A Little Bit of Charm (31 page)

Before she knew it, she would be running around without her
kapp
, while the Plain dresses lovingly sewn by her late mother gathered dust in the closet, relics of her former life.
Mamm
. What would she say about Rachel's behavior since she had found a job at Twelve Elms Stables?
What wouldn't she say?
“Is this how your
daed
and I raised our four
dochders
to behave?” That had been Edna King's exclamation whenever working the garden turned into a hose-drenching free-for-all or the basket of weeds ended up on Beth's head.

Indeed not, but Rachel felt trapped like the hapless moth in a sticky spider web. The more she fought her circumstances, the more ensnared she became. She adored working with horses at Twelve Elms. But if she wasn't careful, she would fall in love with Jake. He was so handsome, so kindhearted, so attentive…and so wrong for her. Deep inside Rachel hadn't changed. She loved being Amish. If she left her faith, she would have to leave behind her beloved sisters and close the door on a world that had nurtured and protected her. She would shame the memory of her parents and break
grossmammi
's heart.

She had assured Sarah that she could peek at the English world without wishing to join it, but she'd better not keep peeking at Jake or she would never find a suitable mate among her Plain brethren. It wasn't his handsome face or fast truck or fancy horse farm that was hard to resist. It was how he made her feel about herself. And falling in love with him would be a major mistake.

“I said, could you help me take down and fold the sheets?” Sarah's question finally registered. “What has you so distracted?”

“Of course I'll help.” Rachel shook away her fog. “Is it all right
if I drive to Becky's tomorrow after we clean house? I've not spent nearly enough time with my new friends here.”

“It's fine with me. People will stop inviting you to things if you don't show some interest.” Sarah smoothed out her wrinkled apron on their way out to the porch.

“I would really like to know if Josh has any brothers. I need to expand my horizons, even in a small town like Charm.”

Sarah slapped her on the back, hard enough to cause Rachel to stumble. “That's a great idea! Finally, I might have some good news to report to our
grossmammi
.”

Second Wednesday in December

Jake reached for a ream of paper to fill the printer and spilled his cup of coffee. Only his quick reflexes prevented liquid from flowing onto the computer keyboard. He muttered a rude word under his breath and then pulled off his sweatshirt to blot the mess.

“You're no longer fond of the Kentucky Wildcats?” His father stood in the doorway, running a hand along the back of his neck.

Jake realized the sweatshirt supported his favorite college basketball team and his parents' alma mater. “The Wildcats are fine and dandy, but coffee into the keyboard would be disastrous. I can always wash this.” He wiped the desktop one last time before balling up his shirt.

“Rachel just called.”

Jake immediately stopped fussing with the spilled coffee and gave his dad his undivided attention. “What did she say?”

“That she isn't feeling well and won't be in to work today.” Ken jammed both hands into his back pockets.

“Is it serious? What's wrong with her? Is there something I can do?”

His father grinned. “I'm sure it's not life threatening. She probably caught one of the bugs making the rounds.”

Jake swallowed down his next stupid question but not his anxiety. He didn't wish to appear like a nervous Nellie. “The last time we talked, she didn't mention she was coming down with anything.”

“That's how rude viruses tend to be—showing up without any warning. It's probably just a cold, son, not the bubonic plague.” Ken's guffaws could be heard halfway to the kitchen.

Shaking off his dad's inane remark, Jake returned to his computer screen. With Rachel out for the day, he had little incentive to finish paperwork and head to the arena. There would be no lunchtime rides up to the pond or shared mugs of cocoa in the outdoor bleachers. He had to endure a full day without seeing her.

Jake checked his e-mail account for yesterday's report on Eager to Please's progress. Alan Hitchcock might be expensive, but the man was thorough. Almost daily he furnished the times and distances for each training sprint, plus measurements and weight changes every week. After poring over the figures, Jake began reducing his inbox one e-mail at a time. He'd nearly cut the clutter in half when his cell phone jangled. The fight song for the U of K jarred him from the screen's hypnotic spell. “Jake Brady,” he said into the mouthpiece. He glanced at the unknown number displayed while advancing to the next e-mail.

“Hello, Mr. Brady? This is Alfred Terry of the Terry Point Investment Consortium. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. Alan Hitchcock gave me your cell number.” The voice on the other end sounded middle aged and well heeled, as though the man were wearing a thousand-dollar suit.

“Not at all. What can I do for you, Mr. Terry?” Jake leaned back in his chair away from the desk.

“It's what I can do for you.” He allowed a few moments to pass to pique Jake's interest. No doubt a technique the man learned
from some motivational speaker. “I head up a consortium of investors who sometimes take chances on long shots, mostly in futures and commodity trading. I'm down here in Tampa with my wife, escaping from the Midwest wind and snow. We've been coming to Florida for years.” Terry punctuated his comment with a pleasant chuckle.

Jake glanced at his watch. “How can I help?” No doubt the man wanted to rent the arena for a night-at-the-races charity fund-raiser. His wife was probably too shy to call on her own. Hitchcock should have provided the stable office number, not Jake's personal cell phone.

“Truth is, I love the ponies. My buddies and I make a trip to Arlington Park outside Chicago our monthly outing. And I never miss the yearling races because they are so close to our condo. I've had my eye on that horse of yours.” A second pause in the conversation yielded the desired response.

Jake stopped rolling his eyes and straightened in his chair. “Are you talking about Eager to Please?”

“I certainly am. That is one fast colt, Mr. Brady. I've not seen that much spirit in so young a Thoroughbred since I began following the racing industry.”

Jake's heart swelled like a proud parent at a football game or ballet recital. “I appreciate your taking the time to call me, Mr. Terry. It's hard for me to get excited up here in Kentucky with only a pile of stats to rely on.”

Mr. Terry cleared his throat. “Glad to help, but I'm not calling as a member of Eager's fan club, although I'd be happy to join if you have one. When I watched your horse run three days in a row, I called a few investors and asked them to hop a plane. With as cold as it's been already up north, they readily agreed to a few days in the sun.”

Jake wished he would spit out whatever he was trying to say,
but impatience usually got a man nowhere. “It's been cool and rainy in Kentucky too,” he murmured.

“My investment team has been here a few days and like what they see. Or at least they want to believe what I'm telling them. We don't usually invest in unproven racehorses, even those with impressive training times like Eager's. Too much can happen to a spindly-legged colt when we're this far from the stakes races.”

Jake frowned in confusion, even though no one could see his expression. “Why would a group of investors be interested in my yearling? Do they plan to place a large bet on the Derby at a Vegas sports book?”

“No, no. We're not gamblers. We're interested in owning Eager to Please. We would take the chance on him making it to the big races.”

Pain radiated across Jake's shoulders into his neck from tension. “Alan Hitchcock gave you the wrong impression, Mr. Terry. My horse isn't for sale. We bred and raised him from one of our mares. We hope to take him all the way as a three-year-old.”

“You ought to be mighty proud, young man, but my consortium is prepared to offer Twelve Elms three million dollars. That's an excellent price for an unproven juvenile, certainly a good return on your stud fees and training expenses.”

An uncomfortable queasiness churned Jake's belly. He glanced around to make sure no one had entered the stable office unseen and was awaiting his response. But he was alone, and this time it was Mr. Terry on the receiving end of a pregnant pause. “Thanks for your vote of confidence and I'm flattered by the offer, but I will reiterate our position. Eager to Please in not for sale.”

“I understand, but keep my cell number in case you change your mind. Three million dollars can buy plenty of dreams for a young man like you. If that colt breaks his leg or twists a gut, you'll end up with nothing but an expensive pet and a bucketful of bills to pay.”

Jake said goodbye and hung up as quickly as possible. He knew he shouldn't have made a snap decision without consulting his parents. After all, Twelve Elms owned the horse, not just him. A wise man would have crunched the numbers, consulted business advisers, and then taken a vote among the interested parties. But Jake Brady wasn't a wise man. He
loved
that colt like a pampered lapdog. Would a childless couple approach a large family pushing a stroller with a newborn?
Because you haven't grown too attached yet to that infant, how about selling him to us at the going rate?

Jake looked through the rest of the e-mails with little enthusiasm. A new boarder request, contract extensions for trainers, and inquiries about spring reservations failed to hold his interest. He had done something he shouldn't have, but he couldn't call Mr. Terry back. Instead he left the office as though stung by a bee.

“Hey, Jake, how about lunch?” asked Keeley. She and Jessie were dunking toasted cheese sandwiches into tomato soup in the kitchen.

“No, thanks. Not hungry. I think I'll skip lunch and saddle up Pretty Boy.” He fled the house before one or the other asked to tag along.

A ride up into the hills might mitigate his guilt and convince him he made the right decision. But no matter how hard he rode or what tranquil vistas he observed, peace refused to come to Jake Brady. He was an arrogant young man, full of himself and full of grandiose aspirations. He couldn't face his parents or his siblings without talking to Rachel, or at least seeing her lovely face.

Thank goodness she was home sick today. He could drive to the Stolls' farm as a concerned employer, curious as to how she was feeling. But first he would stop at Flower Mart on Charm's town square for a get-well bouquet. He probably wouldn't tell her about the phone call. How could he talk about Mr. Terry's offer without revealing his true nature—a selfish man who placed himself far above others, even the family he loved?

Rachel closed the door behind Jake and tightened her grip on her shawl. Although fully dressed, she couldn't get warm enough, despite a roaring fire in the woodstove.

“That was an odd visit.” Sarah's comment had been directed at the sewing in her lap. She'd stayed in the kitchen after supper with Isaac, who had spread seed catalogs across one end of the table.

“Not so odd.” Rachel wiped her reddened nose for the fiftieth time that day. “The Bradys have been worried about me since I left a message on their answering machine. I said I was sick, but I should have clarified it's only a cold.”