The Visitor

Prologue April 1861

    "Do you remember when we used to hide up here when we were children?" Peter asked. I didn't answer. I couldn't. So I sat and poked a needle through the white linen rectangle in my lap, forming words out of thread. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Peter glance at me from where he lay propped up on his elbows and forearms. He turned and continued to stare straight ahead.
"Well, who knows," he said passively, "it could be an adventure." That did it. I slammed the embroidery into my lap, not caring that the needle stabbed my calf.
"Adventure?! You're one to talk, what do you know of adventure?!" Peter opened his mouth to respond but shut it quickly when I barreled on. "You've lived in this sleepy little farm town all your life, and now you think you've found some adventure?! This is war!" I paused to take a breath before firing off my next accusation. "You spend one year-one!-at the college and you're off to war. Adventure-ha! Don't you remember how hard you worked to get into college? You worked night and day at odd jobs just to be admitted and now you're throwing it all away! For this so called adventure!" I ran out of things to yell at him for, so he took this time to allow his argument.
"I'll be allowed back in once the war is over," he said calmly. "The war will be over by Christmas."
"If you survive the war!" I sputtered, then began to cry. They were huge sobs, like a child's. I pulled my knees up to my chest and buried my face in them, wrapping my arms around it all. I heard the grass and small rocks rustle as Peter scooted closer to me.
"Don't cry. Please..." he said softly. "I promise you, it'll be over by Christmas. And we'll all be one country again, just as Mr. Lincoln wants." What certainly surprised me was his arms wrapping tightly around me, comforting me in an embrace.
"I love you, Emma," he whispered in my ear. "When I'm home, we'll settle things between us."
Silence.
"Emma?" He asked hopefully.
"I love you too," I stated tearfully. Peter pushed me away from him gently and cupped my face in his hands. "Christmas?" I said hopefully. He nodded, grinning now.
"Christmas." Peter stood, touched my face lightly, and walked away. I sat in Devil's Den for a long time, staring at the spot where Peter had been sitting. I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun, letting its warmth dry my tears. A crushing reality hit me so hard in the ribs I felt as if I'd been punched.

The war wouldn't be over by Christmas.
And Peter Ambrose Shepherd would not live to tell the tale.