“Shtobba!” the man with whom she’d been riding yells. Stop. “Halt!”

“Sie is am shpringa!” shouts the second driver. She’s running!

The man she’d been riding with unfastens his helmet, throws it to the ground, and vaults from the seat. “Stop!” He sprints after the woman. Even mired by the snow and his bulky clothes, it takes him only a few strides to catch her. He takes her down in a full-body tackle. The woman makes a muffled sound, her face crushed into the snow.

The man gets to his knees, flips her onto her back, and straddles her. “Stupid woman!” he shouts. “Get on the machine.”

She spits snow in his face and shouts something in a language I don’t recognize. He draws back and slaps her in the face.

A hundred scenarios snap through my brain. Is this some kind of domestic dispute? Are these people intoxicated? Or is something more sinister going on? For a split second I debate whether to intervene. Of course, if I do, I risk blowing my cover. But there’s no way I can stand by and let that son of a bitch assault her. The man takes the decision away from me when he punches her a second time.

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.