Page 13 of Fallen

We dashed out the back door, ran to the barn, through the stalls and equipment area, and exited through the rear pens. From there, we sprinted across the pasture, huffing and puffing. Danny yelped when he lost his hat, but he didn’t go back for it. Another fifty yards and the land swept down at a steep angle. At the base of the hill, two Amish boys were climbing over a five-strand barbed-wire fence. A fifty-five-gallon drum was wedged between the strands. Beyond, the green-blue water of Painters Creek snaked eastward, its murky surface dappled with sunlight slanting down through the trees.

“Where is she?” I cried as I started down the hill, running too fast, especially with an eight-year-old boy in tow.

“She flew out of the barrel!” he cried.

The answer didn’t make any sense, so I kept going. Having heard us, the boys, on the other side of the fence now, spun toward me. Breathless with panic. Faces sweaty and red.

“Vo is Rachael?” I called out to them. Where is Rachael?

“Sie fall im vassah!” her older brother shouted. She fell in the water.

I noticed that one end of the barrel had been cut off and removed. And a horrific picture emerged. The boys had been getting inside the barrel and rolling down the hill, which was far too steep for such a game. Somehow, six-year-old Rachael had gotten involved.

I reached the fence and vaulted it without slowing, my eyes skimming the water’s surface. “I don’t see her!”

“She rolled down the hill in the barrel!” The neighbor boy, Samuel Miller, stuttered every word. “It hit the fence and she fell out! Went in the water!”

I stumbled down the steep bank, tripping over the tangle of tree roots. A couple of feet from the water’s edge, I slipped in mud and plunged into the water. A crush of cold. The smell of fish and mud. Deep water. Over my head. I surfaced, sputtering.

“Rachael!” Treading water, I looked around, felt around for her with my legs.

“Where is she?” Even as I shouted the words, I heard a cough. I swiveled, spotted the small form crawling onto the rocky shoal on the opposite bank. Rachael, blue dress soaked and torn. On her hands and knees. Her kapp tugged down over one ear. One shoe missing.

I dog-paddled toward her. My feet made contact with the rocky bottom and I rushed to her. “Rachael!”

She sat on the rocks, her legs splayed in front of her. Her face was eggshell pale. Eyes huge. Expression shaken. A scrape on her chin. A drop of watery blood dangled beneath her nose.

I thought about the barbed wire and envisioned a gaping wound in need of stitches. Every single awful scenario scrolled through my mind at a dizzying speed.

“Are you hurt?” I heaved myself from the water and started toward her, my dress dripping, shoes squeaking with every step.

The girl looked up at me and blinked. I braced, expecting a wail and tears. Instead, she wiped blood from her nose with a hand that was rock steady. A grin overtook her face. A laugh burst from her mouth.

“You’re not going to tattle on me, are you, Katie?” She frowned at the smear of blood on her hand. “I want to do it again.”

CHAPTER 7

Ben and Loretta Bontrager own a good-size dairy operation on a sixty-two-acre spread a few miles outside Painters Mill. I’ve known Loretta since she was a youngster, too shy to speak, and hiding behind the skirt of her mamm’s dress. She was the polar opposite of Rachael and yet somehow the two girls became best friends. While Rachael was the gregarious live wire, Loretta was the quiet and obedient follower.

Aside from the occasional wave in town, I haven’t spoken to Loretta in years. I met her husband, Ben, for the first time two years ago when he ran into some problems for selling unpasteurized milk, which is illegal in the state of Ohio. He readily agreed to cease operations and there was never a need for me to come back. Until now.

I’ve just turned in to the lane of the Bontrager farm when I glance across the pasture to my right and spot the horse and rider. It’s common to see people riding horses here in Painters Mill. We’ve got a few cowboys, the local 4-H club; even Amish kids partake on occasion. This particular equestrian rides like poetry and takes the horse into a circle at an easy lope. Horse and rider are one, a ballad of perfect balance and animal beauty that’s so captivating, I stop the Explorer to take it in.

After a moment, the rider spots me, slows the animal, and trots toward me. I almost can’t believe my eyes when I realize this rider is not only Amish, but female. She’s bareback, sneaker-clad feet dangling. Her skirt is hiked up to her knees and I see a pair of trousers underneath. She clutches a tuft of mane with one hand, and with the other grips the reins, which look like old leather lines that have been cut short for riding. The horse’s head is high, nostrils flared, foam at the corners of its mouth.

“Nicely done,” I call out to her.

The girl runs her hand over the animal’s shoulder, but not before I see the flash of pride in her eyes. “He’s a good horse,” she tells me.

I get out and walk over to the fence that runs alongside the lane. She’s eleven or twelve years old, with big brown eyes, a sprinkling of freckles on a sunburned nose, and dark hair tucked messily into a kapp. A tiny bow peeks out at me from the base of the head covering, and I smile. That bow, which is not approved by the Ordnung, is a symbol of a girl’s individuality, a sign of independence, and a small way to set herself apart from her mamm.

The horse is a Standardbred, the most common breed used for buggies. Most are worked so much in the course of day-to-day transportation, they’re rarely used for riding. Most are never trained for anything but driving.

“You’re a good rider,” I tell her.

The girl lifts a shoulder, lets it drop, looks down at her dangling foot.

“Who trained him to ride under saddle like that?” I ask.