The house looms into view like something out of a gothic movie. It’s a grim place in the semidarkness. It’s isolated and, with the falling snow and trees, somehow menacing. I see the flicker of lantern light in the living room window. Taking the steps to the porch, I cross to the door and knock.

While I wait, my mind scrolls through possible reasons Schrock might want to see me and how I might use the visit to my advantage. I look out over the woods, and even with my nerves zinging, I have to admire the beauty of the place. The black trunks of the winter-bare trees. The softly falling snow. The blanket of leaves slowly being covered with white.

The creak of hinges sounds. I turn to see Eli Schrock standing in the doorway, looking at me as if I’m lost and wandered to his doorstop for directions.

“Guder nochmiddawks,” I say. Good afternoon.

He doesn’t offer a smile. His eyes are direct and probing. Clad in all black—hat, trousers, and jacket—he makes an imposing figure. I’m not easily intimidated, but the knowledge that we’re wholly alone and I’m miles from help hovers in the forefront of my mind.

“Kate Miller.” He bows his head slightly. “I thought you’d ride with Jacob.”

“I didn’t want to put him to any trouble, so I rode the scooter bike.”

“You must be cold. Come in.”

Stepping aside, he ushers me through the door. I’m keenly aware of his size as I walk past him. He’s well over six feet tall and probably two hundred pounds. He stands so close I discern the smell of fresh-cut wood on his jacket and coffee on his breath. The first thing I notice is the fire blazing in the hearth. A braided rug covers a rough-hewn plank floor. On a table next to the sofa, a kerosene lantern flickers, casting shadows on the ceiling. I notice a copy of Martyrs Mirror lying facedown on a sofa cushion.

“I’ve interrupted your reading,” I say.

He closes the door. “You’ve read Martyer Schipiggel?”

“When I was a teenager.”

“The Anabaptists have suffered many torments because of their faith.” He motions to a straight-backed chair across from the sofa. “And yet they forgave, even loved their persecutors.”

“Dirk Willems,” I reply, referring to the story of the martyred Anabaptist who fled from his captors, risked his life crossing thin ice, and made it to the other side. When his pursuer gave chase and fell through the ice and into the frigid water, Willems went back onto the ice and rendered aid. Because of his kindness, Willems was recaptured, tortured, and burned at the stake.

Schrock smiles, pleased that I’m familiar with the story. “It’s the Amish way.”

My boots are nearly silent against the floor as I cross to the chair.

“Would you like kaffi?” he asks.

“Thank you.”