Lorraine Heath (9 page)

Throwing off the blankets, she shot out of bed and nearly tripped on the hem of her nightgown. She scrambled to the window and leaned forward, breathing deeply, relishing the outside air fanning her cheeks.

Pulling quickly back into the room, she peered cautiously into the alley. A man, silhouetted by the lantern hanging outside the hotel, sat with his back against the mercantile. The knife that he was methodically wielding over an object in his hand caught the lantern’s glow.

She wondered if that object responded to his touch the way he wanted. Her eyes were again drawn to his hands, weaving in and out of the shadows as he worked. She didn’t need to see the hands to know they were scarred. She didn’t want to see him set the knife aside and touch his long fingers to the carving as though his flesh and not his eyes could tell him if he’d shaped what he’d intended.

Would he touch the stone in the same manner after he cut it? Would he trail his fingers along her throat after he carved it?

She pressed her fingers against her throat and thought about watching him work. He always caressed what he carved.

She remembered the first time she saw him carve something into stone. His knuckles had been too big for his fingers, but she had loved watching his hands work.

Until that day, she’d never known despair. Clay and his skilled hands had eased her pain.

Why had she forgotten?

She was ten when she went with her father to the Hollands’ farm. She stood in the doorway of a large shed, not daring to step inside where they made things associated with death.

“What are you doing here?” a young voice asked.

She turned to see Clay leaning against the building, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “My ma died.”

Compassion filled his eyes. Only now, years later, did she realize how he was accustomed to people standing on his land with tears in their eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She lifted her trembling chin because her father had said if she kept her chin up, everything would be all right, but the simple act never seemed to make anything all right. “My pa went lookin’ for your pa. He’s gonna ask him to make Ma’s marker.” She crinkled her nose. “He wants a lamb and something from the Bible on it.”

“What do you want on it?”

She shrugged her small shoulders. “Ma liked birds, and it just seems that we ought to say something about Ma so people will know we loved her mightily.”

He shoved away from the wall and stepped into the shed. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To make your ma’s marker.”

She shook her head. “Your pa’s supposed to do it.”

“He don’t like doin’ the letterin'. I been doin’ it since I was eight. Ain’t never done birds before so I’ll do some practicin’ first, and you tell me if it’s what you want.”

She sat on a stool beside him all afternoon, watching him work. When each design he created pleased her, he cut it into the marker. He carved all the small things her mother had loved. He carved her childish sentiment—
We loved her mightily
—because he thought it was beautiful.

In the years since, Meg had never seen a marker with as many etchings on it as her mother’s marker. It still brought tears to her eyes when she visited her mother’s resting place. Within the stone, Clay had captured the innocent love of a child for her mother.

And he’d only been a boy.

She sensed that as a young man with an old man’s eyes, he had a far greater ability to bring the granite to life. The thought scared the hell out of her.

Damn fool woman!

Clay knew he should curse himself, not her. He’d been lured by honeysuckle into hell.

What did he know about marble?

Nothing except that maybe beneath her clothing, Meg Warner resembled marble that had been patiently polished.

He pressed his head against the building and watched the second window on the third floor of the hotel. The window led into the room in which she slept.

He wondered if she slept on her stomach. Last night, he’d been tempted to crawl across the camp and peer over the side of the wagon to catch a glimpse of her sleeping. He ached for the sight of her without the hatred distorting her features.

He’d gladly give his life for just one ounce of the compassion he’d seen reflected in her eyes when she thought Yankees had killed Franz Schultz.

But she’d never give him compassion or understanding. Aggravation, though, was another matter. She seemed intent on giving him plenty of that. If he hadn’t known her before the war, he wouldn’t continue to rein in his temper.

But he had known her. Not well. Certainly, not as well as he would have liked, but well enough to know that her wounds were festering.

If he could find a taker, he’d bet the farm she hadn’t read Kirk’s final letter.

He prayed Kirk hadn’t inscribed the date when he wrote that letter. Clay had taken possession of the letter months after Kirk had given him the pouch. If Meg realized that, she would no doubt ask questions Clay didn’t want to answer.

He picked up his knife and started carving again. He concentrated on the lines and planes of the wood to keep his mind from wandering too far into the past.

He had his own wounds that refused to heal.

S
TEPPING ONTO THE BOARDWALK,
M
EG SPOTTED
C
LAY’S WAGON
in front of the mercantile. Her mare, saddled and waiting, whinnied. Meg ambled over to the mule and rubbed its nose. “Did you sleep as poorly as I did last night?” She smiled. “I’ll bet the same thoughts didn’t keep us awake.”

Walking into the mercantile, she saw Clay standing at the counter. The rotund man behind the counter was inspecting a gold pocket watch.

“Can’t give you much for it.” He waved pudgy fingers toward a glass case. “Everybody’s tradin’ their jewelry since the war ended.”

“I’ll take whatever you’re willing to trade,” Clay said, his eyes focused on something past the man’s shoulder.

The man snapped the watch closed and slipped it into his pocket. “I can spare some flour, some sugar, maybe half a dozen canned goods but that’s about it.”

“And two sarsaparilla sticks,” Clay said.

“You got kids?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, take the sweets and a couple more canned goods, but don’t go telling anybody I have a soft heart.”

Clay’s lips lifted slightly as he promised. “I won’t.”

Meg stood silently as he boxed up his supplies and slipped the sarsaparilla sticks into his shirt pocket. Lifting the box off the counter, he turned and froze, his gaze meeting hers. His face burned a deep scarlet before he walked past her. “Don’t suppose you’d get the door for me.”

Stepping around him, she opened the door. Once he stepped through, she followed. “He cheated you.”

“How do you figure that?” he asked as he placed the box on the wagon seat.

“That watch was worth much more than that piddling amount of food.”

“It was only worth what I could get for it, and this is all I could get.”

“Mr. Tucker at the general store in Cedar Grove would have given you more. You should have taken your business to him.”

“I tried, Mrs. Warner, but he’ll only deal with me if I can pay with cash. At the moment, I can’t.” “Was that your father’s watch?”

He shoved on the box even though he’d already pushed it back as far as it could go. “My grandfather’s. We’ll need to rent some oxen to pull the wagon. The stone will make it too heavy for the mule. Just outside of town there’s a farmer who’ll give us a fair price.”

Meg wished she hadn’t noticed how he’d rushed on as though he didn’t want to acknowledge what he’d just sacrificed for his family. She briefly wondered what else he might have sacrificed. “I saw you in the alley last night. Is that where you slept?”

“Didn’t sleep.”

“Why in the world didn’t you?”

“Didn’t like the looks of some of the men standing around the hotel. Wanted to make sure you were safe.” He rubbed his hand along his jaw. “Even with the oxen, it’ll be a slow journey back. We’d best get started, get that marble you want.” He began to climb on the wagon.

“I—” She stopped speaking when he dropped back down to the ground and looked at her. She licked her lips. “Last night, I didn’t think about the marble.”

He gave her half a smile. “I’m not surprised. I let you see how badly I wanted the granite. My mistake.”

She tilted her chin. “I thought about the marker you made for my mother. Do you remember it?”

“I remember everything I’ve ever carved. It’s like when I carve something in wood or stone, I carve it into my memory at the same time.”

“What was the marker made of?”

“Granite. That’s what me and Pa always used.”

“That’s what I thought. Do you honestly think the granite is the better choice?”

“No, ma’am.”

His response startled her. Maybe he had thought things through last night and come to the realization that she did indeed know which rock was better suited for the monument. “You don’t?”

“No, ma’am. If you wanted a memorial to stand in silent tribute to those who died, then the granite would be the rock to purchase. But that’s not what you want. I don’t know what it is you do want, but you won’t get it with the marble.”

“I asked my question in all earnestness.”

He removed his hat, combed his long fingers through his thick hair, and sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. My opinion on the matter hasn’t changed since yesterday.”

She lowered her gaze and pretended to study her scuffed boots so he wouldn’t see the arguments playing havoc with her heart. She preferred the marble. Clay was unfamiliar with the stone. He would be forced to question and doubt each cut he made in the stone just as she wanted him to question and doubt the choices he made during the war. But if he made one error in judgment as great as the one he made when he failed to enlist, all her efforts would be for naught.

An unfinished monument would forever stand in memory of those who deserved more.

Reluctantly, she admitted the granite was the better choice … not only for his purpose, but for hers. She lifted her eyes to his and took a deep, cleansing breath. “You can purchase the granite.”

Warily, he studied her. “Not the marble?”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, I’ve decided in favor of the granite.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

She nodded, hoping that he was right and that she hadn’t made a mistake. “You’ll need the money.” She pulled out a drawstring bag she’d tucked behind the waistband of her trousers earlier. She opened the pouch and spilled the contents into his scarred palm. “Will that be enough?” she asked.

He shifted the coins around with his finger. “Should be.”

“Oh, wait.” She plucked a silver coin out of his palm. “Kirk’s tossing coin. I don’t want to get rid of that.”

He stared at her, his dark brows drawing together. “His tossing coin?”

Holding it up, she turned it so he could see one side, then the other. “It has Lady Liberty on both sides.”

“What?” he fairly roared as he snatched it from her fingers and examined it.

“He always used it to win bets against my brothers.”

His eyes showed disbelief. “That son of a …”

Knowingly, she smiled. “Don’t tell me he used it on you as well?”

“A time or two.” Handing the coin back to her, he smiled sadly. “But it worked out for the best.”

Mesmerized, Meg wore a path around the wagon, viewing the rock from all sides. The glow from the fire’s flames washed over one side of the granite, bringing out the red tint. The moonlight spilled across the other side, creating an ethereal quality.

Had Clay envisioned the stone as it would appear surrounded by night shadows, with moonlight whispering across it?

She wished he had brought his tools so he could begin work this evening. “Where will you put Kirk?” she asked as she touched one side of the rock. “Here?”

Clay lifted his head. What was the woman on about now? Since they left Schultz’s quarry, she’d been chattering to her horse, the oxen, the damned rock, and now him. She was hopping around the wagon as though someone had set hot coals beneath her feet.

“Which side do you think Kirk will be on?” she repeated.

Slowly, he unfolded his weary body and wandered to the wagon. He touched the side of the rock at the end of the wagon. “I’ll probably make this the base, so … I guess I’ll carve the horse and rider here.”

Meg scurried to the side of the wagon away from the fire. “I can’t see them.”

“You will when I’m done.”

He began to walk away. She ran around to the other side. “And I’ll be here?”

“I reckon.” He rubbed his hand up and down his rough cheek. “If you don’t want to sleep on the ground, you’re small enough that you ought to be able to curl up on the wagon seat.”

“Are you going to sleep now?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, I aim to keep watch.”

Meg watched as Clay meandered back to the tree. He dropped to the ground and pressed his back against the trunk. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in the granite now that they’d acquired it. She should have purchased the marble. At least their conversation carried a spark to it when they were in disagreement.

She climbed onto the wagon and arranged the blankets on the bench seat. Stilling her hands, she looked at the granite. It was just a piece of stone, and yet she was drawn to it. “Which direction …”

She stopped speaking as Clay snapped his head back. He looked around. “What?”

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

Watching as he rubbed his shoulders against the tree before staring vacantly at the fire, she doubted his words. She’d been so thrilled with the stone that she’d paid little attention to anything else.

Shortly after they’d made camp, he went in search of game. She heard his rifle shot fill the air three times, but he returned to camp empty-handed. She dipped into his meager supplies, cooked some biscuits, and warmed a can of beans. Remembering the manner in which he wolfed down the simple, tasteless meal, she had a feeling that sleep wasn’t the only thing he’d done without the night before.

She thought back to the first night they’d made camp. Had he slept then? She remembered that some time had passed after her outburst before she again heard the knife shave the wood. She’d taken the sound into her dreams. Had it been with her all night? “Have you slept at all since we began this journey?”