The Amish Blacksmith by Mindy Starns Clark Page B

Warner, offered me a beverage as soon as I’d climbed in and shut the door—at least I thought that’s what he said, though he had the music cranked up so loud I wasn’t sure.
    â€œYou like country?” he yelled over the din as he turned us around in the driveway.
    â€œIt’s fine,” I replied, because I didn’t exactly hate it.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he asked, turning the volume down just a bit.
    â€œI said it’s fine.” The twang of the tune that was playing was a different sound for me, and not exactly my favorite. I’d been a rock and roll kind of guy when I was younger and in my rumspringa . But I could deal with this for now.
    â€œGo ahead,” he urged, sensing my hesitation about his offer of a drink. “Help yourself.”
    As we headed off down the narrow road, I did just that, opening the console and viewing my options. Nothing looked familiar among the various bottles and cans. I chose something called Perrier, which sounded vaguely familiar. It turned out to be water with a fancy name.
    â€œSo you just graduated from farrier school?” he asked as he turned the music down a little more, much to my relief.
    â€œNot exactly. I mean, yes and no. I graduated a year ago.”
    â€œGotcha. How do you like it so far? Are you allowed to use modern conveniences back at your shop there?”
    I had to think for a moment what he meant. Blacksmithing was an ancient art, so there weren’t really any modern conveniences to speak of, except maybe the fact that we ordered our shoes from a catalog now, premade, as opposed to forging them ourselves. But those shoes were put on a horse the same way they were a century ago. An electric machine couldn’t shoe a horse and probably never would.
    â€œWell, our forge is propane powered, if that’s what you mean,” I said, taking a light tone.
    â€œOh, yeah. I guess there isn’t much about shoeing that involves a computer, eh?” He laughed. I smiled with him.
    â€œHave you been with the Fremonts long?”
    â€œThe last four summers. I’ll be going back to Penn State in the fall.”
    He went on to tell me he was one of three students Natasha employed each summer. Apparently, they did a lot of the grunt work, such as cleaning out stalls, watering, grooming, repairing fences, and exercising a small contingent of horses she stabled for other owners, in addition to caring for their breeding mares and the foals.
    â€œAbout the only horse over there we don’t fool with is Duchess. She has her own stable, closer to the house, and Natasha prefers to handle that one herself.”
    â€œDuchess?” I asked, wondering if that was the horse I was being brought out to see.
    â€œLong story,” Ryan replied with a wave of his hand, as if to say he wasn’t in the mood to tell it.
    We were silent for a moment, and I tried to think of some other topic of conversation, lest my driver grow bored and decide to turn the music back up. “Natasha seems pretty nice,” I finally managed to offer.
    â€œYeah, she’s nice enough. Rich, but nice.”
    â€œDo you enjoy working with the horses?”
    A new song came on, and Ryan began tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. “Sure, though warmbloods aren’t my favorite. I like hotbloods. Arabians, actually. If I had my own horse, that’s what I’d get. An Arabian.”
    â€œI hear you,” I said, and I really did know what he meant. As Amos and I had explained to Priscilla earlier, hotbloods were fast and feisty, which made them much more exciting than the well-trained warmbloods of the horse show world. Definitely more interesting—at least to a guy like Ryan.
    â€œYou people probably don’t have any show horses, though, right?” he asked. “I mean, what would an Amish man do with a warmblood?” He laughed again, clearly enjoying his own sense of humor.
    â€œYeah, that