Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(4)

We spend a few minutes lugging bales onto the gravel shoulder, and then we’re back in the Explorer heading toward the wayward driver. It’s an old wooden hay wagon with slatted side rails, half of which are broken.

“At least he’s got a slow-moving-vehicle sign displayed,” I say as we approach. “That’s good.”

“Shall I pull him over, Chief?”

“Let’s do it.”

Looking a little too excited by the prospect of making a stop, she tracks the wagon, keeping slightly to the left. We can’t see the driver because the bed is stacked ten feet high with hay. It’s being drawn by a couple of equally old draft horses. Slowly, the wagon veers onto the shoulder and stops.

Taking a breath, Mona straightens her jacket, shoots me an I-got-this glance, and gets out. Trying not to smile, I follow suit and trail her to the left front side of the wagon.

The driver isn’t what either of us expected. She’s fourteen or fifteen years old. An even younger girl sits on the bench seat next to her. Between them, a little boy of about six or seven grins a nearly toothless smile. I can tell by their clothes that they’re Swartzentruber Amish; the boy is wearing a black coat over blue jeans and high-top black sneakers. A flat-brimmed hat sits atop the typical “Dutch boy” haircut. The girls are wearing dark blue dresses with black coats and black winter bonnets.

The Swartzentruber Amish are Old Order and adhere to the long-standing traditions with an iron grip. They forgo many of the conveniences other Amish use in their daily lives. Things like running water and indoor plumbing. They don’t use windshields in their buggies or rubber tires. The women wear long, dark dresses. Most wear winter bonnets year-round. The men don’t trim their beards. Even their homes tend to be plain.

As a group, they get a bit of a bad rap, especially from non-Amish people who don’t understand the culture. Most complaints have to do with their refusal to use slow-moving-vehicle signage, which they consider ornamental. I’ve also heard some non-Amish grumble about the personal hygiene of some Swartzentruber. Having been raised Amish, I appreciate the old ways. Even if I don’t agree with them, I respect them. I know from experience how difficult it is to lug water when it’s ten below zero outside. Such hardships make it impractical to bathe every day, especially in winter.

The kids are uneasy about being pulled over, so I move to set them at ease. “Guder nochmiddawks,” I say, using the Pennsylvania Dutch words for “good afternoon.”

“Hi.” The driver’s gaze flicks from Mona to me. “Did I do something wrong?”

I nod at Mona, let her know this is her stop. “No, ma’am,” she tells the girl. “I just wanted to let you know you lost a few bales of hay.”

The girl’s eyes widen. “Oh no.” She glances behind her, but can’t see past the stacked hay without getting down. “How many?”

“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?”