A Marriage for Meghan by Mary Ellis Page B

salted like the parking lot.”
    The bishop swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee, singeing his throat all the way down.
    “It was a four-by-four with big, knobby tires.” The sheriff sipped his black coffee carefully.
    Gideon gaped. “You can tell all that from tire tracks in the snow?”
    “You’d be surprised what clues criminals leave behind. It’s hard to believe we have any unsolved crimes left on the books.” His lips thinned into a smile.
    “So most likely they’re the ones who took down my fences too,” murmured Gideon, more statement than question.
    “But I didn’t see any truck tracks around the schoolhouse. No tire tracks whatsoever.” The sheriff focused on the bishop with his calm manner.
    Gideon stroked his beard like a sage. “That’s why you figured it was a student—someone who got there on foot.”
    The lawman didn’t respond to that statement. “I’d like to talk to your sons, Bishop, if they can take some time from their chores. This won’t take long.” But before he got to his feet, James and John strode into the room from the back hall.
    “Perfect timing, boys. Good to see you.” Strickland stretched out a hand to shake. “Although I’ve seen you both looking a tad better.”
    James pumped his hand. “We spotted your cruiser from the hayloft and thought we’d spare you a trip to the barn.” He carefully settled himself into a chair while John leaned his frame against the counter.
    “Does that eye feel as bad as it looks?”
    “Nah. Ma gave me a couple of aspirin. I hardly remember it ’cept when I look in a mirror, but shaving will be painful.” James’ chuckle sounded good to his father’s ears.
    “I take it the men who jumped you were Englischers . Did you recognize any of them?”
    James shook his head. “It all happened too fast in the dark. They just started wailing on us. I was so busy trying to protect myself from the next punch that I couldn’t focus on details.”
    “What about their truck? They were driving a pickup with big tires. You remember seeing their truck before around town?”
    His older son thought for a moment. “I didn’t see any truck at all. They must have parked somewhere else. All I saw in that field were our buggies.” He looked toward his brother, as did the sheriff.
    John blushed under their perusal. “Not me either. I recognized no one and saw no vehicles. But I do know they were about our size, not bigger. We could have taken them,” he paused and looked at his father. “If we had wanted to, which we didn’t,” he added hastily. “They all had on those coats to make them blend into the forest during hunting season and blue jeans. They were pretty much dressed exactly alike, the way they say we Amish do.” He and James exchanged a glance.
    Sheriff Strickland lifted an eyebrow. “Did they make comments about you being Amish?”
    John nodded and repeated the remark about them all looking alike. “And the one guy who kept hitting me in the gut said, ‘You Amish think you’re better than us because you’re holy-holy, but you’re not better. You’re just the same as me—a nobody.’”
    Strickland looked from one young man to the other and wrote something in the spiral notebook he pulled from his breast pocket.
    “Then the guy punched me here.” John gingerly touched the left side of his face. “And asked, ‘What are ya going to do now, turn the other cheek?’”
    “A biblical reference?” the sheriff asked.
    John glanced around at the three men staring at him. “ Jah , I suppose so.”
    Strickland turned back to James. “They say anything more to you? Is there anything else you can remember?”
    “Just trash talk about ‘you Amish boys are too chicken to fight back.’” James stared at the wall before continuing. “Oh, I do remember something. They didn’t sound like the Englischers that live around here. They talked different.”
    The sheriff gave an example of an exaggerated Southern accent and asked,