Page 98 of Fallen

“I’m ten-seven-six,” I say, letting her know I’m on my way to the Schwartz farm.

I hang a U-turn in the middle of the road and head that way. I haven’t seen or spoken to Fannie since the day Loretta and Ben Bontrager accosted me at their farm. But I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking about her. Twelve is a difficult age for a girl, whether you’re Amish or English. That’s usually about the time you leave childhood behind and take that first tentative step—or misstep—into adulthood. There are a lot of unknowns, a lot of fears, none of which are easy to talk about. Add the kind of upheaval Fannie has been through to the mix, and it’s a time that can become emotionally chaotic.

I’m passing by the Bontrager farm, which stands vacant now, and nearly to the greenbelt at the edge of the pasture when in the periphery of my vision I spot the horse and rider. I know immediately the rider is Fannie. I brake hard, hang another U-turn, and head that way.

If the girl notices me, she doesn’t show it. The horse is galloping in the ditch alongside the road at a speed that would give any parent a panic attack. The girl leans forward, reins in one hand, a tuft of mane in the other, keeping perfect time with the animal’s stride. I stop the Explorer a hundred or so yards ahead of her, so I’m visible to both horse and rider.

I pick up my radio. “I’ve got eyes on our ten-twenty-nine.”

“Roger that.”

I get out, walk around to the front, and lean against the hood. I watch her ride, a little awed because she’s good, a little sad because at some point she probably won’t be allowed to continue. A few yards away from where I stand, she straightens slightly, tugs gently on the reins.

“Whoa,” she says quietly.

The animal slows to a trot and then to a walk; its steel shoes crunch against the gravel on the shoulder as it walks up to me. Ten feet away, she stops the animal. It’s the same horse she was riding the day I met her. His nostrils are flared. There’s a bit of lather on his flanks and where the saddle blanket rests on his shoulder.

“He’s beautiful,” I say.

She’s not happy to see me. “You arrested my mamm and datt,” she says.

“I don’t blame you for being angry.” I pretend to study the horse, but I’m cognizant of the girl, too. She’s been crying. There’s a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, and her tears left a trail.

I go to the animal, run my hand over its forehead, along its neck. She’s braided the mane, securing the ends with rubber bands. I find myself thinking about Rachael Schwartz and that long-ago day when I found her sitting on that rocky shoal in Painters Creek, grinning like an imp, her face aglow with the aftereffects of adrenaline—and the eternal question of nurture versus nature stirs.

“I know professional horse trainers who can’t ride like that,” I tell her.

Her gaze jerks to mine, untrusting of the compliment, too angry with me to accept it. She doesn’t quite know how to reject it, so I simply let the statement stand.

“I guess they sent you to pick me up,” she mutters after a moment.

“They love you. They worry.” I shrug. “Might’ve helped if you’d let them know where you were going.”

“Like they’d give me permission,” she huffs.

I don’t know how much they’ve told her about Rachael Schwartz or the Bontragers. I don’t know how much she’s heard via the grapevine. I don’t even know whether to call the Schwartzes her grandparents. Does she know that Rachael Schwartz was her mother? Does she know Loretta Bontrager took her mother’s life?

“They don’t like me to ride,” she tells me. “They’re probably going to sell him.”

“Maybe you can come up with some kind of compromise.”

“It’s because I’m a girl.” She speaks over me. I almost smile, because Rachael used to do exactly the same thing. “Amish girls don’t ride.”

I nod, pretend I don’t notice when she swipes angrily at the tears that have begun to fall. “It’s not fair,” she spits.

This is where I have to bite my tongue. The truth of the matter is the Amish are a patriarchal society. Sometimes the boys and men are allowed to do things the women and girls are not. What some people fail to recognize is that while those roles are defined and separate, they’re also equally important.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “Sometimes life isn’t fair. It’s a hard lesson, but we do the best we can. And we try not to worry the people who love us.”

Fannie rolls her eyes at my philosophy, sniffs.

The clatter of shod hooves draws our attention. I look past Fannie to see a horse and buggy coming down the road at a fast clip. Dan Schwartz stands abruptly, cranes his head, and speeds toward us. A few yards away from where I’m parked, he stops the horse. I watch as Rhoda climbs down from the buggy and rushes toward us, the remnants of worry etched into her features.

“Fannie.” The Amish woman reaches us, presses her hand to her chest. “Hi, Katie.”

“She was exercising the horse,” I say in Deitsch.

I feel Fannie’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at her. “Sell is en goodah,” I say, referring to the horse. That is a good one.