Free Sarah's Garden by Kelly Long Page A

between. He’d learned not to blink an eye. Most of the time, the cures were odd but harmless, and he usually was able to intercede in time, but this was different.
    Luke had explained succinctly on the brief ride what the bishop meant to the community. “He’s the head of everything, next to Der Herr , the Lord.”
    “Great.”
    “ Jah , really great.”
    Really great , Grant thought as he faced the man who seemed half his size and three times his age. Here was a typical Amish farmer who surely must be close to ninety. His wizened countenance was not exactly dour but neither was it hopeful, and Grant extended a hand only to have it grasped by a firm grip and a welcoming smile of relief that threatened to split the wrinkled face in two.
    “Dr. Williams, thank you for coming so quickly. Tweet here, well, she ’s my favorite . . . practically the mother of the herd . . .” The little man bobbed his head, and Grant saw tears sparkle in his coal black eyes.
    It was not the first time he ’d seen a grown man cry over a cow. He recalled a Mr. Boon from vet training who’d proudly displayed a tattoo of his favorite cow on his rugged forearm and had wept openly when she had to be euthanized due to old age. He thought about sharing the tale but decided tattooing, cow or otherwise, was probably out of the realm of the bishop’s appreciation. In any case, he now had the chance to help a true animal lover, something he enjoyed. It was also an opportunity to make or break his practice in the community, he thought. If the bishop’s cow should meet with an unfortunate end, he could just picture the bleak, empty months of no calls and a failed try at a life ’s dream. But if the cow responded to the classic treatment for the ailment, it might mean a more ready acceptance. He clapped the bishop on the shoulder in an attitude of comfort.
    “She’ll be fine. Now what have you done so far to help her?”
    The bishop pursed his lips and the gathered crowd rustled a bit. Here we go , Grant thought.
    “I tried to watch her after she calved this last time.”
    “Calved? How old did you say she is?”
    The old man’s face held a deep fondness. “She ’s a little different than other cows, hasn’t given out, hasn’t given up—she’s sixteen.”
    Grant nodded, feeling a sinking sensation in his chest. An older-than-old cow calving was a surefire prescription for milk fever and its often deadly results.
    “Please go on.”
    “I doused her good with Epsom salts.”
    Grant smiled. Not a bad homeopathic cure; mixing the salts with water did produce an electrolyte rich solution, but it still lacked the necessary calcium.
    “I used the tar oil.”
    The bishop lifted the cow’s muzzle gently and Grant saw the familiar staining of “tar oil” around the cow’s mouth. The Amish, he’d read, had a curious reliance on the black oil, some strange mixture of herbs and something like corn syrup, as a cure-all for both man and beast, but the stuff tasted so bad, neither would usually swallow it. He considered briefly, then asked to see the bottle.
    “ Jah .” The bishop hurried through the crowd to a tool bench and came back with a clear, unlabeled bottle full of black syrup, which he handed over.
    Grant popped the cork and sniffed at the contents. He’d learned during his training that tar oil was harmless, but he had never used it to treat an animal before. Curious about the herbal mixture, he wanted to experience it. So he took a brief swig and forced himself to swallow.
    There was murmur from the crowd and an anxious gasp from the bishop.
    “Are you feeling sick, Doctor?”
    It was some moments before Grant could speak, so he nodded, then choked out a response. He ’d surely heard the worst of it by now, but the bishop continued.
    “And last, the raw onion in her ear.” He indicated the right ear and Grant bent to stare at the offending vegetable, while trying to catch his breath. The bishop sniffed. “I know it’s odd, but