Free A Place of Peace by Iris Penn Page B

her father’s hands, rough from a day in the field.  Her nails with their bits of dirt embedded deep underneath them, no matter how hard she scrubbed.  The hair, often flattened by the constant wearing of her hat.  No, a suitor would never give her a second look, and she doubted she would have much patience for one, anyway.
    Crows landed on top of her scarecrow, their weight threatening to tip it over entirely.  Melinda frowned at the result of her hard work.  The scarecrow had taken her all of two days to stitch together, and it seemed the crows were laughing at it.  Laughing at her, as well.
    She could go to bed and forget about it for a few hours.  Let the comfort of sleep wash over her and then there would be nothing but peaceful darkness for a brief period of time.  The more she thought about it, the more inviting it seemed.  She stood from the porch swing, the crinkled letter shoved down into the pocket of her skirt.
    Voices were coming down the road, harsh and rhythmic.  A cadence of marching, and all of its accompanying noise broke the soothing silence of the oncoming dusk.  Melinda looked around the corner of the house, seeing a horse and rider leading a procession of marching soldiers.  The banner the rider carried was visible even in the dim light.  The stars and stripes: Union boys.
    Melinda felt her chest tighten as she ran inside the house and locked the door.  Perhaps they would pass on by and leave her alone.  It was the first time she had even seen a Union regiment down in her part of the country, and the sight of row after row of trudging men coming down the road filled her with terror.
    She blew out every candle she came to, and hurried on into the bedroom where she pulled her father’s shotgun out from under the bed.  Cracking it open, she slid two shells in and snapped it shut.  Then she crouched, peering out the bedroom window and waiting.
    The horse with its rider was cutting across the yard, leaving the columns of men behind him as they continued to march west down the road, toward the Johnsons’ farm.  Melinda saw the rider dismount, but more horses were coming up now: an entire cavalry division that had been riding with the army stood in her yard while the lead rider’s heavy boots thumped on the porch.
    A booming knock reverberated through the house.  Melinda held her breath, still crouching beneath the window.  Please, oh, please, let them pass on by and leave me alone. 
    She could crawl under the bed, but they would find her and drag her out, kicking and screaming.  She could jump out the window, but three thousand men marching down the road would see her.  She could shoot them, but at the most she could get two, and that would leave the rest to do what they wanted to her, if they didn’t kill her first.
    So, she waited, clutching the gun in her sweating hands and trying not to breathe too loudly.  Another knock, and when there was no response, she could hear the door burst open and the boots thumped into the house.  She could smell the smoke from the torch he carried and had a sudden flash of him applying the flame to her house.
    “Anyone here?” a harsh voice called out.  Melinda’s heart was drumming so hard surely they could hear it from the other room.  The boots were coming closer, clomping throughout the house as they searched it.  More came in, and when she peeked out the window, she saw most of the cavalry had dismounted, and some were coming into the house to follow their friend.
    She saw the light from the soldier’s torch reflecting on the wooden floor as it stopped at the doorway to the bedroom.  The silhouette of the soldier was there, filling most of the doorframe as he peered around in the darkness.  Melinda’s fingers slipped over the shotgun, but she knew she would never be able to actually raise it to fire. 
    The sol dier had spotted her, crouching there like a cornered dog in the corner beneath the window.  A pistol was in his free hand,