On her first night in this house Callie had hardly noticed the chiming. It certainly hadn’t kept her from her sleep, but then, she reckoned to herself, she had been bone weary and overwhelmed, a word she did not like to use in relation to herself. She could never afford to let her guard down or give in to fear. And she didn’t need much sleep; she never had.

She counted the soft chiming of the mantel clock at ten, at eleven, and now at midnight.

Ethan slept soundly; she could not see him in the darkened room, but she could hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Of course, Ethan had a clear conscience and nothing to really worry him. He had land and money and the respect of everyone in the village; he had an education, and freedom to do as he pleased. Ethan had lost his father and mother long ago, and his stepfather as well; he had no brothers or sisters to look after and worry about.

Yesterday Callie had believed the same of herself; she was alone in the world but for a stepsister who had once been her best friend but who had grown distant and unfamiliar. Today she had a brother. A half brother, it was true, but still, a human being of her blood. Her father’s son. A handsome boy, with bright eyes and a good smile, strongly built and quick. Somehow or another, he had survived Jemima, where their father had not. She had broken Nicholas Wilde like a dry twig over her knee, but the boy—the boy was made of stronger stuff.

When the clock chimed half past midnight, Callie got out of bed. By touch she found her clothes and in a matter of minutes she was closing the house door behind herself.

It was the kind of night she liked best, full of wayward breezes and sudden smells. The sky overhead was crowded with stars that lit her way from the porch steps to the path, from the path through the kitchen garden to the lane. It felt good to be barefoot after a day in shoes; the earth was still vaguely warm, reluctant to give up the last of the previous day’s sun.

Every window at the Red Dog was dark, including the one that had been her own just a few nights ago. Where Jemima slept next to her most recent husband.

Most likely the boy would be in the little parlor that opened off the bedchamber, on a trundle bed. Jemima would want him nearby, within reach. She guarded her possessions closely, no matter how she had got them.

Finally Callie turned away, speaking harsh words to herself, words like patience and fortitude. Words a preacher might use, standing in front of his congregation. She had no use for preachers or churches, but she knew the value of self-control.

She headed for the orchards almost without thought, her feet taking her where she needed to be. The only place she could really think; the one place she belonged. The idea that her home was now a small house on the Johnstown road was too ridiculous to credit. She would come back to the orchards. Ethan would rebuild the house and she would live there, with or without him.

She was sorry, suddenly, that she hadn’t taken the time to talk to Levi before she went to Johnstown with Ethan. What had she been thinking, to go off without a word and leave him to care for the animals and everything else? She had been able to run away and escape Jemima because Levi was there to look after things.

She had let her time be taken up with far less important things, visits with neighbors who came to satisfy their curiosity and wish them well; an awkward conversation with the Thicke sisters about how she wanted the meals to be handled and the washing to be done. Things that had never interested her, and would never interest her: she had given them a free hand and the distinct impression that she didn’t care to be asked about any of it.

Through all that, she had meant to come to the orchards, but time had slipped away and then came word from Martha: The boy was at the schoolhouse.

She forgot about everything else. This was what she had wanted, a chance to see the boy without Jemima nearby. She had been so wound up in the idea of a brother that she had never given a thought to Levi, who would have an opinion on this matter. Levi’s history with Jemima was as bad as her own.

Levi slept as little as she did, and so Callie took a chance. She ran most of the way and stopped when she was near enough to see a thin ribbon of light around the one shuttered window of Levi’s cabin. She called, and in a moment the door opened.

He came out on the porch and stood there quietly, looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” Callie said. “I should have come yesterday. I’m sorry.”

He said, “Let’s go set.”

When she was a girl he would have invited her to sit right there on his little porch while they talked about work to be done, but that had stopped when she turned sixteen. Wasn’t seemly, he told her. People might get the wrong idea. It seemed silly to her still today; his mother Cookie had raised her, and Levi was much like an older brother. Then Cookie died, and Levi’s brother went to Johnstown and married there, but Levi had stayed behind to work the orchards. How anyone could think badly of him was a mystery to her. He was a big man, that was true, and his skin was very black, but he was also acknowledged to be one of the hardest-working men in a hundred miles, generous, soft-spoken, and so good with animals that folks came to him with sick cows and goats and horses.

They sat on stumps just outside the cider house double doors, as was their habit. It took a lot of weather to chase them inside.

“It was a sudden thing,” she told him. “We decided to do it so Jemima couldn’t make a claim on this place.”

Levi was quiet for a long time.

She said, “It doesn’t change anything. As soon as I can rebuild the house, I’ll be moving back here. There’s money for that now; we won’t have to wait. And oh, there’s a whole wagonload full of supplies coming. Wait ’til you see.”