Free The Amish Blacksmith by Mindy Starns Clark

wasn’t going to come easily. There were a few big problems in the way. First was the simple matter of supply and demand—and noncompetition. A good blacksmith would always find work in Lancaster County, but Amos had hired me with the understanding that even if I didn’t stay with him in the long run, I would never work in direct competition with him either. In the end, I’d had to agree to no blacksmithing within a ten-mile radius of the shop.
    As for the horse-gentling side of things, I’d always assumed I’d have some Englisch patrons but that my primary customer base would be Amish. Lately, however, I’d begun to realize that it would probably have to be the opposite of that. The Amish were never fully going to embrace my techniques. There was too much resistance, with lots of scoffing or changing the subject whenever I tried to explain. It wasn’t until they ended up with a problem horse themselves that they had any interest, but so far that hadn’t happened enough for me to make much money at it.
    I would always be there for my fellow Amish and their horse issues, of course, but for the gentling side of things, the Englisch were going to have to be my focus. They seemed far more amenable to “natural horsemanship,” as it was sometimes called, and I felt that I could make a success of things with them eventually. But such an endeavor would take years of hard work—and contacts I didn’t have. So for now, the dream was still just that—a dream. Not even close to being a reality.
    Eric seemed to get what I was saying, but before he could reply, we both realized the crowd noises were dying down, signaling that the bidding was about to start.
    â€œLet’s get together sometime, Jake. Maybe I can come up with a few ideas for you.”
    â€œSure. Thanks.”
    We tossed our empty coffee cups in the trash and then began weaving through the crowd, past the booths for pies, hot dogs, and root beer and toward the metal bleachers that looked out over the oval auction ring. We parted there with a shake, and he walked off to join his party as I scanned the crowd for mine. By the time I spotted Amos and Priscilla, the auction was already underway, but it didn’t really matter. The horses we’d chosen wouldn’t be up for a while yet.
    Moving carefully, I worked my way to where Amos and Priscilla were sitting, but by the time I got there, I could tell something was wrong. Amos was going down the listing he held in his hand, describing the horses he and I had checked out and deemed acceptable, but Priscilla seemed to be ignoring his every word.
    Granted, there was nothing amazing about those particular horses we’d picked, but they were fine equine specimens—certainly good enough for a young woman to have to drive a cart—so I didn’t get her attitude. It was as if she couldn’t care less. She kept looking down at each horse as it was paradedaround the ring during the bidding, and then her eyes would dart to the people holding up their bid cards, or the children scampering around with bags of popcorn, or the distracted parents who were more focused on the auction than they were on their own kids. Several rows below us was that same cluster of Englisch men with clipboards Priscilla had been standing near earlier, and they were laughing and joking among themselves between bids. Even their mindless conversation seemed to be of more interest to Priscilla than whatever her uncle or I had to say.
    I looked at Amos, and he shrugged helplessly. I could tell he needed me to jump in here. He’d thought having her own horse would cheer Priscilla, and he told me he’d even allotted a budget of up to six hundred dollars, plenty enough to get a decent animal. He was ready to plunk down that kind of money, and yet his reticent niece was more interested in her surroundings than in any of the horses he was offering to buy her.
    I looked again at