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directly to her heart. Her pulse responded by quickening to a rapid pace. Of course, things would be so much easier if he hadn't grown into such a handsome man. A complete distraction, Bruce could rile her with his sharp tongue until she wanted to thrash him, or tip her mind into a daze with a simple glance.
    A soft knock echoed through her chamber.
    “Come in,” Flora called.
    The lock clicked, and Irene poked her head inside. “Mother wanted me to check on thee. It's an hour past dawn and the rest of us have had our breakfast. She made thy favorite—apple butter jam with biscuits.”
    “I'm getting up.” Flora yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “I don't want to get behind on my chores for the day.”
    “I'll tell her.” Irene closed the door, and the sound of her footsteps carried down the hallway.
    With a deep sigh, Flora forced herself from the luxury of her bed and padded over to the window in her bare feet. She fingered the pale yellow curtains. The bright morning sun greeted her, casting a golden glow on her cream-colored walls. A gentle breeze swayed the oak tree branches that barely reached the height of her second-story window. A few leaves had already faded to half green and yellow. Soon they would all be full of brilliant colors, highlighting the fall season.
    She shivered and rubbed her arms as she hurried to her armoire and pulled out a simple brown gown. Trembling from the nip in the air, her cold fingers struggled with the buttons once she'd donned the garment. As she washed up using the basin, she cringed from the icy water. That task complete, she grabbed the brush on her dresser. It slipped from her fumbling fingers and tumbled to the hard floor.
    Another knock sounded at her door, this one more sturdy. “Flora, is thee all right?” her mother called.
    “Yes, come in.” The door opened as she bent to retrieve her brush. “My fingers are so cold, I couldn't hold it.”
    “Allow me.” Mother carried a navy blue quilt in her arms and deposited it on Flora's unmade bed. She took the brush from Flora's hands and slid it through her hair, taking her time when she reached the tangles toward the ends.
    “Thank thee.” Flora closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of each stroke, as if she was once again a child being soothed by her mother.
    “Irene told me about thy difficult night,” Mother said.
    “I'm fine.” Flora clenched her jaw, determined to make the words true. If she didn't concentrate on it, perhaps the insecure feelings would dissolve. Eager to find something else to discuss, she glanced at the folded quilt on her bed. “Thee didn't need to bring me another quilt. I have plenty in my trunk.”
    “This is a special quilt. It doesn't belong with the others.” Mother twisted her hair and coiled it around Flora's head, slipping in pins to hold it in place. “There, that should do.” She patted the side of Flora's head.
    “Special? How?” Flora walked to her bed and lifted the quilt, studying it more carefully. “I don't believe I've ever seen this one. When did thee make it?”
    “When thee was a little girl. Let's open it all the way up. I have something I want to show thee.” Mother helped her unfold the quilt and they spread it out over the bulk of her existing bedcovers.
    “It's beautiful!” Flora stared at it, noting how this quilt didn't contain her mother's usual abstract patterns. “Thee stitched a road with several houses and a star by each one.” She fingered the stitched star over the first house. “What does it mean? I bet it represents how all the towns and villages are somehow connected through the path of life.” A wistful mood came over her, as she traced the detailed stitching with her fingers.
    “Not exactly.” Mother shook her dark brown head and glanced over at Flora, who had the same heart-shaped face as Irene. At forty-two, her mother still showed signs of beauty, with smooth skin, intelligent gray eyes, and a small mole at her right eyebrow