Heart of the Sandhills by Stephanie Grace Whitson

talked.”
    Thomas snorted, but said nothing.
    “It’s true. We just weren’t comfortable. But even Harriet Baxter stayed. And Marjorie would read the Scriptures.” Lydia stopped again, trying to collect her thoughts. “I don’t know how to tell you, Thomas. But something just happened over that quilt. I don’t expect you to understand what it means to a woman here on the frontier to have friendship—to work together to make something beautiful. Men don’t seem to need that kind of thing. But women do, and it just feeds our souls to work together like that.” Lydia paused. “Don’t you laugh at me, Thomas.”
    “I’m not laughing, Lydia,” Thomas said gently. “I know you and Violet have been lonely. Especially this winter, being cooped up in the cabin so much.” He cleared his throat. “And I know how hard life has been for Violet. I don’t say much, but I’m not as thickheaded as I act sometimes.”
    “Well, then, Thomas,” Lydia said, blurting the rest of it out. “Then I guess I can just go ahead and tell you that I kind of like Genevieve and Nancy. Yesterday at quiltin’ Nancy had a special cushion she made for Violet’s back, and you should have seen the look on Vi’s face when she leaned back against that chair and it—it—didn’t hurt her. All I could think was I should’a done something like that years ago. And here these women who were nothing but savages . . .” Much to her embarrassment, Lydia began to cry. She blinked rapidly and tried to wipe the tears away, but the dam was burst and she couldn’t hold the tears back.
    “Why, Lyddi,” Thomas whispered. “Don’t cry, Lyddi . . . it’s all right.” He pulled her to him. “I won’t do anything to interfere. Not if it means that much to you. Please, Lyddi, please . . .”
    Lydia looked up at her husband. “You—you haven’t called me Lyddi in a long time, Thomas.”
    He kissed her forehead. “I haven’t made you cry in a long time.”
    She smiled shyly. “I—I—like it when you call me Lyddi.” She kissed his cheek.
    She kissed the place just next to his mouth where his beard didn’t quite fill in. And somewhere in the next few moments Thomas Quinn realized that he really didn’t care if four harmless Dakota Indians lived in his county in Minnesota. Not one bit.

Five
    Trust in the L ORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
    —Proverbs 3:5-6
    “But why do we have to go?” Hope protested, jumping onto the edge of Meg’s bed and bouncing up and down angrily.
    In her most practiced grown-up-be-patient-with-the-children voice, from where she sat at her writing desk, Meg answered “We don’t have to go.” She arranged several preserved white roses on a plain sheet of paper. Some she lay in profile, their leaves intact. Two she snipped as close to the head of the blossom as possible and opened them full out. “We want to go,” she said, surveying the rose-filled shadowbox she was making for Genevieve Two Stars. “Gen has been our friend since Aaron and I were little. And she was our mother for nearly two years. We love her.”
    Meg inhaled the faint aroma still clinging to the roses. Finally satisfied with her creation, she laid aside the glass top and went to sit down beside Hope. She caressed the child’s long blonde hair. “Don’t you remember her at all, Hope—not even a little? She’s only been gone a little more than a year. She taught you to walk. Your first word was when you called her Ma .”
    Hope sighed. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face toward the ceiling, thinking. “I remember blue eyes,” she said slowly, “and something—something ugly.” Hope brushed her hands across both forearms and then hugged them to herself.
    “Do you remember the story of how Genevieve got those scars on her arms?” Meg questioned, patting Hope’s shoulder.
    “You told me a million times,” Hope said impatiently.