Not looking quite so sure, the man finds the tag, turns it over for a look, and winces. “Do you take credit cards?” he asks.

Ten minutes later, Laura and I are sitting at the table at the rear of the store, drinking coffee. We’ve both helped ourselves to another piece of bread.

“Did you enjoy worship yesterday?” she asks.

“Very much,” I reply. “Everyone in the congregation is friendly and welcoming. Bishop Schrock is a good preacher.”

She smirks. “A little long-winded if you ask me, but then that’s the bishop for you.”

I let that settle, thinking about my exchange with Mary, and decide to give the beehive another poke. “I went to see him this morning.”

She looks at me over the rim of her cup and raises her brows. “About what?”

I tell her about the men on snowmobiles.

“What on earth would Amish men be doing on snow machines?”

“I was wondering the same thing.” Lowering my voice, I tell her about the two women. “Laura, I don’t think they were Amish.”

Her frown conveys disgust. “Boys that age have the brains of a chicken. I suspect Bishop Schrock will show them the error of their ways.”

I stare at the chunk of bread in my hand, unmoving, playing the role in which I’ve been cast. “I saw one of the men hit the woman he was with. Right in the face.”

She stiffens and for the first time looks uncomfortable. “Maybe they were just roughhousing. You know how the young people are these days, especially the boys.”

That was one of the attitudes I despised most growing up. People were always making excuses for the boys when they misbehaved. Not so for the girls, who have much less in the way of freedom and are held to a higher standard. “These were not boys,” I say firmly. “They were grown men. One of them had a beard.”

Her mouth opens, forming a perfect oval. “You told the bishop as much?”

I break the piece of bread in my hand in half. “I thought he should know.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he’d find out who they are and deal with them.”

“The bishop is a man of his word.” When she raises her mug to her lips, I can’t help but notice that her hand isn’t quite steady. “You’re not afraid to make waves, are you, Kate Miller?”

“I’m not afraid to do the right thing.”

“Let’s hope it was.”

I shoot her a puzzled look, but evidently she’s had enough talk of wayward Amish men. Brushing crumbs from her apron, she rises. “Some of the women come in to sew a few days a week. If you’re working on something, you’re welcome to join us.”