Penelope went to bed, but did not, as was her usual custom, don the heavy night dress. She did not tie her auburn hair, the envy of three counties, into a careful bun and tuck it into a nightcap. A face, a memory, or something else perhaps would not let her rest.

When all the house lay still and quiet, all signs pointing to her mother, her younger sisters Saphronia and Willimina, and little Benjamin, only 9, bless his little heart, being asleep, she tiptoed down the stairs. In one hand she carried her best boots, in the other her father’s spare pistol, the one with the chipped handle and clumsy trigger action.

The night, the road, and the past called her forward and fixed her eyes beyond regular sight. Stepping gingerly onto the porch, long in need of repair, and set the gun down. She slipped each boot on in turn, listening to the sounds of the night, hungry animals and the lonely wind.

Both boots on, she retrieved the pistol and stood. A heavy thud resounded through her skull, and she slept.