Lorraine Heath (24 page)

The kiss was tentative, unsure, causing Meg to ache for all the stolen kisses he should have had in his life. He brushed his tongue over her lower lip. She placed her hand on the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his hair. Then she touched her tongue to his and drew him in.

Moaning, he clamped his free hand on her waist and drew her against his body while the hand holding her cheek continued to caress her. His tongue moved slowly through her mouth as though savoring the taste.

He explored her mouth as cautiously as he carved stone, bit by bit, touching each nook and cranny, leaving his mark before moving on. She couldn’t remember a time when anyone had been so tender, so seemingly appreciative of what she had to offer. Even Kirk, for all his gentleness, had never been this tender.

Ending the kiss, he trailed his thumb over her lower lip. “Did I do it right?” he asked quietly.

Meg moved her hands away from his neck and glided them along his chest. “I have to go now,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

She ran to the house, keeping the answer to his question locked inside her heart.

B
EFORE DAWN
, C
LAY WAS STANDING IN THE DOORWAY OF THE
shed, waiting.

She didn’t come.

Throughout the day, he chipped on the stone, hit his thumb more often than he hit the chisel, gazed out the windows, walked to the door, stared in the direction of her farm, and released a sigh stronger than the wind.

As twilight filtered through the windows, he sat in the chair, his hope that she’d come dwindling to an aching loneliness. Holding the bandanna she usually wore, he inhaled the scent of sweet honeysuckle and studied the granite.

The shadows looked as though they were rising from a sea of stone. If he were generous, he could have said he’d cut away at least half the stone that he needed to.

What he was contemplating was wrong, and he knew it. He knew it would be a mistake to work on the details of Kirk’s face before he completely carved out the silhouettes.

But he wanted Meg to come back to the shed and watch him work.

Kirk was the only one with the power to bring her back.

Sunday morning Clay awoke unable to remember a time in his life when he’d felt more alone. If he’d known kissing Meg would mean he’d never see her again except in church, he wasn’t certain he would have kissed her.

Hell, he would have kissed her. He just would have kissed her longer and more tenderly until she made those little sounds Kirk had told him about.

He’d kissed her wrong. That’s why she hadn’t come back. Maybe he’d held her waist too tightly and hurt her. Maybe he’d scratched her face with his rough hand. He should have kept his fingers still instead of touching every inch of her face that his fingers could reach.

And he hadn’t shaved before he went to the swimming hole. Maybe a day’s growth of beard had chafed her delicate skin.

In retrospect, he could think of a hundred things he’d done wrong when he kissed her.

He couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done right.

Sitting at the back of the church, he knew that the days since he’d seen Meg at the swimming hole had been equally long for her. She sat at the organ, staring at the keyboard, her eyes drifting closed from time to time, her shoulders slumped. She didn’t even seem to come to life when she played.

Did she regret letting him touch her, letting him kiss her? Did her regrets keep her awake at night? Did his kiss give her nightmares?

He wanted to tell her he’d begun working on Kirk’s features. He wanted to tell her he’d never kiss her again or touch her. He wouldn’t even talk to her if she’d just come back and watch him work.

The reverend called for a prayer. Usually Clay bowed his head, but today he kept his eyes open and focused on Meg. If he was only going to see her one day a week, he needed to gather as much of her into his memory as he could.

When the prayer ended, Robert stood and addressed the congregation. “As you know, Mama Warner has taken ill. Our dear Meg has been at her side almost constantly. My uncle is with Mama Warner now, but as you go on with your lives, I hope you’ll keep my grandmother in your prayers.”

Clay bowed his head and prayed. He was the most selfish man he knew. All week he’d only thought about how much he wanted Meg. It had never occurred to him that perhaps someone else needed her more.

She began to play the organ, and he lifted his gaze. He wished she’d look at him, just once, but she didn’t. He got up and walked out of the church.

“If you’re gonna do it, you’d best get it done.”

Clay glared at Lucian as the people wandered out of the church. “That’s easy enough for you to say.”

Lucian laughed. “Yeah, it is.”

Clay turned his attention back to the churchyard. Holding onto Robert’s arm, Meg walked toward the wagon, with people swarming around them like bees to honey.

Clay took a deep breath. She was going to hate him all the more for what he was about to do, but his heart gave him no choice. He settled his gaze on her and started walking.

He ignored the gasps, curses, and stares that pummeled him as people moved aside. He didn’t like the way Robert shielded Meg as Clay neared the wagon, but then there wasn’t much that he did like lately.

He swept his hat off his head, and his gaze caressed her face while she stared at a button on his shirt. She looked so tired that all he wanted to do was carry her home and rock her in his arms until she fell asleep. “I was sorry to hear Mama Warner has taken ill. I hope you’ll tell her that she’s in my prayers.”

Meg nodded slightly, a tear glistening in her eye. “I will.”

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he dared under the circumstances. He nodded toward Robert, returned his hat to his head, and walked away, cursing himself for the coward he was.

Standing in the shed doorway, Meg couldn’t take her eyes off the man who was carefully chipping away small bits of stone. He looked as tired as she felt, and she wondered if he’d slept as little as she had this week.

She tended to Mama Warner’s needs all day. In the evening, when Robert took her home, she was too exhausted to do anything but fall into bed, but even then she seldom slept. Her body ached, and it felt as heavy as stone.

In her dreams, Clay chipped the stone away and glided his hands over her body. While she dreamed, she longed for his touch. While she was awake, she longed for the safety of her dreams where she could have what she wanted without suffering through the scorn of her family or neighbors.

Robert had been unusually quiet on the ride back to Mama Warner’s, and Meg wondered what her face had revealed when Clay had walked up to her. She’d tried to keep her expression impassive, but all she’d wanted was to fall into his arms.

Clay stopped carving and wiped his brow. Then his gaze fell on her, and he became as still as the stone.

Meg walked to the stool and looked up at him. “I didn’t think you were going to work on the details until you’d cut away all the stone.”

“I felt a need to carve Kirk’s face. Do you want to touch it?”

She nodded, and Clay stepped off the stool. He transferred the chisel to the hand holding the hammer. Then he held out his hand to her.

She slipped her hand into his and felt his strong fingers close around it as he helped her climb on the stool. When he started to release her hand, she stopped him, clinging to his fingers. Slowly, she trailed the fingers of her other hand over the edge of a triangle that would one day be Kirk’s nose.

“I still have a lot of work left to do,” Clay said.

“I know. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again.”

“I’m hoping in another week or so I’ll have his face as it should be.”

Nodding, she squeezed his hand and stepped down from the stool. “Robert went to see his uncle. Mama Warner would like to see you while he’s gone.”

“I’ll go clean up.”

Silently, Clay stood in Mama Warner’s bedroom and studied the withering body. Mama Warner’s request to see him had not come as a surprise. He had known that as death approached, she would want to discuss her marker with him. She wasn’t one to let others handle her affairs.

Meg eased onto the bed and took Mama Warner’s hand. “Mama Warner?” Gently, she shook the older woman’s shoulder. “Mama Warner? I brought him. Remember, you asked to see him?”

“Him. Him. Him.” She opened her eyes. “Before I pass to the next world, I want you to say his name.” She waved her hand. “Let Clayton sit here.”

Rising from the bed, Meg smiled uncertainly at Clay before moving into the shadows. Clay sat on the bed and took the frail hand within his larger coarser one. He wished he had worn gloves.

The aged woman smiled and patted his hand. “You didn’t come to see me when you got home.”

“I thought it best.”

“You never was a smart one.” She touched his hair. “You’ve grown older … older than you are. I remember the last time I saw you. You were with the army. They’d stopped here for some water. Remember?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I asked that nice young lieutenant if you could come into my house and hang a picture over my fireplace.” She chuckled. “I didn’t have a picture for you to hang. I brought you inside and took you to my kitchen door. You and Kirk used to play in the woods behind my house. No one would have been able to find you if you’d hidden in the woods, but you told me you wouldn’t run. A coward would have run. Ever wish you’d run, Clayton?”

“No, ma’am.”

“They treated you kindly, did they?”

He didn’t want to talk about his past, especially with Meg standing in the room. She seemed on the verge of forgetting the past. He didn’t want the fires of hatred rekindled. “That’s all in the past. Can’t dwell on it.”

“You can’t because you’re young. I’m old. I’ve earned the right to dwell on whatever I want. My grandson, Robert, told me about Gettysburg. Told me the Union army dug a few big holes and dropped our boys into them.”

Meg gasped from the shadows, and Clay wondered if the war would ever leave these people in peace.

“A mass grave for our men who fought with honor. Do you know if that’s true?” Mama Warner whispered hoarsely, tears welling in her eyes.

Clay enfolded his hands around hers. “Mostly.”

“There’s no such thing as mostly. It’s either true or it ain’t.”

He sighed heavily. “A mass grave was dug, but the men from Cedar Grove weren’t buried there.” He closed his eyes against the memory. Meg’s hatred would grow. The people in town would probably hang him at dawn, and this dear old woman would wish she’d never welcomed him into her house. Opening his eyes, he cleared his throat. “Because I wouldn’t fight, I spent some time as a prisoner at a fort. When they released me, I went to find Kirk, to see if he wanted me to bring any messages back. I got there too late. They’d fought the battle. Bodies littered the ground.” He shook his head. “So many bodies.”

“My grandson died there.”

He squeezed her hands. “Yes, ma’am, but I found this little clearing away from the battlefield. It was so green. It looked as though it had never been touched by war, as though it never would be. I dug the graves and made markers. I buried Kirk and the others beneath the shade of the trees.” He didn’t see any reason to mention that he was unable to locate everyone. He’d given them markers and a place anyway.

“So my grandson has a proper resting place?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She closed her eyes as though too weary to keep them open.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked.

She opened her eyes. “Sorry?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry I didn’t bring them home. I didn’t have a wagon. I didn’t have a horse. I didn’t know how I was gonna get myself home. I know I should have found a way to bring them home. I shouldn’t have left Kirk there. He wouldn’t have left me.”

“Do you know that, Clayton? Do any of us know what we’ll do when the time comes?”

“I should have brought them home.”

“You dug them a grave. You made them a marker. Did you say a prayer for them?”

“Yes, ma’am. Twenty-two prayers.”

“We all pay a price when war comes to call. You’ve paid more than your share. As have I. My dear husband died at the Alamo so we would be free to join the Union. His grandson died so we could be separate from the Union. Which one died in vain?”

“Neither,” he said without hesitation. “They both died fighting for what they believed in.”

She gave him a warm knowing smile. “Maybe you’re a smart one after all.” She patted his cheek. “I have a favor to ask.”

“I’d do anything for you.”

“I know. Meg, bring me my Bible.”

As Meg leaned over the bed, the flame from the lamp cast a yellow glow over her face, and Clay saw the trail of her tears. Without looking at him, she gently placed the worn book in Mama Warner’s hands.

“I want a marker made of stone,” Mama Warner said. “I want the words cut deep so the rain and wind can’t take them away any time soon.” She folded back the cover on the Bible, and a small piece of paper slipped onto the quilt. “Those are the words I want.”

Clay picked up the paper and read the words inscribed in unsteady script. “I lived a life filled with Texas tears and sunshine and never regretted a moment of either.”

“Will you do it for me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She placed her hand over his, and Clay thought she meant to squeeze it, but her touch felt more like a shadow passing in the night. “You make my son pay you for it.”

Clay felt the tears sting his eyes and burn down his throat. “No, ma’am. You always treated me like one of your own. I consider it an honor. …” He squeezed his eyes shut to stay the tears. “I won’t do it for money.”

Her fingers slipped from his hand. “I’m tired now. Meg, give this boy some pie before he goes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Clay picked the Bible off the bed and set it on the table beside her bed. He stood, leaned over, and placed a kiss on the wrinkled brow. “I love you, Mama Warner.”

“Love you, too, Clayton,” she whispered without opening her eyes.

Straightening, he watched her drift into sleep.

Meg lifted the lamp off the table. “Come on,” she said in a low voice.