I leave the porch, cross the wide gravel area and start toward the barn. One of the big sliding doors stands open. Inside, I see the silhouette of a horse in crossties standing in the aisle. A young Amish man is next to the horse, bent at the waist. As I draw closer, I hear the clang of a hammer against steel and I realize he’s shoeing the horse. A second animal is tethered to the stall door, awaiting its turn.

“Hello,” I say to him as I step into the shadows of the barn.

The farrier lowers the horse’s hoof to the ground and straightens. He’s thickly built, with bright blue eyes and a clean-shaven face, which tells me he’s unmarried. Though it’s cold this morning, he’s removed his overcoat and wears a black jacket over work trousers, a blue work shirt, and suspenders. “Hello,” he says.

“Is Bishop Schrock around?” I ask.

He nods toward the back part of the barn. “He’s unloading hay.”

“Danki.” I run my hand over the horse’s rump as I pass, its coat warm and soft beneath my palm.

I find Schrock standing in a hay wagon that’s been backed up to the rear door. His back is to me; he’s using a pitchfork to drop loose hay from the bed of the wagon to several horses in the paddock below. “Hello? Bishop Schrock?”

Slowly, he turns to me. His dark eyes zero in on mine with startling directness. He’s clad in black. Overcoat. Jacket over a white shirt. Work pants. Black felt hat.

He doesn’t offer a smile, but I discern recognition in his expression. “Kate Miller,” he says. “Good morning.”

“You remembered my name.”

“You have a memorable face.” He jams the pitchfork into the hay and climbs down from the wagon, moving with the surety of a man in good physical condition. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something that happened last night.”

Concern enters his expression. I can’t tell if it’s practiced or genuine or somewhere in between. “Of course.”

“I heard the sound of engines outside my trailer, so I put on my coat and walked outside and I saw two Amish men on snowmobiles.”

“Amisch?” His brows snap together. “On snowmobiles? Who were they?”

“They wouldn’t give their names. They were wearing ski masks beneath their helmets.”

“You’re certain they’re Amish?”

“They spoke Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch.” I grimace, take a half step closer. “Bishop, there were women with them. English women. I saw one of the men strike the woman riding with him. Hard enough so that she fell to the ground.”

He stares at me, dismay spreading over his features. “Was she hurt?”