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calf, knee, and lower thigh. Why he acted so impolitely he couldn't imagine. She was hill bred and motherless. Such behavior for her, while not excusable, was understandable. He, on the other hand, should have had the decency to turn his back. A gentleman would have, he was sure.
    Esme looked around curiously and watched the tiny fish nibbling their dinner. "What about you? What are you doing?" she asked Cleav.
    "I'm working."
    Esme's expression lit with amusement. "Working?" she repeated, glancing at Cleav's relaxed pose and then at the quiet bucolic surroundings. "I'd best tell Pa about this. It looks to be just the job he's been praying for!"
    His jaw tightening with annoyance, Cleav rose to his feet. He knew people didn't appreciate his work. Even Reverend Tewksbury and dear Miss Sophrona could barely keep the boredom out of their expressions when he talked about it. But it was work, important work, and Cleav bristled with the unfair comparison to the lazy and worthless Yohan Crabb.
    "Some men labor with their backs and others with their minds. It's obvious that you're more accustomed to the
former
.''
Almost rudely Cleav walked away from the young
woman who had interrupted his afternoon. He had things to do, and he couldn't allow a curious hill girl to distract him.
    Esme bristled slightly at his scornful tone, but then bit down on her lip and hurried to follow him. "He's got a prickly pride," she whispered to herself, as if making a notation for future reference. She was supposed to be making him coo and pant after her, not getting him all puffed up and nay-minded.
    Cleav picked up a pail that he had left near a larger and deeper pond just downstream. Hurrying to catch up, Esme smiled up at him when she reached his side. He was just the right height, she thought to herself. Not so tall as to be clumsy, but plenty tall enough to see over the crowd. She also approved of how easily he'd scooped up the full bucket. His muscles were strong.
    These cheery thoughts intrigued her for a moment until she smelled a distinctly unpleasant odor. She peered into the bait bucket.
    "Whew! What is that?" she asked him, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
    "It's trout food," he answered.
    "What you feeding them, skunk turds?"
    Cleav was momentarily taken back by her frank language, but recovered quickly."Meat,'' he answered calmly.
    "Meat?" She raised her eyebrows. "I suspect you're dang right it is, and sure to graces it's been dead near a month!"
    "Trout can't smell," he explained with only slight agitation. "Fish, in natural circumstances, never consume pork."
    "And that's just exactly how God intended it. Can you imagine what would happen if every time a pig wandered into the river the fish came up and started gnawing on the poor thing? Why, they'd be pure-d mangled afore we'd get them to slaughter."
    Cleav couldn't quite tamp down the ghost of a smile that came to his lips at the image of a squealing hog being attacked by swarming carnivorous river trout. She had humor, this one, he thought in grudging appreciation. Humor being a high form of intellect, he wondered curiously how bright the Crabb woman might be. People in town said she was smarter than her sisters, but in his slight acquaintance with the twins, he thought perhaps even rocks were closer to his intellectual equals than those two.
    With a touch more patience he continued his explanation. "It's very difficult for me to provide enough small fish and minnows to feed this many trout. So I'm trying to extend the fish products I feed them by grinding them with pork. As far as preference, thus far they seem unable to tell the difference. But their digestive systems seem to tolerate the pork better when the meat is partially decomposed."
    Esme wrinkled her brow seriously, listening to his explanation. "You mean when it's rotten?" she translated.
    "Just so," he agreed, suppressing a laugh. Cleav stopped at the side of the pool, and Esme saw to her disbelief that the shadows his body