“Grabbing? I’ve been grabbing after Daniel?” Martha was horrified. “But that’s—that’s—”

She wanted to say it wasn’t true, but something held her back.

“It don’t matter if it’s true or not,” Callie interrupted her. “Alice thinks it is, and if she thinks it is, then everybody else does too. Now you had best get into that water before it’s cold again.”

Martha was relieved to be able to disappear, even if it was only behind an old carved screen. She needed to make sense of what Callie had said. She felt herself blushing. Completely irritated with herself, she stripped off her chemise—even that was muddy at the hem—and stepped into the hip bath. The water was blessedly hot, and she sank into it thankfully.

On the other side of the screen, Becca had come back into the kitchen and was proclaiming her thoughts on the whole matter.

“Foolishness,” she said. “I won’t have it. Those girls of mine will get an earful this evening, I promise you that. Chasing after a man who ain’t interested, like a, like a trollop! Did I raise my girls that way? No, I did not. I will see to it your brothers hear about this, you mark my word,” Becca called loudly. “They care about this family’s good name even if you don’t. Pete will set you straight, that he will. I’ll see to it.”

There was a sound of a stool scraping along the floor and then Callie’s voice from the other side of the screen.

“I have to say, Martha, you took your time coming down to the village, but then you did it with style.”

Martha closed her eyes and shifted so that the water came up to her shoulders. “I might as well have hired a drummer to walk in front of me.”

But she had to smile, a little at least. Sometimes the only thing you could do was laugh at yourself, and this seemed to be one of those times.

Callie was saying, “Flood dirt is stubborn. Here.”

A cake of soap came flying around the corner of the screen and plopped into the water.

“Don’t use it on your hair,” Callie said. “That coarse stuff would do awful things to it and that would be a shame.”

Martha slid down further into the water. “Callie?”

“Hmmm?”

“Have I ruined what good name I had?”

Callie barked a short laugh. “You worried about your reputation?”

Yes, Martha should have said. Yes, I am.

“It’s none of my business anyway,” Callie said.

Becca called from the other side of the room. “Ain’t nobody asked me but I think Daniel could do a lot worse than Martha. And he ain’t getting any younger. But Martha, if you want to look around a bit, don’t you forget about my Roy. He’s the best worker at the mill, so says Marcus Reed; you can ask him yourself.”

Martha clamped her mouth shut hard on the urge to giggle, but Callie wasn’t amused.

“Why would you go putting ideas in her head?” Callie snapped. “Why is everybody so interested in pairing people up? Is there an ark somewhere I overlooked? Daniel is happy the way he is.”

“Is that so?” Becca said, mildly.

“It is so,” Callie shot back.

Martha raised her voice. “Could we please stop talking about Daniel Bonner? I am here to see you, Callie. Tell me how things stand.”

There was a short silence and then Callie made a sound deep in her throat. “Why would you want to talk about that sorry subject?”

“Because I want to know,” Martha said. “Because I’d like to help if I can.”

“You can come shovel mud anytime you got the urge,” Callie said, her dry humor coming to the surface again.

“Do you have to joke about everything? I’m serious.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Callie reeled off a list of things lost in the flood, from her home to her chickens.

“What about your stock?”

“I lost some trees. But the cider house came through fine, and no damage to the press,” she finished. “I could fix up a little place for myself right there in the cider house—there’s room for a bed—but Ethan Middleton has got it in his head that it wouldn’t be seemly—”

Martha laughed.

“Now what in the name of perdition is so funny about that?” Callie demanded, all sputter and spark.

“You. You are funny, always finding a way to deny yourself the things everybody is entitled to. A home, for one. And don’t try to tell me the cider house could be your home, because that argument would be beneath you.”

Martha reached for the linen towel and stood up. The water was a deep gray-brown and she was nowhere near clean, but she couldn’t loll all morning in Becca’s hip bath and to ask for more water would cement her reputation as spoiled and wasteful.

Callie found her voice again. “I don’t want to talk houses anymore; it’s all I hear about. Now I have got to get back to work. I’m sorry we didn’t have much of a visit, but you’re welcome anytime. I come in about sunset. Becca, stop making faces. I do come in about sunset.”

“About a couple hours after,” Becca said. She seemed to be one of the rare people who was not in the least put off by Callie’s temper.

While they were arguing the point Martha was dressing as quickly as she could manage. Becca had loaned her an old-fashioned skirt and bodice and a white linen blouse soft with many washings. No stockings, but she would have to send for her second pair of boots and another pair of stockings anyway.