"The letter he wrote me?"
"Your husband. Did you read the letter he wrote you?"
"He wrote me more than one and, yes, I read them all. Many times in fact"
He shifted his gaze to her, giving her the sad smile she'd come to recognize. It was almost as though he thought she'd hate him all the more if he gave her the kind of smile he'd worn for the boys in the river. "I was referring to the letter he left you in the pouch."
Meg's eyes widened as her hands began to tremble. In the church, she'd gathered the letters together but hadn't looked at them individually. "He left me a letter?"
He nodded, and the sadness momentarily lifted from his eyes. She threw back the flap on the pouch and spilled the letters and scroll into her lap. She dropped the pouch by her side and sifted through the envelopes until she spotted one that didn't have her handwriting on it. She snatched it up, tears filling her eyes as she touched the scrawled words her name, sharing his name. Even unread, Kirk's final letter was a bittersweet reminder of all she'd once possessed, all she'd lost.
"I don't know if I can read it. Not now. Not after all this time. I don't understand why you didn't bring it to me sooner, before I came to you."
"I tried. The day I got home I went to your farm. Your brotherDaniel, isn't it?"
She nodded.
"He swore he'd kill me if I didn't leave. From the look in his eyes, I figured he meant it. I didn't dare send it with one of my brothers because I didn't know how deep his hatred ran. I didn't want one of them to take a bullet that should have gone to me."
Slowly, Meg put all the letters into the pouch. If she read Kirk's letter, it would be when she was alone. She couldn't bring herself to thank C!ay, although she knew she owed him for bringing Kirk's letter to her. She picked up the rolled paper. "I want to talk to you about the memorial."
"That was just the first thing that popped into my head. It doesn't have to look like that I can sketch out some other ideas."
She gave him a guilty grimace. 'To be honest, I haven't looked at it I was too upset over the letters."
"You should probably look at it before you make a decision. It's rough. I don't have much talent for sketching."
Unrolling the paper, she laid it on the rock, anchoring one end beneath her ankle so one hand was free to touch the charcoaled drawing. She had expected to see men charging into battle, but not this. She'd never expected this.
The drawing contained only one man. Within the shades of gray that comprised his face, she could see a fierce pride. He sat confidently upon his horse, which had its forelegs raised as it reared back on its haunches. One hand held the reins and (he other reached out to a young woman holding a flag that was blowing in the wind.
She brought her trembling fingers to her lips. "It's Kirk," she whispered.
"It will be when I'm done."
ALWAYS TO REMEMBER
With tears brimming in her eyes, she looked at him. "And the woman?"
Careful not to touch her, he pulled the first sheet of paper away to reveal the statue as it would be viewed from a different angle.
The woman's face reflected the pride, mingled with anguish, that women had felt for generations when they sent their men off to war. Her face mirrored love, courage, and knowledge. Eloquently, in silence, the woman knew she was gazing upon the man she loved for the last time.
Meg didn't realize she was openly weeping until she saw the paper wither where her teardrops splashed upon it.
"The woman," he said quietly, "will be you."
* * *
Chapter Four
Cursing, Clay removed ins hat and wiped the sweat beading his brow. Meg had promised to meet him on the road leading away from town, on the road leading to Austin.
Shifting his backside on the wagon seat, he wondered how many times he was going to let the woman make a fool of him. She'd said dawn. He'd arrived an hour before the sun peered over the horizon. Well, the sun glared at him now.
He jammed his battered hat onto his head, released the brake, and lifted the reins. Hell, he'd go without her. He wasn't certain if Schultz would have anything available at the stone quarry he mined near Austin, but Clay wanted to look. Then when Meg Warner showed her face in a week, or a month, or a year, he could tell her what he'd seen.
Flicking the reins, he knew the prospect of judging the quality of stone hadn't kept him awake most of the night. His inability to sleep had resided in the scented promise of honeysuckle surrounding him as he journeyed to Austin.
He was damn insane to anticipate something as simple as a woman's scent. Maybe he had lost his mind while he was a prisoner. After the execution that never came, they'd sentenced him to hard labor. On days when they couldn't find anything useful for him to do, they made him pound rocks for no good reason except that it caused his back to ache and his hands to blister. He was certain his jailers never realized how difficult it had been for him to see the potential within a rock just before he had to smash it into white powder.
Now Meg was giving him the opportunity to shape a hunk of rock into something of value.
And it scared the hell out of him.
He'd been cutting into wood, stone, and his own fingers since he was a boy. He'd gathered his informal education at his father's knee whenever his father found time to show him the craft that he had learned from his father before him. But his father's tutelage had never satisfied Clay's hunger. It always left him craving more knowledge, yearning to create the images that filled his mind.
He'd discovered his own technique through trial and error, nurturing his innate skill, learning from his failures, reveling in his few successes . He knew he'd drawn something on paper that he probably couldn't create with his hands, but, damn, he wanted to create it for all the reasons Meg had stated and more.
He heard the galloping hooves and glanced over his shoulder to see the dirt rise and swirl around the horse and rider as they barreled down the road.
Without an apology or explanation, Meg slowed her horse until it was walking beside the wagon. She was wearing Kirk's faded flannel shirt, woolen trousers, and crumpled brown hat. Beneath the hat's wide brim, Meg's pert little nose strained to touch a cloud. He wondered if he'd imagined the gentleness of her tears the day before as she'd studied his sketches, wondered why he'd thought the tears were strong enough to melt away her hatred. With his thumb, he tilted his hat off his brow. "Morning."
She slid her gaze over to him as though she'd just seen a snake slither under a rock. Her nose went up a fraction higher, and this time he couldn't help himself. He smiled.
Her eyes widened just before she averted her gaze and fidgeted with something on the other side of her saddle. "I am not here to provide you with company. I simply want to make certain you make the best choice."
"Know a lot about rocks, do you?"
She swung her gaze back to his. "I know what I like."
He eased the smile off his face. "And what you don't like."
She gave a brusque nod. "Especially what I don't like." Heaving a sigh, he stared ahead at the dirt road he'd traveled a dozen times with his father. He had a sinking feeling this trip would be the longest he'd ever taken, and he sure as hell couldn't smell any honeysuckle. "Did you bring the money?"
"Certainly."
Against his will, he found his gaze returning to Meg's slender form. She sat on a horse with a measure of grace and confidence that came from weathering life's storms and bending so naturally with the force of the wind that it could never conquer her. Maybe he should have sketched her and not Kirk, sitting astride the horse.
Only he wanted to capture her as she was before the war had destroyed her innocence and hope. He wanted to capture her resilient spirit, a spirit that had survived even when the war snatched away the dreams she shared with another. "Is it the money your husband was saving to purchase his farm with?"
Her blue eyes widened until he thought they rivaled the sky in beauty. "He told you about the farm he wanted?"
"What did he tell you7" she asked.
He wrenched his eyes up to her face where they should have been all along. He had no business letting his gaze wander to her hips. Since she hadn't slapped him, he figured his hat was shading his face so she couldn't see exactly where he'd been looking. "What?"
"What exactly did Kirk tell you?"
"Lots of things."
"Like what?"
He shrugged. "He told me if I dug a hole when the moon was full I'd have enough dirt to fill it back in."
"Why would you dig a hole at night?"
"I wouldn't."
"Then why did he tell you that?"
"For some reason, when you dig a hole you never seem to have enough dirt to fill it back in. He said digging during a full moon would make a difference."
"I don't see why it would."
He rubbed the side of his nose. "It doesn't."
She leaned over slightly. "Did you dig a hole when the moon was full?"
Her eyes carried a spark of interest, and he was glad he could give her the answer he was certain she wanted. "Yes, ma'am. He always seemed to know everything so I gave it a try."
"And discovered he'd pulled one over on you," she said smugly.
He nodded, astonished that she still took enormous pride in her husband's pranks.
"So he just told you silly things," she said.
Tipping his hat farther off his brow, he smiled lazily. "Mostly."
Looking away, she again fiddled with something on the other side of her saddle. He couldn't see what was happening within the loose shirt she wore, but small waves rippled across her chest with her agitated movements. One day, he'd carve those ripples, but at the moment all he wanted was to look into those blue eyes. "But sometimes we discussed things of a personal nature."
She jerked her head around, her finely arched eyebrows knitting together in consternation. "Like what?"
A corner of his mouth tilted higher as he looked up at the blue sky. The sky should have taken its shading from her eyes. "Things."
"What sort of things?"
He squinted as though thinking hard. "All sorts of things."
She yanked the hat from her head, and the thick braid she'd stuffed beneath it fell along her narrow back. He wondered what it would feel like to unravel that braid and comb his fingers through those ebony strands.
"We've established that you discussed things," she said curtly. "Give me an example of something specific."
He grimaced. "Can't."
"Why? Because it was so trivial you don't remember anything he told you?"
"I remember it all. It's just that I gave him my word I'd never tell you."
She pounded her small fist into her thigh, but he had a feeling she would have preferred to smash it against his nose. "He made you promise not to tell me something he told you?"
Nodding, Clay fought to keep his mouth from forming a smile. "Yes, ma'am."
"What was it about?"
Lifting a shoulder, he feigned innocence.
Her blue eyes darkened. "Was it something about me? Did he talk about me?"
"Of course he did. He loved you."
She shook her head vigorously and tilted up her nose. "I don't believe he ever talked to you about me. You're just trying to make me angry."
"I knew before you did that he was going to marry you."
He didn't know how she managed it, but she looked down on him even though their respective positions on the horse and wagon made their heights even.
"I was fourteen when I knew he was going to marry me," she said haughtily. "I set my sights on him then, and I caught him."
Clay chuckled. "He set his sights on you long before that."
"I don't believe you."
He shrugged. "Believe what you want."
She shoved the hat down over her head, shadowing her face so all he could see was the hard set of her jaw. He supposed that if the woman wanted to believe she was the one responsible for her marriage to Kirk, no harm would come from it. Whereas he suspected that harm might come from her learning the truth.
He and Kirk had been standing on the threshold of adolescence. Girls were no longer the irritants they'd once seemed, but were beginning to have an appeal they were both still too young to understand fully. They based a girl's worth on inconsequential things such as the color of her eyes and the length of her braid.
"I think Meg Crawford has the puniest eyes I ever saw," Clay told Kirk one afternoon as they watched the clouds roll by. "I'm thinkin' I might marry her."
"You can't," Kirk said. "I'm aimin' to marry her."
"I said it first."
Kirk dug a silver coin out of his pocket. "We'll flip. Eagle you marry her, Liberty I marry her, and loser's gotta promise he won't go callin' on her."
Nodding, Clay drew an X over his heart with his finger. Kirk tossed the coin, caught it, and slapped it down on his forearm. From her engraved position on the coin. Lady Liberty sparkled in the sunlight. Kirk swiped the coin away and shoved it into his pocket. "Reckon I won."
In the intervening years, Clay honored the oath he had taken that day. He'd kept his distance, watching from afar as Meg blossomed into the woman who would hold Kirk's heart.
And now he would continue to keep his distance. Her hatred, far greater than any other's, would keep him tethered to the childish oath. Even when he sat on the last pew, he could feel her eyes boring into him. He disliked sitting through the church service every bit as much as Joe did. Maybe he should take Josh's advice and cross his eyes the next time she looked at him.
But when she did finally turn her attention from the road and meet his gaze, he couldn't bring himself to make light of her feelings toward him.
"What did Kirk say about me?" she asked. "He must have said something you can tell me."
He tugged his hat brim low over his brow. He couldn't very well tell her that Kirk had told him about the soft little sounds she made on their wedding night. He wished now he'd just kept his mouth shut and hadn't tried to get her riled, but she was so durn cute when fury flashed through her face and ignited her eyes so they no longer appeared lifeless. "Well, he talked a lot about the farm, of course, and how he wanted you to have a place of your own."
She relaxed her shoulders, and he wondered if she'd had an inkling as to what Kirk might have told him. "Did he tell you why he wanted us to have our own place?"
He nodded slowly.
"His mother didn't like me," she said, as though he hadn't acknowledged her question.
"I wouldn't take her feelings to heart. She doesn't like anyone."
She rolled her eyes toward the heavens.
"It's true," he went on. "We figured she didn't even like Mr. Warner, which is why your husband never had any brothers or sisters."
She leaned toward him, her eyes wide, her voice barely a whisper even though no one was around to hear. "You truly talked about her like that?"
"Her sour mood bothered him, and it bothered him more when you got married and she didn't treat you kindly."
"He told you how she treated me?"
"We talked about"
Impatiently, she waved her hand. "I know. You talked about a lot of things."
He offered her a rueful smile. "Yes, ma'am, we did."
"Did you discuss his idea about us living with his grandmother?"
Actually, the day he figured out how long it would take Kirk to save enough money to set up a h
omestead Clay had suggested they move in with Mama Warner. Hesitantly, he nodded. "He wanted you to be happy."
"I was after we moved in with Mama Warner. She made me feel so welcome."
"She makes everyone feel that way. Do you see her much anymore?" Clay asked, knowing she'd moved back to her father's house after Kirk left for the war.
Meg smiled, the first genuine smile he'd seen on her face since the day war began. He wanted to cut it into stone right then and there so he could keep it forever. He was certain she'd given it to him by mistake.
"As a matter of fact, I went by her house this morning. That's why I was late. I told her if anyone asks, she's to say I'm spending a few days with her, but she doesn't know where I am at the moment She'll stretch the truth and never ask me why she needs to."
Clay had wondered how she planned to travel with him without her father coming to lynch him. "So your father thinks you're spending a few days with Mama Warner?"
"Yes, only I'm spending the time with you."
As though just realizing that she'd condemned herself to his company, she stopped smiling, hardened her gaze, and turned her attention to the road ahead.
Sighing deeply, he looked at the narrow ribbon of dirt that wagon wheels had cut from the land over the years. The road seemed to stretch into eternity.
At twilight, Clay drew the wagon off the road and guided the mule to a nearby clearing.
Meg dismounted, pressed her forehead against the saddle, closed her eyes, and sighed heavily. Clay's presence irritated her more than she'd imagined it would, in ways she'd never expected. The soft, secretive smile that eased onto his face when he found something amusing caused her to ache for all the smiles of the past, to mourn for all the smiles that would never be in her future.
And apparently he'd found her quite amusing this morn-ing when he'd talked about Kirk. What had Kirk told him?
"Want me to see after your horse?" Clay asked.
Opening one eye, she peered at him. He looked as tired as she felt "No."
He set a bucket of water within the mare's reach. "There's feed in the wagon," he said before walking away.
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