Natasha arrived in the morning, her truck and trailer crunching on gravel as she pulled up the drive. I was expecting to greet the same skeptical woman I’d spoken to on the phone the day before, but the Natasha who jumped out of this vehicle seemed like what might be called, for lack of a better word, a true convert. Smiling ear to ear, eyes aglow, she barely said hello before launching in about all the reading she’d done online.
“I had no idea separation anxiety was such a common problem for horses,” she enthused. “Usually, it’s because they miss other horses, but it can also be for humans and other kinds of animals too.”
“This was a new one for me as well. In fact, I might not even have figured it out if not for someone else.” Gesturing toward the house, I explained that the Kinsingers’ niece was visiting from Indiana for the summer, and that she was the one who first suggested that January was more sad rather than scared. “Once she told me that, I was able to think things through from a different perspective. It took a while, but thanks to Stephen and his dog and Wednesday night’s storm, it all came together in the end. I can’t wait to show you the difference in your horse.”
Because it was a Saturday, Stephen would be around. I’d asked him to listen for Natasha’s arrival because I would need him—and Comet—once she arrived. Now, as she and I walked toward the stable, boy and dog emerged from the side of the house and headed our way.
Natasha gave him a warm hello. “I understand you were a big help to my horse.”
He smiled shyly, otherwise ignoring the compliment. “Where are Hope and Samantha?”
As the three of us plus the dog continued on toward the barn, Natasha explained that Hope was at her gymnastics class and Samantha at her first riding lesson. “Hope loves gymnastics, and Samantha was thrilled to start her lessons, but when they found out where I was going this morning, they both wanted to ditch all that and come here instead.” She laughed. “I don’t know who they wanted to see more, Stephen. You or your dog.”
I smiled. “Speaking of dogs—”
“Yes, I spoke to January’s previous owner, and he confirmed that his stable master, who lives on-site, does have a dog. After we talked, he checked with the guy and then called me back again to give me a little more info, which I thought was nice of him.”
We entered the barn and crossed to the smaller stable area where January was housed.
“Apparently, the dog has been a constant figure around the stable for a long time, and she was especially fond of January. The man described her as a medium-to-large-sized mutt with long, brownish-gold fur, so I already have my people on the hunt for a nice golden retriever, or maybe a collie, that we can buy. In the meantime, a friend is loaning us her Irish setter, who will be there waiting for us when we get home.”
I had groomed January just a short while before Natasha arrived, so the beautiful animal looked sleek and shiny and majestic when we came to her stall. Making sure that Comet was clearly visible to the horse, I unlatched the door, attached her lead, and walked her out. Handing over the rope to Natasha, I grabbed the big rubber ball and we all returned to the driveway.
Natasha led January out to the middle of the gravel, and then I told Stephen to position himself on the other side of the horse.
“Check this out,” I said to Natasha with a smile. Then, checking to see that the dog was still nearby, I dribbled the ball a few times, raised it up, and tossed it in an arc over January to Stephen, who caught it. The horse didn’t bat an eye.
Stephen tossed the ball back to me, and I tucked it under my arm as I pulled a plastic bag from my right pocket. Moving closer, I crinkled the bag not a foot from January’s head. Again, she seemed not to notice one bit.
“I can keep on demonstrating as long as you want,” I said, turning to Natasha, “but I think you can see this problem has been solved.”
I expected a grateful smile in return, but Natasha’s eyes were on her horse. As she reached forward to place her hand on January’s neck, I could see the relief and joy on her face.
“Good girl, such a good girl,” she cooed to the animal. “I think it’s going to be smooth sailing for you from now on.”
I spent the afternoon over at Amanda’s. It wasn’t our usual routine, but she was still flying high from last night’s party and wanted to go over everything. The fact that I couldn’t care less—and told her so—didn’t seem to matter. Undaunted, she replied that she had to talk about it with somebody, and because Priscilla was my responsibility too, it was my place to sit and listen.
We ended up at the kitchen table, the plans and lists and charts that Amanda had used for the party spread out in front of us as she went through and recounted even the tiniest detail. I would have been bored out of my mind after the first five minutes had it not been for the presence of her mother and her twin sisters, Naomi and Nettie, who were over at the counters working together to can what looked like about four bushels of peaches. Not only did they let me hop up and pitch in whenever they needed something heavy lifted or a jar twisted open, but they all talked and laughed a lot as they chopped and sliced and boiled and stirred and poured, making a difficult job quite fun. They also kept up a running banter about the over-the-top event Amanda had pulled together, forcing me to stifle a smile several times.
They were just teasing, but I knew there was a little truth behind their words. Amanda’s mother, in particular, seemed rather put out with her daughter, and I didn’t blame her. The Amish had things like parties and gatherings and food and games down to a science. There was a way you went about this stuff that followed a fairly standard formula. That made it easier for everyone, and it lessened the possibility of pride because no one party was ever more outstanding than another.
Amanda, on the other hand, had been determined to put on something truly unique and special, qualities not valued among our people. The longer I sat listening to her, the more I had to wonder whom she had been trying to impress. Not until I was leaving did it strike me that perhaps she’d seen it as an opportunity to show off to me the kinds of skills one might look for in a wife. My only wish was that her gifts with planning and cooking and entertaining were equaled by a gift of humility.
As I drove home late in the afternoon, pondering these things, my mind went to the party’s guest of honor, the one who had been the beneficiary of Amanda’s efforts. With a laugh to myself, I realized that, in a sense, Priscilla was the un-Amanda. For her, just the thought of being unique and special and impressive and noticeable would send her running in the opposite direction.
Priscilla was still on my mind as I neared the Kinsinger farm and turned into the driveway. The first house on the left was Owen and Treva’s, the same house where Priscilla had once lived—and where her mother had died.
As I reached the barn and pulled to a stop, I sat there for a long moment, thinking again of that tragic accident, a fatal slice of the knife while canning acorn squash. That, in turn, led me to think of Naomi and Nettie at the Shetlers’ today, working with their mother to put up the peaches. Then it struck me.
Canning was hard work that required many hands. Any other 14-year-old Amish girl would have been in the kitchen with her mother at canning time, not out in the barn nor up in her bedroom.
This thought led me to a new theory, that on the day Sharon Kinsinger died, mother and daughter had had an argument, one that ended with Priscilla being sent to her room. Later, when Sharon accidentally cut herself, she had gone up there for help, expecting Priscilla to be inside. But she hadn’t been. Instead, she must have slipped out when her mamm wasn’t looking, leaving the room empty. No wonder Priscilla felt responsible.
By sneaking away from the house, she’d essentially sealed her mother’s fate.