The Amish Groom ~ Men of Lancaster County Book 1 (47 page)

The Amish Blacksmith

C
HAPTER
O
NE

T
he muscles under the horse’s chocolate-brown flank rippled like wheat in wind as I pressed my hand against his warm side.

“Easy, boy,” I said, my tone that of father to frightened child.

There at my work station in the blacksmith shop, I shifted forward so the horse could better see me and continued running my hand across his body. Halfway down his left rear leg, I came to a stop when my fingers reached a knobby bulge that shouldn’t have been there. Bending closer, I gently palpated the puffy hock. I’d already scraped out the dirt and turf imbedded around his shoes just minutes before, but this swelling told me to take a second, closer look at the hoof area.

I flipped on my headlamp and gave the horse’s fetlock a tug. In response, he nervously shifted his weight but allowed me to hoist his leg. Crouching forward, I studied the hoof’s surface in the glow of the beam, noting how it was worn on the inside edge. I turned to Trudy, the young teen who stood nearby, arms crossed as she watched.

“I think Patch’s knees are swollen,” she told me solemnly. “The back ones, at least.”

“Actually,” I replied, “they’re called knees in the front but hocks in the back. See how the joints bend differently? A hock is more an elbow than a knee. But you’re right. There’s some swelling here for sure.”

She nodded, absently fingering her own elbow. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have corrected a customer, but Trudy was different. She wanted to know. She wanted to learn. Trudy’s family lived in a neighboring Amish district in Gap, and they had been coming to this blacksmith shop—as had my family and I—for years.

“It looks like the hoof is worn and uneven,” I continued. “I’d say he’s been favoring the inside of his leg.”

“He’s been pulling to the right. Sometimes I think he’s going to take us both straight into the ditch.”

I lowered the horse’s heel to the concrete floor and he tossed his head and nickered. I reached up a hand to remind him with a gentle touch that I was still there, that all was well. On the other side of the shop, my friend and coworker, Owen Kinsinger, was at the forge, pounding a flaming red shoe against the rounded cone of an anvil. The horse rotated an ear toward the sound.

“Is there anything I can do for Patch?” Trudy asked. “He just seems so sad.”

I stifled a smile, thinking how very much she reminded me of myself when I was her age. Like me, she had a fondness for horses and seemed to think of them as more than just a means of transportation. Also like me, she often lingered at the blacksmith shop, watching as the family horse was shod rather than leaving the animal in the morning and returning for it later the way most folks did.

The difference between us, however, was that she usually left once the work was done, while I’d always stuck around afterwards for as long as I could, peppering Amos Kinsinger with a thousand questions about what he was doing and why. For years, I had wanted to be a farrier—an official “shoer of horses”—myself. And now, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, I finally was one, or at least I was well on my way. First had come four months at farrier school out in Missouri, and then I returned home and stepped into this apprenticeship at Kinsinger Blacksmith and Welding. I had already been working here, under Owen’s guidance, for a year. That left one more year to go, and then my apprenticeship would be complete and I could call myself a farrier for real.

I shifted to the horse’s other side.
Funny how a person could put off doing something that really interested him
, I thought as I ran my hand across his flank. I delayed far too long the switch from building buggies to shoeing horses. But when you grow up in a family of buggy-makers, it’s tough to be the first one to decide to do something different.

Once I did, though, I couldn’t believe I’d waited so long. Sure the work of shoeing was hard—and now and then my back ached something terrible at the end of the day—but I really enjoyed spending my hours working with horses. It also helped that my
daed’
s buggy business continued along fine without me, sparing me from feeling as if I’d abandoned him and the rest of the family.

When I reached the horse’s hip, I ran my hand down his leg only to find that this hock was swollen as well. A look at the hoof revealed that it was even worse than the other. No wonder the animal was having trouble.

“Same issue over here,” I said to Trudy, who stepped closer as I pointed out the damaged, uneven area along the hoof’s quarter.

I wondered how long it had been since this horse was shod. Surely it had been a lot longer than the recommended eight weeks for a driving horse.

“Where did you say you got him?” I lowered his hoof to the floor and stood up straight.

“He belonged to my uncle’s neighbor, but then Patch started rearing up and not following commands so the neighbor stopped driving him. He just put him out in the pasture and forgot all about him.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know. Uncle John didn’t like how the man and his family were handling Patch, so he offered to buy him. He didn’t ask a lot of questions.”

“And how did the horse come to be yours?”

“I told my uncle I’d like to have him if I could,” she said. “I knew Patch might give me some trouble, but I had to do
something
. Like I told you before, he just seemed so sad.”

I gave the young teen a smile. “I guess if I had hooves in as bad a shape as these are I’d be sad too.”

“So what happens next?”

“Well, now that his hooves are all cleaned out, we’ll hot shoe him. That’ll give him a good fit and fix the problem of the uneven wear and tear.”

“What about his not wanting to follow commands?” Trudy persisted. “What are we supposed to do?
Daed
knows you’re good at helping horses with behavior problems. He told me to ask you about that.”

I appreciated hearing those words of affirmation, especially considering I was still new to the horse-shoeing business. That I was known to have a way with horses—even before I went to farrier school—was what I hoped would allow me to establish my own shop someday. I liked the idea that people thought of me as something of an expert on how to calm and coax an agitated or spooked horse. It wasn’t something I had studied up on or anything. I always figured it was an ability God had given me because I respected horses so much.

“What kinds of behaviors are you seeing?” I asked.

“Well, for one thing,” the girl said, “he doesn’t like anyone at his side. At all. In fact, I’m amazed he’s been letting you stand there like that.”

“Sounds like something’s making him feel as if he’s in danger, like he’s got a flaw or ache he can’t let anyone see.” I turned to Trudy. “Horses will hide their weaknesses, even if there is no true danger to them in showing it. There are really just two kinds of animals, you know—prey and predator. Flight animals and fight animals.”

Trudy’s eyes narrowed. “Sure, maybe in the jungle or something. But this is Lancaster County.”

I smiled. “Horses understand which one they are, even in the domesticated world. They don’t stop thinking like horses just because they start driving buggies. Every horse knows he’s prey, not predator, and that his flank is his most exposed vulnerability.”

“You’re saying Patch is scared he’s in danger, and that’s what makes him act the way he does?” Trudy looked from the horse to me, trying to understand.

I stroked the animal, caressing his long neck, hoping to draw out some of his anxiety through the gentlest of touches. “In the wild, a horse can never let on to the herd or a predator that he’s easy to pick off, or even wounded in some way. He has to hide all of that to survive.”

Trudy moved forward and put her hand on the horse’s neck near mine. Patch swung his head around and nodded, as if to say, “The man’s right.”

“How can I convince him I mean him no harm?” she asked.

This was always the part that intrigued me the most, figuring out how to get a horse to drop its defenses and learn to trust again. It usually took some time—and a little sleuthing. Some horses didn’t like certain noises, some feared tall things or shiny things or painted stripes on the road or puddles or stop signs. Once I understood what the issue was, it all came down to trust. If I could get a horse to trust me, it was a lot easier to get him to trust his owner. And only when a horse trusted his owner would he obey.

Back when I was still working at my father’s buggy shop, friends and sometimes friends of friends would bring over their problem horses so I could work with them. It was no big deal really, just an extra something we offered as part of the buggy trade. Usually, for a skittish driving horse, I would spend an hour or so with it a couple times a week, trying to figure out what it was afraid of and then helping it understand that the thing it feared was not going to cause it harm.

I would be happy to work with Patch as well, though not today. Amos and Rosanna—my boss and his wife—had instructed Owen and me to leave our afternoon clear. They had already left in a hired car for the Lancaster train station to pick up their niece, Priscilla, who was moving back here after having been away for more than six years. They wanted everyone to be available upon their return to welcome her home.

And it was to be a big welcome indeed. Much of the Kinsinger extended family was coming to greet Priscilla and share in a big celebratory meal. In fact, judging by the rattle of buggies out in the drive, it sounded as though some of them had already begun to arrive.

I’d been invited to eat with them as well, which ordinarily would’ve been a good thing. I bunked here in a small structure that had once been a guest cottage, and though that cottage had a kitchen, I wasn’t much of a cook. Usually, I took any chance I could get to enjoy one of Rosanna’s meals.

But this time was different. It was Saturday, and I’d been planning to spend the whole evening with Amanda Shetler, the lovely young woman from a few districts over whom I’d been courting of late. For a while now, ever since my future as a farrier had begun to look more secure, I’d been thinking about marriage. After all, my cousin and best friend Tyler had gotten married last fall, and he seemed happier than ever. Wanting to settle down myself, a few months ago I’d started courting Amanda, who was as cute and easygoing and uncomplicated as they come. No doubt tonight’s date would’ve been lots of fun, as usual, but I had felt obligated to accept the Kinsinger’s invitation. With all they did for me, the least I could do in return was help welcome their long lost relative back into the fold. That meant a lot less time with Amanda tonight—and no time to work with Patch this afternoon at all. Amos and Rosanna were due back with Priscilla within the hour, so I needed to wrap things up for now.

Turning to Trudy, I told her I was busy for the rest of the day but that I should be able to follow up with her horse tomorrow. “If you want, you can just leave him here,” I added, “and when I have some time free in the morning, I’ll see if I can’t figure out what’s bugging him. You can check back with me in the afternoon.”

Trudy crooked an eyebrow. “I don’t…I don’t have much saved up for this.”

“That’s okay. We can just make it a part of the shoeing. No extra charge. I’ve got plenty of room in the barn for a guest tonight, so this one’s on me.”

Trudy smiled.
“Ya?
”

“Ya.
I’m happy to do it. I want to help him. Just like you do.”

“Thank you, Jake,” she gushed.

“No problem. Of course, now we have to figure out how to get you home. Want me to see if one of Owen’s sisters can give you a ride?”

Trudy shook her head. “That’s okay. I’ve got a few stops to make along the way, so I’ll just walk. It’s only a mile or so.”

She told Patch goodbye and as an afterthought asked me if she could leave her horse cart here too.

“No, sorry,” I replied, “you’ll need to strap it on and lug it home with you.”

She looked startled for a moment, but her face broke into a grin when she realized I was kidding.

Together, Trudy and I moved the cart under the eaves of the machine shed. Then she set out on foot as I returned to the blacksmith shop. Owen had already started to hot-shoe Patch, and the air inside was smoky and acrid. Hot-shoeing smells terrible but it makes a nice indentation on the hoof for the shoe to occupy, not to mention there’s less slipping, a better fit, and a happier horse. Though some farriers might try to get away with a cold-shoeing now and then, we always hot-shoed here. That was one reason Kinsinger’s was known for quality.

Owen and I worked in tandem to finish Patch, with Owen shoeing and me tamping down the nails. We were both conscious of the time, but we wanted to finish this last job before calling it a day.

“We must smell like something that crawled out of the burn pile,” Owen said when we were finally done, four hooves and four hot-shoes later.

“Nice way to welcome family, eh? Reeking of charred horse hoof.”

Owen laughed. “Treva told me to make sure I came back to the house and got cleaned up before Priscilla’s arrival, but that’s clearly not going to happen. Hope my cousin remembers this is just the way it is. She used to spend lots of time in here, hanging around
Daed
when he was still doing the shoeing. So at least the stench should be familiar to her.”