I’m jogged awake by the sound of pounding. Adrenaline burns like mercury through my midsection as I swivel from the bed and set my feet on the floor. I reach down, grab the .38 off the table next to my bed. Cram the phone into the pocket of my sweatpants. The .22 and pepper spray in the other. Pounding sounds again, hard enough to shake the door. Sons of bitches, I think. Then I’m moving down the hall, my revolver leading the way, my temper bringing up the rear.

I step into the living room, sidle right toward the window and lift the curtain half an inch with my finger. In the meager light of a hazy half moon, I see a figure standing on the deck, a couple of feet from the door. Not the men I’d expected, but a diminutive female silhouette. It could be a trap; they could have anticipated my being prepared and sent a decoy.

Silently, I walk to the door, lower the .38 to my side. “Who’s there?” I call out.

“Your favorite Amish girl.”

Marie Weaver. “You alone?”

“Just me and the coyotes.”

Pulling the chair from beneath the knob, I disengage the bolt lock, twist the knob, and open the door a few inches. “You’d better not be lying to me,” I say, my eyes sweeping the area behind her and around the trailer. There’s no one there.

“You’re kind of paranoid, aren’t you?” She looks intrigued by my fulsome caution.

“Shut up and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Sheesh.” Sighing, she yanks her hands from her pockets. “What do you think I’m going to do? Rob you?”

“Or worse.” I give her a hard look. “What do you want?”

Cocking her head, she looks at me a little more closely. “You don’t act like a normal Amish woman.”

I motion toward her clothes. “Same goes.”

She’s shivering beneath a Walmart puffy coat. No hat. No gloves or scarf. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are red from the cold. Why is she here?

“You want to come in for a minute?” I ask, calming down.

“I didn’t come here to stand on your porch and freeze my ass off.”

Taking a final look beyond her, I step back. I smell cigarette smoke and strawberry shampoo as she pushes past me. I motion toward the kitchen table. “Sit down.”

Frowning, she obeys. I’ve still got my hand on the butt of the .38 in my sweatpants’ pocket, out of sight. Not a good place for it, so I take a few steps back and snag my coat off the sofa where I left it. Placing the revolver on the sofa, I slide into the coat, then put the gun in my pocket.