Page 14 of Fallen

“I reckon I did.”

She mumbles the response in a way that tells me it’s an achievement she probably shouldn’t admit to, and I wonder if she’s been warned to stay off the horse. It wouldn’t be the first time an Amish girl was disallowed to partake in an activity a boy would have every right in which to excel.

“You should enter him in the Annie Oakley Days horse show,” I tell her.

Her eyes light up. I see pride in their depths, and I hope she holds on to that as she grows into adulthood.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Fannie Bontrager.”

“Ben and Loretta are your parents?”

“Ja.”

“Are they home?”

Nodding, she points toward the house.

I round the front of the Explorer and open the door. Look across the hood at her. “Enjoy the rest of your ride, Fannie.”

Beaming a grin, she wheels the horse around, and lopes away.

Shaking my head, I get back into the Explorer and continue on.

The Bontrager farmhouse is a two-story frame structure with fresh white paint, double redbrick chimneys, and a gleaming metal roof. I drive past a ramshackle German-style bank barn and a muddy pen where a gaggle of Holstein cows encircle a round bale of hay. I park at the rear of the house and take a narrow concrete sidewalk to the front porch. I’ve barely knocked when the door swings open.

Loretta Bontrager wears a gray dress with a matching halsduch, or “cape”; an organdy kapp; and a pair of nondescript oxfords. She’s got a dishcloth in one hand, a soapy sponge in the other, her attention lingering on whatever she’d been cleaning.

She does a double take at the sight of me. “Katie Burkholder?” Stepping aside, she ushers me inside. “What a surprise.”

I go through the door and extend my hand. “It’s been a while.”

“I’ll say.” She drops the sponge into a bucket full of suds, dries her hands with the dish towel, and grasps my hand. “Time has a way of slipping by, doesn’t it? Too fast if you ask me.”

“I met your daughter on my way up the lane,” I tell her.

“Probably on that horse again, eh?”

“She’s a good rider.”

“Like her datt, I guess.” She shakes her head. “Keeping her off that horse is like trying to keep the wool off a sheep.”

She cocks her head, polite, wondering why I’m here. “Witt du kaffi?” Would you like coffee?

“I can’t stay,” I tell her.

Something in my voice must have alerted her that I’m not here for a friendly chat and she goes still.

“Loretta, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. It’s Rachael Schwartz. She’s dead.”

The Amish woman’s smile falters as if for an instant she thinks the words are some cruel joke. “What?” She sways, reaches out and sets her hand against the wall. “But … Rachael? Gone? How can that be?”

“I’m sorry. I know you were close.”

She steadies herself, lets her hand slide from the wall, and faces me. “Rachael,” she whispers. “She’s so young and healthy. How?”

“She was murdered,” I tell her. “Sometime last night.”