Free A Quilt for Christmas by Sandra Dallas

battlefields, the triumphs of their children, the first shoots sprouting from the seeds—made such pleasures seem even more important. And when the news came that husbands had died, the new widows were sustained by the love and support of the others. “How could I cope with this war without my quilting friends,” Mercy Eagles had said, and the others had nodded their agreement.
    Besides, the quilts were being stitched for an Independence Day celebration, where they would be auctioned off for the benefit of the soldiers. “Nobody could fault a widow for spending one day a month working for war relief,” Mercy had told Eliza.
    The gatherings refreshed them, and for Eliza, they brought a sense of normalcy for a few hours. She would savor a remark and think she would repeat it to Will. Or she would ask for a recipe, because Will would like the dish. And she would smile as if Will were still alive, before realizing she would never confide in Will or sit with him over dinner again.
    For all of the women, the quiltings became the highlight of each month. They looked forward to the gatherings, each bringing food to share and children, of course. The little ones were romping through the orchard just then, playing war with sticks for guns.
    â€œEliza, you are indeed the best stitcher in Wabaunsee County,” Ettie announced in her strong voice.
    Eliza was deep in thought, and a moment passed before she realized Ettie was talking to her. “Oh, but those stars are not mine,” Eliza protested. “Missouri Ann made them.”
    The women turned to Missouri Ann, who blushed and bent over her needle in embarrassment at the attention.
    â€œI suppose that’s the best compliment a body could give you, mistaking your work for Eliza’s,” Anna Bean told Missouri Ann.
    As the others nodded, Ettie exchanged a glance with Mercy Eagles. The women had not been happy when Eliza announced that she could no longer be part of the group unless Missouri Ann was included.
    â€œBut she will spoil our little friendship,” Mercy had said. “We’ve quilted together for years and never felt the need to bring in anyone else.”
    â€œFour is a perfect number for a quilt frame. Five will set us off our pace,” Anna Bean had added.
    â€œBesides, she’s a Stark,” Ettie had reminded Eliza.
    â€œOnly by marriage, and you know yourself, because you were at church on Christmas Day, how she escaped from those people. She has been a great help on the farm. I can’t imagine how I got along without her. She’s very like a sister to me now,” Eliza told them. “Besides, she lives with me. How can I ask her to stay to herself while the four of us stitch?” The conversation had taken place before Will’s death, and Eliza was glad she had insisted on Missouri Ann becoming part of the group. Without her friend, Eliza could not have made it through those first dark days of death.
    Because they were generally kind women, the others had not been able to answer.
    After just a single day of sewing, the women had accepted Missouri Ann as one of them. “She’s fast and her stitches are small,” Ettie observed. At more than fifty, she was the oldest of the group—and the largest, taller by two inches than Eliza and weightier by half. Some thought she was frosty-nosed, but her friends knew her to be a kind woman who would share her last potato. Her husband had been one of the first to join up, and later, two sons had enlisted. One of them had been killed at Shiloh.
    â€œAnd when Missouri Ann opens her mouth, she has something interesting to say,” Anna said, sending a sly glance at Ettie, who was known to gnaw a subject to death, just as a dog would a bone.
    â€œI believe she fits, and she’s a worker,” Mercy added, and that had settled it. Calling a Kansas woman a worker was the best compliment anyone could pay her.
    Now the women stopped to admire