“They’re at their best in early spring, but still good now.”

“My mamm used to make them with bacon and vinegar.”

“Good on a salad, too, if you like them raw.”

“I do.”

We stand there a moment, admiring the quilts in silence, enjoying the breeze. “You told me yesterday you didn’t have any quilts,” I say.

She looks over her shoulder toward the house but doesn’t respond.

I follow her gaze, and for the first time I notice the buggy is gone. “Your husband is away?”

“He went up to Keim Lumber for some wood.” She laughs. “I suspect he’ll come back with more goats.”

Smiling, I move to one of the other quilts and run my hand over the fabric. “Is there a reason why you didn’t tell me about the quilts, Mrs. Kline?”

She joins me, pretending to study her handiwork. When she runs her hand over the stitching, it quivers. “You were Amish once, weren’t you, Chief Burkholder? But you left the fold during Rumspringa?”

That’s not exactly the way it happened, but I don’t correct her. “Yes.”

“We’re Swartzentruber. My husband and I. My parents. I love being Amish. I love God, and living my life by the Ordnung gives me joy.”

“I understand.”

“The Amish have always been there for us. When Jeramy hurt his back two years ago, Big Joe Beiler and his friends cut and bundled our corn for us—when he had his own crops to harvest and eight mouths to feed.” She looks out across the pasture, toward the pond where the two pygmy goats nibble green shoots near the bank.

“The Amish can be harsh, too,” I say gently. “Judgmental.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes that harshness is warranted. Sometimes it isn’t.”

When she says nothing, I turn to her, tilting my head slightly to meet her gaze. “Leroy Nolt’s parents told me that in the weeks before he disappeared, he was seeing someone in secret. His sister saw him with a girl. An Amish girl.”

The silence between us thickens. I see discomfort in her face. Her skin reddens above the collar of her dress. “You recognized the ring in the photo,” I say gently. “I saw it on your face.”

After a full minute, she whispers, “I knew Leroy.” She utters the words as if she’s afraid someone will hear and the repercussions will be severe.

“Do you know what happened to him?” I ask.

“No. I figured he left for the city. Columbus or Cleveland or, my goodness, he was always talking about New York City.”

“Were you involved with him?”

“Involved?” She laughs but looks down at the ground. “I was just a girl with a silly crush.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course.”

“You must have missed him.”

“Nooo.” She draws out the “o” for emphasis. “I was happy for him. He’d followed his dreams, foolish as they were. And so different from my own.”