The Amish Blacksmith by Mindy Starns Clark Page A

now.
    At the main barn, I hung my hat on a peg by the door, placed the bag of apples on the floor, and grabbed a handful of carrots from the bin. Then I moved on into the smaller stable, holding my breath as I stepped through the doorway. Just as I’d hoped, Patch’s reaction to my appearance was completely different from before. I was the same guy, but with no hat on my head this time, the horse had no reason to fear. In fact, he barely gave me a glance as I walked toward him, only growing skittish once I got close, but for him that was normal. At least he let me feed him a carrot and pat him gently on the neck.
    Incredible.
    Now that I was pretty sure Priscilla had been right about the primary cause of Patch’s problem, I could get down to the business of fixing things. Seemed to me, a phobia of hats had to be about one of the worst phobias a horse in Lancaster County could have, especially a horse owned by an Amish family. There would always be hats in Patch’s life, which meant I would have to desensitize him to that particular fear while also training him to trust his handler whether he was frightened or not.
    I took Patch, who seemed willing but wary, out to the smaller outdoor pen behind the welding shop, speaking in soft, comforting tones along the way. I set the carrots on the ground beside the fence and led the skittish horse to the center of the pen, pausing to latch the gate behind me. I waited until he was calm, and then I dropped the lead rope and took a step back. As soon as Patch realized he was free, he began to trot around inside the limited space, huffing and puffing and nervously trying to discern the limits of his boundaries. I left him alone for a few minutes, until he settled down again. When he finally came to a stop, I reached for a carrot and slowly began to approach the horse’s flank.
    I was about ten feet away when he spotted me and darted off, running frantically around the circle again in an attempt to escape. Classic flight or fight response. There wasn’t really anywhere for him to go, however, so once he’d calmed down and come to another stop, I tried once more, moving with quiet determination toward his flank. It took several more tries, but finally I was able to get close enough to offer him the carrot. He took it from me, munching away greedily as I went to retrieve another and start over again.
    The next time, though, I wouldn’t let him have the carrot until he had calmed down a little more first. This became the routine, and after about fifteen more minutes of me approaching his flank and rewarding him with a carrot every time he stopped flinching, he began to visibly relax.
    â€œSee there, boy?” I told him, patting his neck as he chewed away. “I’m not going to hurt you. Nobody’s ever going to hurt you again.”
    When our time was up, I led a far more compliant Patch back to his stall. We were done for now, but before I left, I retrieved the bag of apples, returned to the stall, and rewarded Patch’s efforts by giving him one. He took the ripe fruit from my hand, emitting a grunt of pleasure as he did.
    â€œGood session,” I told him with a final pat. Then I headed back outside, snagging my hat and returning it to my head as I passed through the door.
    By then it was nearly two o’clock, so I took a seat on a stump near thedriveway and ate one of the apples myself as I waited for my ride. A sleek black pickup appeared just as I was finishing, and as it turned into the driveway and eased in my direction, I stood and slid the remaining two apples into my pockets for later.
    I’d been in plenty of cars and trucks before, but never in one as classy and up-to-date as the vehicle Natasha Fremont had sent for me. The interior was all inlaid wood and leather, the dash looked like a small computer, and there was even a tiny fridge in the console. The driver, a twentysomething stable hand who introduced himself as Ryan