She’d have to tell her parents soon. She wasn’t afraid to; after all, she was a grown woman, a widow, who’d suffered more in her twenty-eight years than any woman should be asked to suffer. But they’d be upset. And terribly disappointed. And they’d want to know if she was going to get married again, to the father of the baby. And they’d worry about the neighbors talking. Which they’d definitely do in a small town like Wicoigon.

She was living with her parents and working part-time for her father and part-time as a substitute teacher since the new term had started after Christmas. She’d grown to dread the call in the morning telling her that her services were required in the classroom that day. She taught elementary, grade three mostly. She couldn’t forget that her own baby would have been a year old now. Being surrounded by children all day long was like walking on cut glass, Abby had discovered. The constant reminders of the child she’d lost, plus the extra stresses of her pregnancy, physical and emotional, were really getting her down.

It didn’t help that she’d begun to find the smell of cows and barns nauseating. Thank heavens she’d convinced her father to let her do his books in preparation for year-end, so she was in his office in the house most of the time. This nausea would pass, and when it did, she’d be finished the accounts and ready to go back and help him with the cattle.

She’d confided in only one person so far, her sister, Meg. Meg had been horrified. Still was. Meg was fourteen years older than Abby, and they’d been more like aunt and niece than sisters. Meg wanted to know right away who the father was, and when Abby told her she’d had a brief liaison with a stranger from Canada during the Carlisle fair, her sister’s lovely face had grown stiff with disapproval. Like their parents, Meg was a regular churchgoer. Not that there was anything wrong with that—Abby often wished her own faith would come easier to her—but she really didn’t think that her parents or Meg ever thought much beyond the surface.

Shouldn’t her sister be thrilled for her, knowing how little joy she had in her life? Knowing that her only child, Frank’s baby, had been snatched from her, born dead? Didn’t she realize that Abby welcomed this new life growing inside her womb—that this was heaven’s gift to her for all her suffering?

She’d never do anything to jeopardize that life. That was why she’d written to Jesse Winslow. She wanted nothing from him, but she believed he had a right to know. A child had a right to a father and a father had a right to his child. She was going to have this baby and raise it with all the love she had in her heart, and her child was not going to be fatherless. If Jesse was at all inclined, he could see their child whenever he wanted. If he wasn’t, well, so be it. She had given him the choice.

And then she’d received the letter from him, asking her to come to Glory and marry him. That was a shocker. They didn’t really know each other. He seemed to be a very nice man. Quiet, gentle. She’d found him attractive, yes, for a few days—but could she live with the man? Marry him?

Hardly.

She’d received the letter two weeks ago. Jesse had said he’d wait until he heard from her, as he didn’t know her circumstances and he hadn’t wanted to call her right out of the blue. But he’d give her some time to think it over. He hoped she’d agree. If so, he’d send her fare right away, and they could get married as soon as she wanted.

Well, she didn’t need the fare. Although it was kind of him to offer. She had a few savings. She’d need to work to support her baby and the likeliest prospect was to look for a job teaching full-time. But who was going to hire a pregnant teacher with no seniority? Or a teacher with a brand-new infant—or infants—which would be the case since her due date was August? Even if, according to the law, it wasn’t supposed to matter. And then there was the fascinating particular of the new teacher with a brand-new baby but no husband. How would that go over with the hiring committee?

And did she want someone else to raise her child? A caregiver? Put the baby straight into day care? What if the doctor’s suspicions were right and she was carrying twins?

Abby shuddered at the prospect of the difficulties ahead of her. If her baby had survived, she’d planned to live off Frank’s insurance settlement for the first year or two. Day care was inevitable eventually, no matter how much she’d have preferred to be home raising her own child, as she would have done if Frank had lived.

“Yoo-hoo!” It was her mother, downstairs.

“Yes?” Abby called through the closed door. That was another thing; there was so little privacy. It wasn’t her parents’ fault, but she couldn’t help thinking they’d resented losing their own space when their younger daughter had moved back in to save money.

“Breakfast’s on! Time’s a-wastin’ Abigail!”

Time’s a-wasting. Yes, wasn’t it? Abby thought wearily. She was more than four months gone already. The morning sickness should have passed. She’d be showing soon. She stood, wiped her forehead again, then took several deep breaths. She examined her face in the spotty bathroom mirror over the sink. Long blond hair, average features. Blue eyes. A pleasant smile, people said. Looked like a lot of the Swedish, Dutch, German, Norwegian folks in the district. She looked better when she was pregnant. no matter what she felt. People commented on that She remembered before, with the baby she always called Mary Frannie in her heart, that she’d felt so happy being pregnant with Frank’s child, happy despite the grief of losing Frank. As though having a baby was something she’d always wanted. Although she hadn’t really. She’d never thought much about it. It had just happened.

Now, this time, it had just happened again. She must be fecund as a darn bunny rabbit, she thought wryly.

Time’s a-wasting. Abby made her way slowly down the stairs.

“—and I told Belle she’d have to step in and do something. Send that girl packing. It’s not right to—oh, there you are!” Her mother smiled as she spotted Abby and waved her spatula in greeting. She was busy turning pancakes at the kitchen stove. Her father sat hunched in his chair, as always, listening to the early-morning stock prices on the country station the radio on top of the fridge was tuned to—had been tuned to for thirty years, as far as Abby knew.

“I was just telling your father about the Stovik girl, Abby. Sandra. She’s got herself in the family way and her mother’s just sick about it. I don’t suppose Belle’s aware how much people’ve already been talking. Everybody knows Sandra’s been the town bike for years. There’s probably not a fit man outside of my Arnie here hasn’t taken a ride—”

“Mother!

“It’s true. She’s a tramp, Abby. T-R-A-M-P. Tramp. And now she’s caught in her own sinning ways. Serves her right. She’s expecting, and it’s just going to kill Gladys Volstadt when she finds out her first great-grandchild will be a bastard. Well, how else can you put it? Gladys planned to give Sandra the family silver, I know that for a fact, but a common slut won’t be getting the Volstadt silver, that’s for sure. Gladys wouldn’t stand for it.” Abby’s mother turned the pancakes violently.

“She’ll just have to take her medicine, maybe even get rid of it, although that’s piling sin on sin. Didn’t I always tell Belle she had to watch that one, that Sandra, didn’t I—”

Abby stood, horrified, as she listened to her mother’s litany of condemnation. Suddenly she felt weak. Woozy. She grabbed the doorframe to support herself momentarily—

“Abigail, dear! Something wrong?” Her mother’s voice was sharp. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m just fine.” Abby walked carefully into the kitchen and sank down on a kitchen chair.

“I—uh, Mom? Dad?”

“Huh?” Her father looked up, annoyed, from the careful paring of his thumbnail with his jackknife as he listened to the stock prices on the radio. “What’s that, Ab?”