“Shit!”
“Run!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two of the animals in question waddle onto the diamond. Jonas, I thought, and I swung around to see him standing next to his buggy, eating an apple, watching the boys scatter. Despite the pain in my nose, the blood dribbling down my chin, I laughed.
A few weeks ago, he’d rescued half a dozen skunk babies when their mama was hit by a car. He bottle-fed them. Tamed them. Carried them around everywhere. He’d been planning to bring them here and turn them loose in the woods. Today must have been the day.
The boy who slugged me stabbed a finger at me, but his attention was riveted to the skunks doddering in his direction. “You ain’t seen the last of us, you little shit!”
The boys clambered into their ATVs. Baseball bats and gloves tossed in the rear. The engines roared to life. A water bottle flew in my direction.
“This ain’t over!” one of them shouted.
Dirt and dust spewed into the air as the two ATVs sped away.
I needed a minute to hide the evidence that I’d been crying, so I walked to the bank of the muddy pond, toed off my sneakers and socks, hiked up my dress, and waded into the mossy water to retrieve my glove.
“Looks like someone got slugged.”
I turned to see Jonas walking toward me, his head cocked, his eyes taking in the blood on the front of my dress. He was sixteen now. Taller than me by a foot.
“I guess someone did,” I muttered as I pulled my socks and shoes on over my muddy feet.
“You’re still bleeding,” he said. “Tilt your head back. Pinch your nose. I got a kerchief in the buggy. Come on.”
Taking my hand, he led me to the buggy and sat me down on the step-up. I sat there, watching droplets of blood hit the dirt, praying I didn’t start crying again.
“Here you go.” Jonas handed me a crinkled kerchief.
I took it, trying not to wince when I pressed it against my nose and squeezed my nostrils together.
For a couple of minutes, we watched the skunks as they sniffed around, eventually moseying over to us. Jonas handed me a piece of his apple and I offered it to the runt of the litter, who took it and began to chew.
“Nose still hurt?” he asked.
I looked down at my muddy shoes and socks. “Mamm’s going to be mad.”
“I got some water in the buggy. We’ll get that dirt off you and no one will ever know.” He took the last bite of apple and offered the core to the other skunks.
I watched the animals eat, enjoying the way they held the apple core with their tiny clawed hands and wrinkled their noses when they bit into it.
After a moment, Jonas spoke. “You know that’s not going to be the last time someone gives you a bloody nose.”
“They were mean,” I said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You should have let them have the diamond,” he pointed out.
I sat up straighter, my hand falling away from my face, my sense of justice chafed. “We built it,” I said. “Why should we give it up to those boys who did nothing but try to steal it? It’s ours.”
Frowning, he guided my hand back to my nose. “You’re right. We built it. But this land belongs to the Delaney family, not us.” He shrugged. “Besides, we’re Amish, Katie. We don’t fight. Over ball diamonds or anything else.”
“Maybe that’s why I don’t fit in.”
“You fit in just fine. You just have to try a little harder.”
But while neither of us was quite able to put our doubts into words, we both knew my ability to conform wasn’t an attribute that could be counted on.
I was well versed in all the Amish tenets. I knew their importance. I felt their goodness, the comfort of them. I wasn’t mature enough to put my misgivings about the rules into words. But I was aware of the battle raging inside me and I wanted Jonas to know it wasn’t because I didn’t understand.
“You think I’m too rebellious,” I murmured.
“I think your nature is rebellious.”
I looked down at the kerchief, smeared with blood. I looked at the front of my dress and sighed, wondering how I was going to explain it to Mamm. Maybe if I told her I got hit in the face by the ball …
“If those boys were right to do what they did, why did you sic the skunks on them?” I asked.
“I didn’t say they were right. But neither were you.” I start to protest, but he raised his hand. “Besides, I didn’t want to see you get punched again.”
“Maybe I would have hit him back,” I snapped.
Jonas laughed despite the fact that I was serious and he knew it. “That’s the thing about you, Katie. You’re muleheaded enough to walk the hard road.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You stayed true to yourself even though you knew it might earn you a punch in the nose.” He shrugged. “In a way, that’s a blessing. In another way, because you’re Amish and a girl, it’s a curse.”
We got to play our baseball game that afternoon. We told Jacob and Sarah and my mamm I was hit in the nose by a fly ball. I never forgot what Jonas told me about staying true to myself. I recalled those words a hundred times growing up. Times when it would have been easier to compromise what I believed in and take the lesser road.
I felt closer to Jonas than my own brother. He listened to me. Treated me as an equal, as if what I had to say was important. He told me things he didn’t share with others. Nothing inappropriate—we were innocents that summer—just observations and opinions that didn’t necessarily jibe with all those Amish expectations. Later, when I began to get into trouble and the sum of my mistakes began to mount, Jonas was one of the few Amish who stood by me. He believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.
CHAPTER 5
Lewistown is a midsize borough with a pretty downtown peppered with historic buildings and architecture styles ranging from Greek Revival to Art Deco. Like most towns in this part of the country, it bears scars from the economic downturns of decades past. I see evidence of that as I make the turn onto Market Street and idle toward the square.
The Mifflin County Correctional Facility is located in a nondescript brick building at the corner of Market and Wayne. It took half a dozen calls and a bit of cajoling to get approved for a visit. That I’m a member of law enforcement was my saving grace. I’ve still not been able to speak to Jonas. As I take the steps to the glass doors and head for the central desk, I’m hoping everything is in order and I’ll be able to meet with him.
The detention officer inside the glassed-in office gives me a quick once-over as I approach. I identify myself and drop my driver’s license and badge into the pass-through drawer.
“You here to see an inmate?” She taps a few keys on the keyboard in front of her.
I nod. “Jonas Bowman.”
“You’re not on the visitation list,” she informs me.
“I called ahead,” I tell her. “The deputy sheriff added me to the list over the weekend.”
She frowns. “Gotta check.”
It takes twenty minutes for me to get through security. I’m questioned about my service firearms, both of which are unloaded and locked in my vehicle. A male detention officer leads me to the visitation hall, where I’m taken to a row of plexiglass-encased booths, each containing a stool, a slab Formica desk, and a phone that doesn’t look quite clean.