be asked.” She leaned forward as a small, soft gray mark on Carrot Thief’s upper chest caught her eye from the bottom right picture. “Jakob?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember seeing a little mark on Carly’s chest?”
“Yeah. It looked like a paw print.”
“And the color?”
“A slightly darker shade of gray than Carly herself.”
She sank back against the bed. “Carrot Thief has the same mark . . . in the same place.”
When Jakob said nothing, she filled in the empty space with the part that made her want to scream. “How do we tell her, Jakob? How do we tell Esther that she can’t keep Carly? She’s going to be crushed.”
His second, longer sigh let her know she wasn’t alone in her frustration. But after several long moments, he took control of the conversation and her fears. “Look, I promise we’ll find a way to break this to her gently. But can we put it on the back burner for just a little while? I’ve got to focus on what’s going on in Heavenly right now. I don’t want any more people being victimized by this larcenist. And it appears as if he’s moving down the street in a semi-orderly fashion.”
“If you know that, why don’
t you just stake out the next house on the street? You know, wait for him to show up there and then nab him. I mean, I know that Henry Stutzman and that Gingerich girl, Rebecca, weren’t able to give the sketch artist much of a description, but surely, if you put the person in front of them, they could identify him. Especially now that we know your sister saw this guy, too.”
“I thought about that. And I still might do it. But my gut is telling me that all that will do is spook him off—maybe straight out of Heavenly. The sight of a cop car in a driveway, or a cop sitting on a front porch, has a way of deterring crime. A good thing the majority of the time, but not what we’re going for in this circumstance, you know?”
She took in the pictures of Carrot Thief one more time and then chucked the magazine across her room. Jakob was right. He had way too much on his plate right now to worry about a horse.
Breaking Esther’s heart in two was up to Claire, and Claire alone.
Chapter 31
Slowly, inch by inch, Claire maneuvered Diane’s car between the trailer ruts that lined Weaver’s driveway, each miscalculation on her part making her head ache all the more. Her being there was probably futile. Mervin Weaver wasn’t going to be able to tell her anything about Carly’s true identity that she didn’t already know.
Carrot Thief and Carly were one and the same horse. Of that, she had no doubt.
But it was the how and the why behind that reality that had made it impossible for Claire to sleep. Well, that and the knowledge that she was about to hurt Esther.
When she reached the parking area, she shifted the car into park and studied the weathered building off to her left. Long and squatty compared to the majority of barns in Amish country, the Weaver barn was strictly about horses. Some stalls, from what she’d learned while visiting with Diane, were rented by Englishers looking to board their personal horses. A few stalls housed Weaver’s own team. But most of the stalls served as temporary housing for the horses Mervin bought at auction and then sold to local Amish.
Somehow, some way, Carrot Thief had been one of those horses. And, because of that, Esther had grown attached to a horse that wasn’t hers to love.
Releasing a pent-up burst of air from deep inside her chest, Claire reached for the door handle, only to pull her hand back in favor of reaching for her phone and giving in to the sudden and overwhelming need to delay the inevitable. Seven digits later, she started counting rings . . .
One.
Two.
“Heavenly Treasures. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Annie, it’s me.”
“Hello, Claire.”
She closed her eyes in an effort to savor Annie’s telephone voice and everything it represented. In it, she could sense an excitement that so many of Annie’s English counterparts would never know. To them, a phone was routine, normal. To Annie, it was like visiting a foreign land.
“Claire?”
“I’m here, I’m here.” Forcing herself to get to the point, Claire began firing off the same spate of questions she always asked if Annie was in the shop alone. “Any issues opening? Do you have enough money in the drawer to start the day? Any problems I should know about?”
“All is well, Claire. I have made two sales already this morning.”
Claire glanced at the dashboard clock. “Okay, that’s good news.”
“Yah. But now my shelf is empty.”
“Your shelf?”
“I sold Martha’s birdhouse and Ben’s birds.”
“Wow. Two birdhouses in less than twenty-four hours. Martha will be pleased.”
“Yah.”
She turned her head to the left and gazed out at the stable once again, a handful of horses now visible through open exterior panels. Annie was fine. Keeping her on the phone any longer was really more about Claire stalling the inevitable than anything else. “Thanks, Annie, for going it alone this morning. I promise I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”
“There is no hurry. I am fine.”
“I know you are.” And she did. Annie had proven that many times over in the handful of months they’d been working together. “Don’t worry about the shelf. We can always figure that out later . . . when I get back.”
A faint jingle in the background of her call let her know a customer had just entered the shop. Stall-time was over. “I hear you have a customer, so I’ll let you go. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Dropping the phone back into her purse, she pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped out onto the same driveway that, days earlier, had been one big puddled mess. She stepped across the first rut, now dry and firm, and then headed toward the second, her resignation slowly but surely dissipating.
No, she wasn’t suddenly okay with hurting Esther. She’d never be okay with that. But the sooner she got her answers, the sooner they could get through the bad and focus on the good.
Like the impending arrival of Esther’s first child.
She stopped so suddenly, she nearly twisted her ankle inside the second rut. “I know!” she said. “We could have a baby shower!”
A head popped out of a panel midway down the side of the barn. “Well hello there! Welcome to Weaver—wait! I know you! You are Miss Weatherly’s kin . . .”
Picking her way across the rest of the driveway, Claire walked over to the window panel and smiled up at the hatted man with the long, gray beard and infectious smile. “Good morning, Mervin.”
“Tell me what your name is again.”
“Claire. Claire Weatherly. I’m Diane Weatherly’s niece.”
He dipped his head ever so slightly and then gazed across the top of her head to the parking lot. “Is Miss Weatherly with you?”
“No. I’m here alone.”
“You like horses, too?”
“I don’t know much about them,” she said, shrugging. “But I know they’re beautiful, and they sure make my aunt happy.”
“I keep telling her she should buy one for herself. I would give her a fair price and I would even board it here in my stable for free. Least I could do for all them tasty treats she brings me when she visits, and all that grooming she does on the horses even though I insist it is not her job to do.”
“When my aunt makes her mind up about something, there’s no dissuading her, that’s for sure.” She smiled at the image of her aunt, hands on hips, holding her ground with Mervin the way she did with Claire. “Besides, she loves horses.”
“So what brings you to my farm on this fine summer day?”
Her smile slipped away as Mervin’s question dropped reality at her feet once again. “I . . . I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about a horse you recently sold.”
“I sell a lot of horses, but I can sure try to help.” Mervin waved his calloused hand toward the end of the barn. “Why don’t you come on inside and we can talk while I look after the horses. I need them to be ready come Saturday.”
“Saturday?”
“Most of my neighbors come to buy horses on Saturday. I have a few this week that will go quickly.” Again he waved Claire toward the end of the barn. “Now come on around and I will see to the horses and your questions.”
Following along the exterior wall of the barn, she headed in the general vicinity in which she’d come. Save for the sound of rain pounding on the roof, the sights and smells that greeted her as she stepped inside the barn were the same as they’d been two days earlier.
Mervin Weaver strode down the center aisle and stopped. “If I remember correctly, your aunt told me you took a good long time deciding who to give candy to when you were last here.”
She smiled at the memory and then slipped her hands in and out of her front pockets. “No candy this time. Sorry.”
Tucking his thumb inside his suspender strap, he made a quick face. “Just as well if you ask me. All that
candy makes them mighty picky about the food I give them. I tried to tell that to Eli Miller when he stopped by with a report on his horse the other day.”
Eli . . .
“Seems that horse likes root beer candy.” Mervin pulled his thumb out and hooked it in the direction from which he’d come. Then, turning on the soles of his worn boots, he led the way back down the aisle. “So what horse are you asking about today?”
“Eli’s.”
If that surprised Mervin, he didn’t let on. Instead, he stopped alongside a stall inhabited by a sleek brown horse and pulled a brush off a hook just outside its door. “My son has been that way since he was a young boy.”
Confused, she leaned against the stable’s half wall and watched as Mervin began to brush the side of the horse. “Your son?”
“Then again, Eli is mighty pleased with that horse. Says she’s coming along nicely.”
She tried to follow what the man was saying, but it was no use. The moment he mentioned his son in relation to Eli and Carly, she was lost. “I don’t understand what your son has to do with Eli’s horse.”
“Willis purchased that horse from a trailer that was passing by. When I came home from auction that day and I saw the horse was injured, I could not understand why. Injured horses don’t bring as much money. But Eli bought her that next Saturday, anyway. Seems he saw the same thing in her that Willis saw.”
“Is your son around?” she asked. “Could I speak to him?”
“He left to go back to his farm in New York before I could even tell him the horse sold. But that’s okay. Gives me something to tell him the next time I write a letter to him and his wife.”
She smacked her hand against the weathered wall, earning her a startled look from the horse and from Mervin. “I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . Do you know anything about the person who sold him that horse?”
Mervin stopped brushing and studied her closely. “I know it was an Englisher. About the same age as Willis.”
A Churn for the Worse Page 21
