I turn my attention to the boy who shoved her. He’s about nineteen years old. Sandy hair. Bad haircut. Vivid blue eyes. An attitude I’m no stranger to, especially when it comes to young males pumped up on testosterone. He might’ve been attractive if not for the angry patches of acne on his cheeks and the bad attitude in his eyes.

“What’s your name?” The question is out—in my cop’s voice no less—an instant before I remind myself who I am and why I’m here. Amish women aren’t pushovers, but they’re not as assertive as I am, especially when it comes to men.

In the periphery of my vision, I see the other boys exchange looks that relay the question: Who the hell is she? The one I’m addressing meets my gaze head on and holds it. “Jacob Yoder.”

The boy who’d been courting Rachel Esh.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask.

“We could ask you the same thing.”

I glance over to the other boy to my left. Dark brown hair. Too long with blunt-cut bangs. Pale skin. Brown eyes. A sharp retort dangles on my tongue, but I curb it. Instead, I stare hard at him until he looks away and I turn my attention back to the girl. “What’s going on?”

She looks over her shoulder as if the answer lies somewhere within the trees. “We were just goofing off,” she mumbles.

“Is that why he pushed you down?” I ask.

Yoder steps closer. “I didn’t—”

“I saw you.” I stand my ground, and he doesn’t come any closer.

“We were just playing around,” Yoder says. “Ain’t that right, Marie?”

I make eye contact with the girl. She looks down at her shoes. “We were just playing.”

A little voice inside my head warns: Be careful.

“Who are you?” The third boy, in his late teens with strawberry-blond hair, looks at his friends, emboldened by them. “I ain’t seen your face around here before.”

“Yeah.” The dark-haired boy moves closer, stops a few feet away, looks me up and down. “You’re not even from around here and you think you can tell us what to do.”

Under any other circumstances, the last thing I’d do is give up ground, literally or figuratively. These young men are up to no good, and the cop inside me would like nothing better than to shove their bad attitudes down their throats. But I need to maintain the persona of a newly relocated, recently widowed Amish woman. Dropping my gaze, I take a step back. “I’m Kate Miller,” I tell him. “I heard this girl call out, and I thought she needed help.”

“Well, she don’t need any help,” Yoder tells me. “From you or anyone else.” He grins at the girl. “She likes it rough. Ain’t that so, Marie?”