“Her lip was bleeding.” I drop my gaze, pretend to struggle with the weight of the message with which I’ve burdened him. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought you should know.”

He nods. “Tell me, Kate, are the men of the age where they might be on Rumspringa?”

I shake my head. “Had that been the case, I wouldn’t have come to you. I understand sometimes the young men who’ve not yet been baptized … do things.” I let my expression become pained. “Bishop,” I say in a low voice. “I can’t be sure, but I think one of the men wore a beard.”

Sighing, he reaches out and sets his hand on my shoulder. I suppress the urge to cringe when he squeezes gently. “Thank you for bringing this to me. I’ll see if I can figure out who they are and what I can do to help them.”

If I hadn’t been watching him closely, I might’ve missed the flash of condescension, of amusement, in his eyes. He didn’t ask a single question that might help him identify the men. You already know who they are, a little voice whispers in my ear.

Giving me a nod, he climbs back onto the wagon.

I’d wanted to speak to him longer to see where the conversation might take us, but I’ve been dismissed. I start toward the door. I’m midway there when he calls out to me, “Do you need a buggy ride back to your trailer?”

“No, thank you, Bishop. I have my scooter bike.”

As I turn and start toward the door, it occurs to me that even though I hadn’t mentioned it, he knows where I live.

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

My exchange with Schrock niggles at me all the way back to the trailer. When I told him about the men in the woods, he made all the right noises. He said all the right things. But he wasn’t convincing. I didn’t see genuine concern. There were no questions. Granted, he’s a reticent man; he’s difficult to read. I’m not sure if my perspective is tainted because of the suspicion that has been laid at my feet. But I know if I’d brought the same information to my former bishop in Painters Mill, he would have been all over it—and enormously displeased.

I drop the kick scooter at the trailer and continue into town on foot. My first stop is The Dutch Kitchen for a mug of dark roast and some conversation with Mary Gingerich. There are only three other customers in the restaurant. Two men sit in the nearest booth. A silver-haired man wearing a John Deere cap and insulated coveralls sips coffee at the end of the counter. I take my usual place, where Mary is pouring pancake syrup into a glass container.