Miriam's Heart. Emma Miller
beside her. “Miriam!” He caught her shoulders and pulled her back from the kicking, flailing animals.
“Let me go! I have to—”
He caught her around the waist, surprised by how strong she was, especially for such a little thing. “Listen to me,” he pleaded. He knew how valuable the team was and how attached Miriam was to them, but he also knew how dangerous a frightened horse could be. His own brother had been killed by a yearling colt’s hoof when the boy was only eight years old. “Miriam, you can’t do it this way!”
Blackie, still kicking, had fallen on top of Molly. The mare’s eyes rolled back in her head so that only the whites showed. She thrashed and neighed pitifully in the muck, blood seeping from her neck and hindquarters to tint the creek water a sickening pink.
“You have to help me,” Miriam insisted. “Blackie will—”
At that instant, Charley’s boot slipped on the muddy bottom and they both went down into the waist-deep water.
To Charley’s surprise, Miriam—who never cried—burst into tears. He was helping her to her feet, when he heard the frantic barking of a dog. Irwin and his terrier appeared at the edge of the road.
“You all right?” Thirteen-year-old Irwin Beachy wasn’t family, but he acted like it since he’d come to live with the Yoders. He was home from school today, supposedly with a sore throat, but he was known to fib to get out of school. “What can I do?”
“I’m not hurt,” Miriam answered, between sobs. “Run quick…to the chair shop. Use the phone to…to call Hartman’s. Tell them…tell them it’s an emergency. We need a vet right away.”
Miriam started to shiver. Her purple dress and white apron were soaked through, her kapp gone. Charley thought Miriam would be better off out of the water, but he knew better than to suggest it. She’d not leave these animals until they were out of the creek.
“You want me to climb down there?” Irwin asked. “Maybe we could unhook the—”
“We might do more harm than good.” Charley looked down at the horses; they were quieter now, wide-eyed with fear, but not struggling. “I’d rather have one of the Hartmans here before we try that.”
“The phone, Irwin!” Miriam cried. “Call the Hartmans.”
“Ask for Albert, if you can,” Charley called after the boy as he took off with the dog on his heels. “We need someone with experience.”
“Get whoever can come the fastest!” Miriam pulled loose from Charley and waded toward the horses. “Shh, shh,” she murmured. “Easy, now.”
The dapple-gray mare lay still, her head held at an awkward angle out of the water. Charley hoped that the old girl didn’t have a broken leg. The first time he’d ever used a cultivator was behind that mare. Miriam’s father had showed him how and he’d always been grateful to Jonas and to Molly for the lesson. Since Miriam seemed to be calming Blackie, Charley knelt down and supported the mare’s head.
Blood continued to seep from a long scrape on the horse’s neck. Charley supposed the wound would need sewing up, but it didn’t look like something that was fatal. Her hind legs were what worried him. If a bone was shattered, it would be the end of the road for the mare. Miriam was a wonder with horses, with most any animal really, but she couldn’t heal a broken bone in a horse’s leg. Some people tried that with expensive racehorses, but like all Amish, the Yoders didn’t carry insurance on their animals, or on anything else. Sending an old horse off to some fancy veterinary hospital was beyond what Miriam’s Mam or the church could afford. When horses in Seven Poplars broke a leg, they had to be put down.
Charley stroked the dapple-gray’s head. He felt so sorry for her, but he didn’t dare to try and get the horses out of the creek until he had more help. If one of them didn’t have broken bones yet, the fright of getting them free might cause it.
Charley glanced at Miriam. One of her red-gold braids had come unpinned and hung over her shoulder. He swallowed hard. He knew he shouldn’t be staring at her hair. That was for a husband to see in the privacy of their home. But he couldn’t look away. It was so beautiful in the sunlight, and the little curling hairs at the back of her neck gleamed with drops of creek water.
A warmth curled in his stomach and seeped up to make his chest so tight that it was hard to breathe. He’d known Miriam Yoder since they were both in leading strings. They’d napped together on a blanket in a corner of his mother’s garden, as babies. Then, when they’d gotten older, maybe three or four, they’d played on her porch, swinging on the bench swing and taking all the animals out of a Noah’s Ark her Dat had carved for her and lining them up, two by two.
He guessed that he’d loved Miriam as long as he could remember, but she’d been just Miriam, like one of his sisters, only tougher. Last spring, he’d bought her pie at the school fundraiser and they’d shared many a picnic lunch. He’d always liked Miriam and he’d never cared that she was different from most girls, never cared that she could pitch a baseball better than him or catch more fish in the pond. He’d teased her, ridden with her to group sings and played clapping games at the young people’s doings.
Miriam was as familiar to him as his own mother, but standing here in the creek without her kapp, her dress soaked and muddy, scowling at him, he felt like he didn’t know her at all. He could have told any of his pals that he loved Miriam Yoder, but he hadn’t realized what that meant…until this moment. Suddenly, the thought that she could have been hurt when the wagon turned over, that she could have been tangled in the lines and pulled under, or crushed by the horses, brought tears to his eyes.
“Miriam,” he said. His mouth felt dry. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“Yes?” She turned those intense gray eyes from the horse back to him.
He suddenly felt foolish. He didn’t know what he was saying. He couldn’t tell her how he felt. They hadn’t ridden home from a frolic together more than three or four times. They hadn’t walked out together and she hadn’t invited him in when they’d gotten to her house and everyone else was asleep. They’d been friends, chums; they ran around with the same gang. He couldn’t just blurt out that he suddenly realized that he loved her. “Nothing. Never mind.”
She returned her attention to Blackie. “Shh, easy, easy,” she said, laying her cheek against his nose. “He’s quieting down. He can’t be hurt bad, don’t you think? But where’s all that blood coming from?” She leaned forward to touch the gelding’s right shoulder, and the animal squealed and started struggling against the harness again.
“Leave it,” Charley ordered, clamping a hand on her arm. “Wait for the vet. You could get hurt.”
“Ne,” she argued, but it wasn’t a real protest. She didn’t struggle against his grip. She knew he was right.
He nodded. “Just keep doing what you were.” He held her arm a second longer than he needed to.
“Miriam!”
It was a woman’s voice, one of her sisters’, for sure. Charley released Miriam.
“Oh, Anna, come quick! Oh, it’s terrible.”
Charley glanced up. It was Miriam’s twin, a big girl, more than a head taller and three times as wide. No one could ever accuse Anna of not being Plain. She wasn’t ugly; she had nice eyes, but she couldn’t hold a candle to Miriam. Still, he liked Anna well enough. She had a good heart and she baked the best biscuits in Kent County, maybe the whole state.
“Don’t cry, Anna,” Miriam said. “You’ll set me to crying again.”
“How bad are they hurt?” Miriam’s older sister Ruth came to stand on the bank beside Anna. She was holding Miriam’s filthy white kapp. “Are you all right? Is she all right?” She glanced from Miriam to Charley.
“I’m fine,” Miriam assured her. “Just muddy. It’s Molly and Blackie