Lorraine Heath (13 page)

Daniel moved the bacon around on his plate before lifting his blue gaze to hers. “Burned it a bit, didn’t you, Meg?”

She tilted her nose. “I like it crisp.”

“Thought I heard you moving around in the middle of the night,” her father said.

She began filling her plate. She’d risen an hour earlier and thought she’d been quiet as she moved through the house. “I wanted to get my chores finished early. I thought I’d visit with Mama Warner today.”

Her father leaned back, chewing his food as intently as he seemed to be studying her. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Mama Warner of late.”

“She’s aging. I’m not certain she’ll be with us that much longer, and I want to glean some of her wisdom.”

Nodding, her father returned to his meal. With shaking fingers, Meg picked up her fork. She didn’t like lying to her father, but she feared he’d grab his rifle if she told him she was planning to spend the day in Clay’s company.

“We’ll be working Sam Johnson’s fields this week if you need us.”

The shortage of able-bodied men to work the fields was a hardship that the local families had overcome by gathering to work each other’s fields. With her father and Daniel working other farms, they seldom came home before dusk.

As Kirk’s wife, she’d grown accustomed to her independence. It had been an adjustment when she moved back home, but now her father expected no more from her than a meal at dawn, a meal at sunset, clean clothes, and a tidy house. Although it would no doubt wear her out, she was certain she could maintain all her chores and still spend a good part of the day watching Clay work.

“You need a husband.”

Meg snapped her head around and stared at her father.

“You need a husband and children to occupy your day, not an old woman,” he said.

“Who would she marry?” Daniel asked. “She don’t want to marry Reverend Baxter. He doesn’t even bother to invite himself to dinner anymore. All the other men around here are either years older or years younger, except for the damn coward, and I know Meg ain’t interested in him, not the way she glares at him during church service. I’m surprised he hasn’t burst into flames.”

The table shook as Thomas pounded his fist down on it. “By God, I don’t want talk of that man in my house.” He glanced at the empty chairs on either side of him, his jaws clenched. “He turned his back on my sons. By God, we should have hanged him the day our sons rode away.” Rising from his chair, he stalked out of the house, the door slamming in his wake.

Accustomed to his father’s outbursts, Daniel simply shoved his plate forward and laid his forearms on the table, leaning forward slightly. “Some of us are thinking maybe we ought to tar and feather the coward.”

“What would that accomplish?” Meg asked, tearing her gaze from the vibrating door.

“Might make him leave this area. Every time there’s a good wind, it brings the stench of his fear blowing across the fields.”

“That’s not enough,” Meg said quietly. “Daniel, do you remember when you took Michael’s harmonica without asking?”

Daniel dropped his gaze to the table and nodded. “Yeah, and I lost it.”

“Did he tar and feather you when he found out?”

“No, he just gave me that puppy dog look of his and made me feel guilty as hell for losing his most treasured possession.”

“And you still feel guilty about it because you came to understand what you took from Michael. The town’s coward needs to understand that he betrayed my husband and our brothers so he can carry the knowledge and pain with him for the rest of his life.”

“How can we make him understand that? I sure as hell ain’t gonna give him a puppy dog look.”

Gazing into his earnest face, she was tempted to tell him about the monument, but Daniel hadn’t yet acquired the patience that came with age. She didn’t think he’d understand the motives behind the monument. She didn’t want to take a chance that he or her father would try to stop her from watching Clay work. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “But I’m sure there’s a way.”

Meg felt the familiar ache in her heart as she watched the twins race toward her, each trying to outdistance the other. She didn’t know how she could miss something she’d never had, but she did miss having her own children. Dismounting, she smiled and waited for them to reach her.

“Mornin', Miz Warner!” they cried as they ran past her, circled, and loped back, breathless from their efforts.

She ruffled their red hair. “Good morning.”

“Want us to see after your horse?” one asked.

“Do you know how to care for a horse?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The boy’s eyes brightened. “Clay taught us last night. It ain’t that much different from takin’ care of the mule. Clay said lookin’ after a lady’s horse was the gentlemanly thing to do, and he wants us to grow up to be gentlemen. Says it’s important to know how to treat a lady.”

She handed the reins to the twins, and they started walking toward the shed.

“We had biscuits again this mornin',” the twin continued. “Clay musta used your recipe ‘cuz they was better than what he cooked before. ‘Course, they still wasn’t as good as yours, but they come pretty close.”

“Did he make three?”

“Yes, ma’am. He surely did. Course, he’ll probably stop eatin’ one if Lucian comes home.” “When will Lucian be home?”

“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Before he left, he hit Clay.”

Meg stared at the child. “He hit him?”

“Yes, ma’am. You know what Clay did?”

She shook her head.

“He just got up off the ground, wiped the blood away from his mouth, and asked Lucian if he felt better.”

“Did he feel better?”

“No, ma’am. We think he felt a sight worse. He moped around the barn all day. Then Clay asked him if he wanted to get away for a few days. Lucian jumped on that idea like a fly on a cow chip, and off he went with the oxen.” He shrugged. “But we don’t know if he’s comin’ back.”

“I’m sure he’ll come back,” she said, trying to instill conviction in her words when she wasn’t at all certain. Lucian’s hatred of Clay rivaled her own.

“We surely do hope so ‘cuz we’re gonna need him come harvest time. We planted us a cash crop this year. Lucian only ever planted enough for us to eat ‘cuz we didn’t have no help with the fields. But Clay said if we all worked a little harder, we could have some extra to sell. So we planted some extra acres of corn. When it comes up, we’ll be pert’ near rich, and we’ll have biscuits every mornin'.”

Meg glanced over the furrowed fields. The Holland acreage had always paled in comparison with everyone else’s. Clay’s father had more interest in stone than in soil.

The twin stopped walking and the entourage halted. He tilted his face back so he could meet Meg’s questioning gaze. “You ain’t gonna tell Clay that I swore yesterday when I was talkin’ about his biscuits, are you? He says we can’t swear till we’re sixteen. If we swear before then, he’ll wash our mouths out with soap, and we ain’t never supposed to swear in front of a lady. Yesterday, that ‘damn’ just sorta slipped out of my mouth, and then I couldn’t shove it back in.”

“I don’t imagine I’ll be telling him about your swearing.”

“Well, if you decide you gotta tell him, just remember that I’m Joe.”

“You sure as heck ain’t!” the other twin yelled, voicing his thoughts for the first time.

“I am, too. You can even count my freckles. You’ll see that I got the most.”

He stretched so he stood on the tips of his bare toes, and she could see his freckles more clearly. From the corner of her eye, she watched the other twin struggle with his dilemma: to prove he was Joe without confessing to having the most freckles.

“I’m not going to tell him,” she said.

“Cross your heart?”

Meg drew a cross over her heart. “Cross my heart.”

“See, Joe. I knew she wouldn’t want your mouth to get washed out with soap.”

“And what if you’d been wrong? You were the one that said ‘damn,’ not me,” the quieter twin stated.

“But I wasn’t wrong. Come on, Miz Warner. Clay’s in the shed waitin’ on you. He’s been there since dawn. Reckon he thought you’d be early again this mornin'.”

She’d wanted to be here at dawn, but she’d waited until her father and brother had left for the fields. They seldom returned home before dusk so she wasn’t concerned with their noticing her absence during the day. “Has he started carving on the stone yet?”

“No, ma’am, but I think he was sorely tempted to. He keeps pickin’ up his tools, but then he just puts ‘em back down.”

They neared the shed, and the twins veered away from her. “Don’t worry about your horse none,” Josh said, smiling.

She watched the twins and horse disappear around the corner. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the shed. Clay stood beside the low table. The wind ruffled his hair, dragging it across the collar of his worn flannel shirt. He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Morning.”

Pursing her lips, holding her return greeting captive, she tilted her head slightly.

“Thought I’d start this morning,” he said.

“That’s why I’m here.”

Nodding, he turned his attention to the table. He picked up a tool and set it down.

He gazed out the window.

He touched the tools.

He looked out the window again.

Meg wasn’t familiar with the implements. Tools that plowed into stone were a little different from those that plowed into earth, but she did know that in order for Clay to use them effectively, he had to hold them longer than it took to sneeze.

She crossed her arms and shoved them beneath her breasts. The man must have taken lessons in moving from his mule.

He walked slowly around the granite, studying it as though he’d only just seen it. He stopped and looked at her standing in the doorway. “I’ll get you a chair.”

With long strides, he quickly left the shed. Stupefied, Meg glanced around. She could have sat on the empty stool nestled in the comer.

He returned moments later and set a hard-backed wooden chair beneath the threshold. Meg picked it up, carried it closer to the stone, and sat.

“It’d be best if you sat by the door,” Clay said.

“Why?”

“Because when I start working, dust and stone are gonna fly everywhere.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Fine.”

He stomped out again, leaving Meg to stare at the door. She wiped her sweating palms along her skirt.

Clay walked in carrying a piece of red cloth. “This was my pa’s. It’s clean. You can tie it around your face, cover you nose and mouth so you’re not breathing in all the dust.”

“Do you have one?”

Nodding, he pulled a similar cloth out of his pocket.

“Then I guess we’re all set,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.” He walked to the table and picked up an instrument with a blunt end.

“What’s that?” Meg asked.

“A chisel.” He held up a tool which looked similar to a large nail. “This is a point.”

Meg cursed her curiosity, but couldn’t resist it. She rose from the chair and walked to the table. “Why do you have them in different sizes?”

“I use the larger ones in the beginning when I’m chipping away the stone I don’t need.” He touched smaller tools that had finer points or smaller blunt ends. “I use these when I’m working on the details.”

“You even have different hammers.”

He held a hammer with pointed grooves in both ends. “I use this one to pound the granite into shape.” He set it down and waved his hand over the remaining hammers which had flat ends. “I use the heavier hammers at first, then I’ll use the lighter hammers.”

“How did you learn when to use each tool?”

“By making mistakes.” He wiped his palms on his trousers. “Are you thirsty? I can draw you some water from the well.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m just fine.”

“Let me know if you want some water.”

“I will.”

He touched the largest chisel. “Think I’ll have a drink of water before I get started.”

Clay strode out of the shed and crossed the yard to the well. With rapid-fire motions that resembled those of a Gatlin gun, he turned the crank and brought the bucket from the bottom of the well. He set it on the stone ledge and dunked his head in the cool water.

All night, he’d planned the moment when he’d chip away his first bit of stone, and he certainly hadn’t expected to be distracted by honeysuckle. The damned fragrance floated around Meg like a low cloud on a misty morning. He knew she hadn’t worn the scent for him. She was just in the habit of bathing in it or throwing it on her body or whatever the hell she did to tease a man’s nostrils.

He kept his head submerged until he thought his lungs would explode from lack of air. He jerked his head out, took a deep breath, and threw his head back, tunneling his fingers through his hair, careful to avoid the spot she’d stitched the day before. He rubbed his hands over his face, wondering how long it’d take his hair to dry so he didn’t look like a drowned cat. He hadn’t even considered that he’d have to explain—

“Are you nervous?” she asked quietly behind him.

Clay nearly jumped over the well. He spun around.

She held up a finger to silence his protest. “You didn’t have any tools in your hands.”

With a rueful smile, he sighed and sat on the edge of the well. “I’ve never done anything this big before, or something that was so important.”

“I disagree. My mother’s headstone was just as important”

“It was a little different and a lot smaller.”

“But you’re accustomed to carving granite. You know how the rock will respond to your touch.”

She gazed at his hands, and he fought against shoving them into his pockets. He couldn’t work with his hands in his pockets, and he couldn’t work wearing gloves. She’d spend a lot of time staring at his large ugly hands. The sooner he accepted that, the better.

She lifted her eyes to his. “How do you know where to begin?”

“You ever make a quilt?” he asked.

“Of course. What woman hasn’t?”

“Well, you know how you take all the little pieces and sew them together? It’s like you’re building something. I do the opposite. I take something that’s finished—like the rock—and scrape away its covering to reveal what it is inside.” He plowed his hands through his hair. “That doesn’t make sense.”