The Baby Quilt. Christine Flynn

a cellar door and having to patch her porch was nothing compared to what could have been. There was always some good and some bad. The sweet balanced the sour, her mother and her aunts had always said. That was life. It didn’t matter that her own life had swung wildly out of balance. She was to take with relief and thanks all that had been spared. And take in stride and with grace that which hadn’t.

      That was how she’d been raised. It was all she knew to do, though she was the first to admit that she’d never mastered the easy acceptance part. As she stood hugging her child, the thought of the extra work it would take to cut up the tree was enough to bring her to tears. There weren’t enough hours in the day as it was. But she didn’t dare let herself cry. She was afraid that if she did, she’d never stop. And she had to be strong for Anna.

      At the moment, she also needed to check on her neighbors.

      The rows of corn nearest her little plot of land swayed in the diminishing breeze. Where the land gently rose a couple of acres away, she saw nothing but churned-up earth and a chunk of red-and-white siding that looked suspiciously like part of a barn.

      “I need to see if the Clancys are all right,” she said, uncomfortably aware of her rescuer’s eyes on her. “Mrs. Clancy just had a hip replaced and their son and his family are away for a few days. There’s no one there to know if they need help.”

      Justin stood with his hands on his lean hips, his broad shoulders looking as wide as the horizon. He stared right at her, his wide brow furrowed. He was very direct with his stares, she’d noticed. Not at all subtle the way the few men she knew were when they looked at her. But then, he seemed very direct about his needs and opinions, too. “You wanted to use their phone. Come with me and I’ll show you the way.”

      “Thanks, but I think I’ll head on in to town. From the looks of things over there,” he said, nodding toward the cornfields, “the lines are probably down.”

      She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, the motion not nearly as casual as she wanted it to be. “I understand tornados are strange. The way they pick and choose what they destroy, I mean. I’ve heard of walls being ripped off, but nothing in the room being disturbed. I think that’s part of Mr. Clancy’s barn,” she said, pointing ahead of her, “but their phone could still be working.”

      She was telling him he might be able to save himself some time by coming with her. Whether she knew it or not, she was also making it as clear as the raindrops clinging to the grass that he disturbed her. Her wary glance would barely meet his before shying away, as if she were embarrassed at having been up close and personal with a perfect stranger. He was pretty certain, too, from the strain that had settled into her delicate features that she was more upset than she was letting on about the damage. Yet, even as unsettled as she had to be, she sounded unbelievably calm.

      As he watched her kneel to tug a piece of denim from beneath the baby carrier’s thickly padded mauve liner, he couldn’t believe her attitude, either.

      He didn’t know a single soul who would walk away from their own crisis to help out someone else with theirs. The fact that she remembered he still had a problem caught him a little off guard, too. After the way he’d jumped on her about leaving her kid outside, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d left him to fend for himself.

      She carefully tucked the baby’s little legs through two holes in what looked like a denim tube and slipped her own arms through its two long straps. As she did, his glance strayed down the thick braid lying against her back to the fabric covering the sweet curve of her slender hips.

      “Even if the phone’s out,” he said, wondering how all that hair would look unbound and spilling over her body, “maybe he can give me a jump.”

      Annoyed with the direction of his thoughts, he pointedly pulled his attention from her. “It looks like you’ve been through this before. The greenhouse,” he said, eyeing the skeletal structure to keep his glance from wandering over her again. “You only have a few windows back there. Did another storm take out the others?”

      A long strand of loosened hair swayed over her shoulder. Snagging it back, she rose and tucked a soft-looking square of white fabric under the chin of the sleepy-eyed child in her tummy-carrier. “Those are the only windows that were put in. My husband built the greenhouse for me last year, but winter came before he could finish.

      “I hired a man,” she continued, absently rubbing the baby’s back through the denim as she motioned for him to accompany her across the lawn. “He put in the windows Daniel framed and I gave him money to buy the rest, but he hasn’t come back yet. I’m sure I don’t have enough plastic to replace what was torn,” she added, more to herself than to him. “I hope he returns soon.”

      “How long has he been gone?”

      “Two weeks and two days. He wanted to find the best price, so he said it might take him a while.”

      They angled toward a dirt road lined with rows of corn. The wind had calmed to a warm breeze that rattled the leaves on the stalks and fanned the ankle-high grass growing on either side of the ruts. “Is this someone you know?” he asked, leaving her to walk on the near side of the road while he headed for the grass on the other side to avoid the mud in the middle.

      “I didn’t before he came looking for work. He said he’d worked for a lot of people in the county, though.” A pensive frown touched her brow. “I wonder if he would repair my porch when he returns.”

      He should let it go, he told himself. He should concentrate on how quiet it was compared to the cacophony of only minutes ago. It was so peaceful here. Almost…serene. There was no traffic. No horns, sirens, squealing brakes. He should just think about the stillness. He should not question her about something that undoubtedly had as reasonable an explanation as she’d provided for why she’d had her kid out in a tornado.

      “He’d said he’d worked for people around here?” he asked, too curious to know what that explanation was to let the matter drop. “You didn’t check out his references yourself?”

      “Even if I’d heard of the names he mentioned, I had no way to speak with them. Besides, there was no need. If he couldn’t do the work, it would be obvious, wouldn’t it?”

      There was a certain literal quality to her logic, a simplicity Justin would have found quite eloquent had she not entirely missed his point. He’d bet his corner office that the guy was an itinerant.

      “I don’t suppose this man is from around here, is he?”

      “He didn’t say.”

      Fighting incredulity, he cast her a sideways glance.

      “Do you know his name?” he asked, all but biting his tongue to keep his tone even.

      The look she gave him was amazingly patient. “Of course I do. It’s Johnny Smith.”

      John Smith. How original.

      “So you gave this man you really don’t know money to buy something for you and you haven’t seen or heard from him in two weeks.”

      “He said he wanted to shop for the best price for me,” she reminded him, looking at him a little uncertainly. “And he did put the other windows in. He did a good job, too.”

      “Do you mind if I ask how much you paid him?”

      “Twenty dollars.”

      “What did you give him for the windows?”

      “I only had a hundred.”

      There was such innocence in her lovely eyes. And caution. And concern. The myriad impressions registered with Justin moments before she glanced away to watch where she was stepping.

      Johnny Smith had done a good job, all right, he thought. A snow job. “You might want to report Johnny to the authorities, Mrs. Miller. He stole your money.”

      “I don’t believe that,” Emily said, incredulous. “Not for a moment.” She blinked hard at the distance, her hand still protectively