Page 4 of Shamed

“Ten or so.” Mona motions toward the fallen hay. “About a quarter mile back.”

Now that I’ve gotten a better look at them, I realize I’ve seen these children around town with their parents. I’ve stopped her datt on more than one occasion for refusing to display a slow-moving-vehicle sign on his buggy. It’s gratifying to see he heeded my advice.

“You’re Elam Shetler’s kids?” I ask.

The driver shifts her gaze to me. “I’m Loretta.” She jabs a thumb at the younger girl sitting beside her. “That’s Lena. And Marvin.”

I gauge the size of the wagon and the stability of the load. It’s a big rig that’s overloaded. The road is narrow, without much of a shoulder. I’m about to suggest she go home to unload and return with an adult when she gathers the reins and clucks to the horses.

“Kumma druff!” she snaps. “Kumma druff!” Come on there!

The horses come alive. Their heads go up. Ears pricked forward. Listening. Old pros, I think.

“Are you sure you can turn that thing around?” I ask her.

“I can turn it around just fine,” the girl tells me. There’s no petulance or juvenile showmanship. Just an easy confidence that stems from capability and experience.

I glance at Mona. “Let’s back up the Explorer and get out of the girl’s way.”

“You got it, Chief.”

I retreat a few feet and watch with a certain level of admiration as the girl skillfully sends both horses into a graceful side pass. The animal’s heads are tucked, outside forelegs crossing over the inside legs in perfect unison. When the wagon runs out of room, she backs the horses a couple of feet and once again sends them into a side pass. Within minutes, the wagon faces the direction from which it came.

“I have a whole new respect for Amish girls,” Mona whispers.

I cross to the wagon, look up at the girl. “Nicely done,” I tell her.

She looks away, but not before I see a flash of pride in her eyes, the hint of a blush on her cheeks, and I think, Good girl.

I motion toward the fallen bales of hay. “Pull up to those bales, and Mona and I will toss them onto the wagon for you.”

The children giggle at the thought of two Englischer women in police uniforms loading their fallen hay, but they don’t argue.

I’ve just tossed the last bale onto the wagon when the radio strapped to my duty belt comes to life. “Chief?”

I hit my shoulder mike, recognizing the voice of my first-shift dispatcher. “Hey, Lois.”

“I just took a call from Mike Rhodehammel. Says there’s a horse and buggy loose on Township Road 14 right there by the old Schattenbaum place.”

“On my way,” I tell her. “ETA two minutes.”

I slide back into the Explorer. “You hear that?” I ask Mona.

“Yep.” She puts the vehicle in gear.

A few minutes later we make the turn onto the township road. It’s a decaying stretch of crumbling asphalt that’s long since surrendered to the encroaching grass shoulder and overgrown trees. There are two houses on this barely-there swath of road. Ivan and Miriam Helmuth own a decent-size farm, growing hay, soybeans, and corn. The other property is the old Schattenbaum place, which has been abandoned for as long as I can remember.

I spot the buggy and horse ahead. The animal is still hitched and standing in the ditch against a rusty, tumbling-down fence. The buggy sits at a cockeyed angle.

“No sign of the driver.” Mona pulls up behind the buggy and hits the switch for the light bar. “What do you think happened?”

“The Helmuths have a lot of kids.” I shrug. “Maybe someone didn’t tether their horse or close a gate.” I get out and start toward the buggy.

The horse raises its head and looks at me as I approach. The animal isn’t sweaty or breathing hard, which tells me this isn’t a runaway situation. I peer into the buggy, find it unoccupied, three old-fashioned bushel baskets in the back.

“Well, that’s odd.” I look around and spot a red F-150 rolling up to us.

“Hey, Chief.” Local hardware store owner Mike Rhodehammel lowers his window. “Any sign of the driver?”