It’s quiet enough on this land to make you mad, he said sometimes, and Elsa tried to understand what he meant. Mostly she just let him talk and waited for him to reach out for her, which he did, but rarely and always in the dark. She knew the sight of her growing belly frightened him. When he did talk to her, he usually smelled of wine or whiskey; he would smile then, spin stories of their imagined, someday life in Hollywood or New York. In truth, Elsa never knew quite what to say to the handsome, quicksilver man she’d married, but spoken words had never been her forte and she didn’t have the courage to tell him how she felt anyway, that she’d found an unexpected strength in herself on this farm, and in her love for both her husband and his parents she’d become almost fierce. Instead, she did what she’d always done in the face of a painful rejection: she disappeared and held her tongue and waited—sometimes desperately—for her husband to see the woman she’d become.

In February, rain came to the Great Plains, nourishing the seeds planted in the soil. By March, the land was vibrant with new growth—green for miles. Tony stood by his fields in the evening, staring out at the growing wheat.

On this particularly blue, sunlit day, Elsa had opened every window in the house. A cool breeze moved through, carrying the scent of new life with it.

She stood at the stove, browning bread crumbs in the delicious, nutty-flavored, imported olive oil they purchased at the general store. The pungent aroma of garlic browning in hot oil filled the kitchen. They used these bread crumbs, mixed with cheese and fresh parsley, on everything from vegetables to pasta.

On the table behind her, a crockery bowl full of flour, ground from last year’s abundant crop, waited to be turned into bread dough. The Victrola in the sitting room played a “Santa Lucia” record loudly enough that Elsa felt compelled to sing along, even though she didn’t understand the words.

A pain came without warning, stabbed her deep in the abdomen, doubling her over. She tried to be still, held her stomach, waited it out.

But another pain came, minutes later, worse than the first. “Rose!”

Rose rushed into the house, her arms full of laundry to be washed.

“It’s . . .” Elsa’s water broke, splashed down her stockinged legs, and puddled on the floor. The sight plunged Elsa into panic. For the past months, she’d felt herself getting stronger, but now, as pain upended her, she couldn’t think of anything except the doctor telling her so long ago not to get overexcited, not to put strain on her heart.

What if he’d been right? She looked up in terror. “I’m not ready, Rose.”

Rose put down the laundry. “No one is ever ready.”

Elsa couldn’t catch her breath. Another pain hit, wrenched through her stomach.

“Look at me,” Rose said. She took Elsa’s face in her hands, although she had to get on her tiptoes to do so. “This is normal.” She took Elsa by the hand and led her to the bedroom, where she stripped the bed and threw the quilts and sheets on the floor.

She undressed Elsa, who should have been ashamed to be seen that way, with her swollen belly and shapeless limbs, but the pain was so great she didn’t care.

Such teeth in this pain. Gnawing at her, then spitting her out to breathe for a moment and then biting again.

“Go ahead and scream,” Rose said, helping Elsa to the bed.

Elsa lost her hold on time, on everything but the pain. She screamed out when she needed to and panted like a dog in between.

Rose positioned Elsa as if she were a doll, spread her bare legs wide open. “I see the head, Elsa. You can push now.”

Elsa pushed and strained and screamed. “My . . . heart’s going to stop,” she said, panting. She should have told them she was sick, that she wasn’t supposed to have children, that she could die. “If it does—”

“It’s bad luck to speak of such things, Elsa. Push.”

Elsa gave one last desperate push, felt a great whooshing relief, and sagged back into the pillows, exhausted.

A baby’s cry filled the room.

“A beautiful little girl with a good set of lungs.” Rose cut and tied off the umbilical cord, then wrapped the baby up in one of the many blankets they’d knitted over the long winter and handed the bundle to Elsa.

Elsa took her daughter in her arms and stared down at her in awe. Love filled her to the brim and spilled over in tears. She’d never felt anything like it before, a heady, exhilarating combination of joy and fear. “Hello, baby girl.”

The baby quieted, blinked up at her.

Rose reached into the velvet pouch she wore as a necklace around her throat. Inside the pouch was an American penny. Rose kissed the penny and held it out for Elsa to see. The coin had two wheat shafts imprinted on the back. “Tony found this on the street outside my parents’ home on the day we were to leave on the boat for America. Can you imagine such good fortune? The wheat revealed our destiny. A sign, we said to each other, and it has been true. This coin will watch over another generation now,” Rose said, looking at Elsa. “My beautiful granddaughter.”

“I want to call her Loreda,” Elsa said. “For my grandfather, who was born in Laredo.”

Rose sounded out the unfamiliar name. “Lor-ay-da. Beautiful. Most American, I think,” she said, placing the penny in Elsa’s hand. “Believe me, Elsa, this little girl will love you as no one ever has . . . and make you crazy and try your soul. Often all at the same time.”