“You haven’t come up with a substitute for ‘the little death,’ I take it.”

“Right now my own name is a bit of a challenge. And if you don’t stop that, I’ll have to pinch you.”

“I don’t remember you being so quick to retaliate as a girl,” Daniel said. “Except maybe for that time the Ratz boys put a snowball in your boots.”

“You remember that?” Her voice came muffled because she had turned onto her stomach. “I did love those Saturday afternoons playing in the snow.”

She sat up suddenly.

“What?”

“It’s like sledding,” she said.

“What’s like sledding?”

Martha wished she could keep from blushing and decided she should simply ignore what she could not control. She had something to say, and she could say it to Daniel. She could.

“You know, the—climax.”

“Ah,” Daniel said, one eyebrow riding up his brow. “Go on.”

“Well, it’s like sledding. You work your way up the hill dragging the sled. All you can think about is getting to the top so you can let go and feel the wind rushing over you on the way down. Sometimes you don’t get to the top and you go slipping back down and you have to start all over again.”

Daniel laughed. “Go on.”

“You know the way your stomach drops when the sled tips over the top and starts down? That clenching excitement? That’s what it’s like. It takes your breath away and your whole body curls into itself to hold on to that feeling. And the longer the climb to the top, the greater the excitement. When you finally get to the bottom, you’re covered with sweat no matter how cold it is, and you’re breathless.”

“Sledding,” Daniel said.

She rubbed her face against him. “Isn’t it like that for you?”

“No,” Daniel said. “I can say with complete certainty that there’s nothing even remotely snowy about it for me.”

“Too bad,” said Martha.

“Too bad?” Daniel let out something that could only be called a giggle. “There’s nothing bad about it at all.”

“I mean, I wish I could understand what it feels like, for you.”

Daniel shifted her so they were lying face-to-face. “I’m right fond of sledding,” he said. “And I’ll chase you up that hill any time the mood strikes you. On the way down maybe I can tell you what it’s like for me. Your heart just picked up a beat, Mrs. Bonner. You like talking about this?”

“Um,” Martha said, a flush crawling up her breast. “I think what I like best is when you talk, and I listen.”

When Callie thought back on her school days in Elizabeth Bonner’s classroom, the lessons that came to mind first, the ones she took most to heart, had to do with logic. Or, as Miss Elizabeth had called it, rational thinking.

Many times over the last years she had felt herself on the verge of despair and even desperation, and in every case she was able to talk herself into a better frame of mind. Hard work was no guarantee of success; she understood that, because she had lived it. On the other hand, hard work was all anyone needed for a good night’s sleep. She herself always fell to sleep straight away and she slept deeply. She woke at five every morning without a clock and without fail, and by six she was hard at work. Even in the deep of winter when blizzards held her captive she was busy. There were tools to repair or sharpen; the hearth must be fed, and if she did not cook, she could not eat. She made clothes for herself and Levi both; she traded her own cider for Molly Nobel’s raw wool, which she spun into yarn, which she knitted into socks and mittens; she made soap and dipped candles. Once a year she bought a pig from one of the farmers and helped with the butchering in order to bring the price down, after which came salting or smoking.

It had never occurred to her to complain, because there was nobody to complain to. She did what must be done to get from day to day. Once in a while she met friends at the Red Dog and played cards and listened to stories or told her own. She had spent some nice evenings with Daniel Bonner and Ethan and a few others, but it all seemed a very long time ago.

Those days of constant work were over, at least for the moment. Now she had the Thicke sisters, who did everything. She never had to think about putting food on the table or hauling wood for the hearth; her clothes were always clean and neatly pressed, and she had never replaced her knitting needles and sewing basket after the flood. There was no need to spin or knit or weave, as Ethan went to Johnstown every few weeks and could buy fine cloth by the ell without hesitating over the cost.

So it was that Callie spent most of her time in the orchard or the garden Levi had dug for her near the foundation of the old house.

Somewhere in the course of all these changes, she had lost the knack of falling asleep. On the other side of the room Ethan was having no such troubles. In the less-than-dark she could see the rise and fall of his chest.

If she waked him he would not complain. He would want to know what was bothering her and wait until she was ready to talk about it. And maybe she did need to think harder about what she had set in motion.

In the dark she made herself whisper the words to herself.

I am selling the orchard. Tomorrow the orchard will no longer belong to me. It will be safe from Jemima.

It will never belong to Nicholas.

Her maybe half brother, who was asleep in the next room.

When Lorena had finished her story and answered every question, she and Levi had gone in one direction and Elizabeth and Nathaniel in another, leaving Ethan and Callie sitting in the parlor. It was easy to sit quietly with Ethan; it was one of the things she appreciated most about him.