I jump to my feet. Leaving the cover of the trees, I whistle. “Here, boy! Come on, boy!”

Then I’m walking toward them, using my hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the headlights. “Hello?” I call out, making an effort to lose my cop persona. It’s not easy; nothing pisses me off more than seeing a bully punch the shit out of a woman.

“Who’s there?” I call out in Pennsylvania Dutch.

Four heads swivel in my direction. The man on top of the woman jumps to his feet. The other man, still sitting on the snowmobile, swings his leg over the saddle and gets off. I hear him tell the woman behind him to stay put.

I don’t see any weapons, but that doesn’t mean they’re not armed. The Amish generally don’t own handguns, but these men are a far cry from typical.

“Who are you?” The man who’d punched the woman starts toward me. He’s wearing a ski mask so I can’t see his face, but his body language tells me he’s pissed off that I’ve interrupted.

I’m aware of the .22 against my thigh as he closes the distance between us. Stopping, I watch him approach. He’s young. No beard that I can see, which means he’s not married. I don’t like the look of him. Angry and high on adrenaline.

“I’m Kate Miller.” I motion behind me. “I live down the road. I saw a stray dog. He looked cold and lost.” I cock my head, the way a suspicious Amish woman might. “What are you doing on those machines?” I ask in Pennsylvania Dutch.

The two men exchange glances.

“We ain’t seen no dog.” The man who’d punched the woman stops ten feet away from me, looks me up and down. “You probably saw a coyote.”

I look past him at the fallen woman and switch to English. “Was there an accident here? Are you injured?” I motion toward the snowmobile, then turn my attention to the man. “Isn’t it against the Ordnung for you to be riding them?”

The woman stares at me, mouth open, breaths puffing out in a vaporous white cloud. A small dribble of blood on her chin. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that she’s frightened. That she doesn’t understand English or Pennsylvania Dutch.

The man sets his hand on her shoulder and pulls her against him, so that her bound hands are out of sight. I pretend not to notice and address the woman directly. “Did you fall off the machine?”

When she doesn’t respond, I turn my attention to the man. “Look at her,” I scold. “She’s cold and hurt.”

I start to go to her, a mother hen whose chick has been pecked by an aggressive rooster.

“She’s fine.” The man steps toward me, blocking my way. “We don’t need your help.”

I stop.

“Go home, lady,” the second man calls out. “You’re trespassing on Schrock land.”

“I’m sure Bishop Schrock will be interested to know about these machines,” I shoot back.