I opened my mouth in an exaggerated O of surprise. Widened my eyes. “Splash!” I said with a big grin.

The storm cleared. She smiled back tremulously.

“Come on, baby.” I crouched beside her, still holding DJ, and helped her to her feet. Water drenched her little bottom, splotched her skirt and stockings. I lurched to my feet, balancing DJ and Blankie on one arm, taking her hand with the other. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Crisis averted, we picked our way through the puddles to the house. Daisy tugged against my hold. “Goats,” she insisted. “See goats.”

“We’re going to see the kitty,” I said. Weasley, my mother’s ginger barn cat, was almost twenty now and mostly retired to the house.

“Key?” Daisy asked.

“That’s right.” I glanced toward the kitchen door, surprised our arrival hadn’t summoned Momma. Her truck was in the drive. Where was she?

“Up the steps, sweetie. Here we go.” I opened the back door. Unlocked, as always. “Mom?” And then, more tentatively, “Dad?”

Not that he would be any help. My father loved his grandchildren, of course. Whenever he noticed them, he smiled and patted them on the head. But his attention was always fixed elsewhere—on his all-important work, his men, his mission.

A plaintive yowl answered me. Weasley slunk into the kitchen.

“Key!” Daisy yanked free.

The cat, no fool, bolted. My daughter, deprived of the object of her affections, let out a wail of frustration. Poor baby. John and I had talked about getting the children a pet, but right now I wasn’t ready to take on responsibility for one more living thing.

“Momma?” I called again.

No answer. Maybe she was in the barn. I let DJ slide from my hip to the floor. Rummaging in my bag, I handed a toy truck to DJ and dug out dry leggings for Daisy. Since the twins started toilet training, I never traveled without a change of clothes. Stripping Daisy of her sodden stockings, I helped her step into dry panties. “Here we go, sweetie.”

DJ approached his crying sister to give her a kiss. My heart melted. My sweet, serious boy.

“No.” Daisy pushed him away.

He hit her in the face with his little Ford truck.

Daisy shrieked.

“Demi John!” I swooped DJ into time-out on a chair (“We do not hit. No hitting.”), grabbed a dish towel from a drawer and a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. I was at home in Momma’s kitchen. Maybe more so than in my own.

“Cold!” Daisy sobbed, twisting away.

“I know, baby. But it will make your cheek feel better.”

I sat with her on my lap, petting and soothing until her tears subsided. “There we go. All better,” I said. She would have a bruise by morning.

I hung the dish towel to dry on the oven door. Glanced out the window. Still no Momma. I felt a sticky tickle of unease, like walking into a cobweb. Mom did most of the farmwork herself. But still, there wasn’t that much to do this time of year.