The Baby Quilt. Christine Flynn

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      “Do you think Anna’s grown any since you saw her last week?”

      Bated exasperation softened the disgruntled woman’s expression. It softened a bit more when she looked over to where the pink-cheeked infant had fallen asleep at her mother’s breast. “Emily Miller, I know new mothers worry, but I’ve never heard of one worrying the way you do.”

      “But she doesn’t seem to be getting any bigger.”

      “That’s because you’re with her every minute of the day. She’s only a couple of months old. How big do you think she’s supposed to be?” She shook her head, looking vaguely amused. “She’s not some strapping boy like Paula Ferguson’s grandson, you know. Why, that child must have put on a pound a week to be as big as he is now. Of course his mother isn’t exactly dainty herself,” she confided.

      She pulled a deep breath, preparing to head off on yet another tangent, but the commotion from the barn had her clamping her mouth shut before she could even get started. A calf shot out of the rubble, its rust-colored rump bouncing as it headed for the flattened cornfield. Over the clatter of boards inside the barn, the bovine bellowing grew more insistent.

      The men were nowhere to be seen.

      Mrs. Clancy’s hand flattened over her heart. “What in the world…?”

      Pulling the diaper from Emily’s shoulder, she tossed it over her own and reached her weathered hands toward Anna. Even as she did, Emily was buttoning herself up and trying not to panic at the thought of what might have happened to Mr. Clancy—or to the man who knew far less than her husband had about the hazards on a farm.