She tended her mare, removing the saddle and bridle, and hobbling her for the night. She retrieved the feed from the large sturdy wagon. She supposed the Hollands had built it specifically to haul stone.
Clay unhitched and hobbled the mule, although Meg didn't think the mule would wander away. In her entire life, she'd never seen an animal move as slowly as that mule. She supposed the army had confiscated the Hollands' horses. Her family had given so many men to the Cause that the army hadn't asked for their livestock, although Meg would have gladly given it.
"I'll fetch some supper," Clay said as he pulled his rifle from beneath the wagon seat.
Meg's first reaction was to say she'd fend for herself, but she felt too weary. She'd compromise slightly tonight: while he hunted, she'd build the fire. As she walked away from the camp, he fell into step behind her. She stopped abruptly, turned, and glared at him. "Where do you think you're going?" she asked.
"I don't think you ought to be traipsing through these woods alone."
She patted the gun handle visible above the waistband of her trousers. "I'm only going to find some dry wood. I can take care of myself."
"I'm sure you can. It's just"
"I've had enough of your company today. I don't want you to follow me."
"Will you holler if you need me?"
"No. I have no reason to believe you'd come. You didn't go when the Confederacy hollered for more men."
He narrowed his eyes to tiny slits, and his jaw grew so rigid she didn't know how he managed to force the word "Fine" out through his mouth. She caught the tail end of a harsh curse as he stalked to the other side of the clearing and disappeared into the thick woods.
She was glad to see him leave. She truly was. With any luck, he'd lose his way, wander through the encroaching darkness, and not return to camp until morning.
Meandering along a virgin path through the wooded area, she gathered fallen branches as her thoughts drifted to the morning. She shuddered with the memory. She had not only spoken with a man she loathed, but she had almost enjoyed the conversation. And she'd smiled at him. A coward. A man who had betrayed those he called friends. For God's sake, what had she been thinking?
He'd lured her into talk of a happier time when Kirk stood by her side. Clay's, brown eyes had twinkled with something akin to merriment as he'd baited her. He and Kirk had discussed things. Had discussed lots of things. Silly things. Things of a personal nature .
She issued a very unladylike snort. They'd probably discussed nothing.
She picked up a heavy fallen branch and swung it through the air as though it were a club. She could use it to knock Clay right off his feet if he tried to talk to her again. Smiling, she added it to the wood nestled in the crook of her arm.
She reached for another log, and a rattlesnake's rapid tattoo of warning vibrated through the air. Moving only her eyes, Meg searched the undergrowth of brush until her gaze locked onto black eyes that held no life but promised certain death.
As though in a dream, she watched the coiled snake spread its mouth wide, baring its protruding fangs. It lunged toward her. She'd always imagined that death would come quickly, not slowly, giving her time to scream against the injustice. Thunder echoed, and the rattlesnake disappeared.
"You all right?" Clay asked as he grabbed her arm. She stared at him mutely, and he shook her, his voice growing louder. "Are you all right?"
The knowledge that she was alive surged through her simultaneously with the realization that he was touching her. She jerked free of his grasp. "Don't ever touch me."
He shook his head. "Don't know why I was worried. Your hatred probably would have poisoned the rattler if he'd had the misfortune to dig his fangs into you."
Reaching into the thicket, he retrieved the lifeless rattlesnake. "If my rifle blast didn't clear the area of game, your scream did. Guess we'll eat rattler for supper."
Meg stared at the long, thick length of dark brown and gray. Clay held the mangled snake level with his chest, and still its tail brushed the ground. Even in death, the snake's massive body appeared powerful and deadly, and she'd been its prey. She shook violently as her stomach lurched.
"Are you gonna be sick?" Clay asked.
The tingling beneath her jaws increased in intensity. She felt the blood drain from her face sad cold sweat pop out on her brow. She clutched the wood to her chest, searching for something to stop the trees from spinning. He knocked the wood out of her arms.
"Grab your knees," he ordered. "Take deep breaths."
She tried to breathe deeply, but the air was beyond reach and eluded her as easily as the calm she fought to maintain. The burning in her stomach rose into her throat, and she began retching.
Clay walked away, and she was grateful that he left her to suffer this embarrassment alone. She was more grateful that he'd hauled the snake away with him.
She heaved long past the time when her stomach was empty. Hearing approaching footsteps, she pressed her balled fist against her aching midriff and slowly straightened her quaking body. Despite the lingering warmth of day, she felt chilled.
"Here," Clay said as he shoved a tin cup filled with water beneath her nose. "Go on. Take it. I didn't drink from it."
She took the cup, filled her mouth with water, and swirled the lukewarm liquid around before spitting it out. She repeated the process while Clay gathered the wood.
"I'll get the fire started," he said just before he walked away.
The sun had fallen beyond the horizon by the time she found the strength and desire to return to their small camp.
Hunkered down before the crackling fire, Clay removed their dinner from the spit. Sitting opposite him, Meg leaned against the tree. She hadn't realized how dark it had grown until she watched the writhing flames create dancing shadows across Clay's features. He'd removed his hat, and the firelight waltzed across the white hair at his temples.
"I thought I was going to die," she said quietly in a quivering voice. "I can't seem to stop shaking."
"You just need to think about something else. You might try looking at the sky and counting the stars."
She gazed at the cloudless black heavens where a full moon glowed brightly. Beyond it, the stars winked. "How many stars do you think there are?"
"Couple of million, I reckon."
Drawing up her legs, she wrapped her arms tightly around them in an effort to stop her trembling. She pressed her chin against her knees. "I didn't realize you were such an expert with a rifle."
"Haven't missed a target since I was twelve."
"Just think about how many Yankees you could have killed if you hadn't been a coward."
His somber gaze met hers. "I did think about it, Mrs. Warner. I thought about it long and hard."
Picking up a tin plate, he stood. "Help yourself to what's left." He walked to the wagon, dropped to the ground, and pressed his back against the wheel. Rolling to one hip, he dug a small rock from beneath him and hurled it across the clearing.
Meg jumped when the rock hit a tree, and a sharp crack rent the still night air. She removed her hat and flattened it against her face, inhaling deeply so she wouldn't have to smell the aroma of cooked rattlesnake. The hat carried Kirk's fading scent, and she knew a time would come when the hat would smell more of her than it did of him. Until that time, it served as a reminder of the comfort he'd always brought her. When he'd left, she'd slept with his silly hat pressed beneath her cheek.
"Do you want me to try and find you something else to eat?"
Meg jerked the hat away from her face. Clay was crouching before her, his gaze riveted on the fire.
"No, I don't think anything would stay down just yet."
"Your stomach will settle by morning. I'll see to it you have something proper to cat then." He tossed a log on the fire, and orange sparks shot up. "You can sleep in the wagon tonight."
Using the tree for support, she pushed to her feet. She gripped the bark and forced the hated words past her lips. "Th
ank you."
He looked up, and she could see the confusion in his eyes. "For killing the rattler," she explained.
He nodded slightly and stirred the fire. On wobbly legs, she walked to the wagon and climbed into the back. Clay had spread several blankets across the wagon bed. She placed a wadded blanket beneath her head as she stretched out and brought another blanket over her aching body.
The night sky was so clear, she felt as though she should be able to touch the twinkling gems that graced the heavens and tilled them with tranquillity. She wished she could find a measure of that peace within herself.
She wondered if Kirk had hoped to convince Clay to go with the other men that final day in Cedar Grove. Was that why he had joined Clay on the edge of town? If so, disappointment had ridden at his side, not his friend.
She wondered if he regretted all the years he'd spent in friendship with a man who would one day betray him, a man too cowardly to march where honor dictated.
She was certain that pride had caused him to shake Clay's hand that final morning. He had embraced Clay not to say good-bye to a friend, but to whisper farewell to a friendship.
A soft gentle scratching distracted her from thoughts of retribution. She imagined a small animal scurrying along the ground, foraging for food, stopping to sniff the air, then pouncing on a pecan or moving the dried leaves aside to search out a tasty morsel.
She eased up to her elbows. She could hear the rasping more clearly. Quietly, she sat up and peered over the side of the wagon. She couldn't see any creature, but the scratching grew louder. She looked toward the fire.
Sitting with his back against the tree, one knee raised, one leg stretched out before him, Clay scraped a piece of wood with a small knife. The wind toyed gently with the brown locks covering his bowed head. The rifle rested by his side.
"What arc you making?" she asked.
"Damn!" Poking his finger between his lips, Clay glared at her. He removed his finger from his mouth and pressed it against his thigh. "Don't ever do that when I've got tools in my hands."
"Don't ever do what?" she asked innocently.
"Scare me like that."
"I'm sorry. I'd forgotten you scare easily."
"And I'd forgotten you have such a sharp tongue." He plowed his other hand through his hair. "I don't know why the hell I agreed to this."
"I didn't give you a choice."
"A man always has a choice, Mrs. Warner."
"And you chose to be a coward."
"I chose to follow my conscience."
"Same difference."
"I don't think so. Neither did your husband."
"It's not fair to besmirch his character when he's not here to defend himself. Don't you think he would have told me if he didn't think you were a coward?"
"The way the winds of war whipped through Texas, I don't imagine he spent what little time he had left with you talking."
She knew her face flamed red with embarrassment as images from the past rose into her mind. "How we spent our final moments together is no concern of yours, but I'll tell you this. You are goddamned right! We didn't spend a single breath talking about you. We both knew he might not come back, and we crammed a lifetime into what little time we had left. He sacrificed everything for the Confederacy, while you, his friend, sacrificed nothing. Don't you dare speak to me about him again. You lost that right when you watched him ride away."
She dropped onto the wagon bed and curled into a tight ball, fighting back the (ears that were suddenly stinging her eyes. Surely, Kirk would have told her if he thought Clay wasn't a coward.
Then again, he had avoided discussing the war or his enlistment because he knew it worried her to think of his leaving.
She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the tears trail down her cheeks. Even in his letters, he had never written about the war. He had described the scenery, or the weather, or the food. He had told her how much he loved her and how much he missed her.
But he had never shared with her his thoughts as a soldier.
Reaching into the waistband of her trousers, she pulled out Kirk's crumpled letter. She had yet to read it. She knew his final farewell resided in the letter. Until she read it, her own final farewell remained in her heart.
Clutching the letter, she pressed it against her breast, trying to hold onto a love that was drifting away into a mist of memories.
* * *
Chapter Five
The late afternoon sun reflected off the pink granite mound as it stood with majestic pride against the blue Texas sky. As though they were slumbering giants, huge rocks lay haphazardly along the path of stone leading to the hill. Carefully Meg guided her mare around the rocky rubble as Clay rumbled along in the wagon.
He halted the wagon near a stone house. Someone had chopped down the solitary tree that might have provided shade. As though they were desperate fingers, the bare dead branches of the felled tree strained eerily toward the sun. No one worked; nothing created a sound. Even the wind had ceased its whispering.
Clay climbed down from the wagon. The brim of his hat shadowed his face, revealing none of his thoughts, but then he hadn't shared any thoughts with her since dawn. She'd awakened to find the promised meal waiting for her. Silence as heavy as that surrounding them now had permeated the air as they traveled. Much to her dismay, she discovered she missed his teasing banter.
As Meg dismounted, a rock turned beneath her foot. She stumbled before catching her balance. With his hand outstretched. Clay took a quick step toward her.
Their eyes met.
He shoved his hand into his pocket. "You need to be careful."
"I figured that out." She glanced around the area. "There doesn't seem to be anyone here."
He removed his hat and wiped his brow. "I didn't know what we'd find. Mostly Mr. Schultz sells stone to the Germans who settle in the area. They like to build stone houses."
"But you're not building a house."
"No, but the granite is good quality. I was hoping I could find a hunk of rock that Mr. Schultz hadn't started cutting into smaller chunks."
The door to the house opened. A man who looked as though he had been carved from the very land surrounding him stepped into the sunlight. He squinted, then quickly came to greet them. "Young Holland." He took Clay's hand and pumped it vigorously. "Your papa tell me. I'm glad you are safe. My boy, my Franz. Dey kill him."
A lone teardrop, out of place among his craggy features, trailed down his cheek. Meg felt an immediate kinship with the man, understood the devastation of his loss. In a gesture of comfort, she placed her hand on his massive shoulder. A painful ache centered in her chest as she felt his trembling. "My heart goes out to you. The Yankees killed so many."
He stared at her, his eyes hardening. "I not talk about de Yankees. I talk about de Texans. Dey come for him in de middle of dc night, people we think are friends. Dey drag him from bed and hang him. Break his mama's heart to see our good boy die like dat. We come from Germany to find peace. Is not our war. I tell him, 'Go to Mexico. Come home when dis war is over.'" He shook his head and wiped his eyes. "But he not listen. Den dey come and hang him."
"Mr. Schultz, I'm so sorry," Clay said raggedly.
The old man patted his shoulder. "Not your doing. I know dat, and you not here to hear my sorrows. You here to get rock." He waved his hand in a circle. "Der is not much here. I have no heart for working the quarry. If you no find what you need, I tell you where other quarry is." He walked away, bent as though he were carrying one of his boulders upon his shoulders.
Gay yanked his hat from his head and plowed his fingers through his hair. "Damn! His son was only a little older than me." He glared at Meg. "I guess you think it was a just hanging."
"Every story has more than one side to it."
"Too bad we can't have Franz tell us his side."
"Don't use that tone with me. I'm not the one who hanged him."
"No, but you would have. After all, he didn't stand by your preci
ous Confederacy."
She paled at his words. "I was never in favor of lynching. I'd heard stories they sicken me as much as I'm certain they sicken you." She pressed her fist above her heart "But I do know if you live in this state and reap its rewards, you answer when it calls."
"Unfortunately, Mrs. Warner, for many of us, the answer wasn't quite so simple or easy to give." Settling his hat on his head, he released a long sigh. "We got here later than I thought we would. Let's just look around and see if we can find what we want. Then we'll go into Austin for the night and come back in the morning to pick up the stone."
Before Meg could reply, he started walking with long even strides. She followed, carefully picking her way through the scattered rocks that littered the ground. "I suppose you need a large piece," she called.
"Yes, ma'am. I'd like to make the statue life-size."
He stopped walking and removed his hat as though he'd suddenly stepped into a place of reverence. Meg quickened her pace, stopping when she reached his side
Slowly, almost lovingly, he skimmed splayed fingers over a hunk of stone. She tried to imagine it carved into a horse, rider, and woman. She could see nothing beyond what it was: a rock, pure and simple. Huge. Immense. Pink with black specks.
To her it looked just like all the other rocks that stood there as silent sentinels. Rough and hard, it wasn't at all what she had in mind when she thought about the monument.
She glanced around the rocky terrain, and a flash of white caught her eye. Cautiously, she walked to the outskirts of the quarry and placed her hand on the stone that sparkled in (he sun.
Smiling, she walked back to where Clay was kneeling, looking at the top of the granite from a different angle. "I found the piece you can use," she said.
Furrowing his brow, he turned his attention to her. "What?"
She pointed to the white rock. "I found a beautiful piece over there."
He unfolded his lanky body and followed her.
"It's marble," he said as they neared her find. "It shouldn't be here. This is a granite quarry."
"Well, then, that settles it. Fate must have brought it here. I think the statue would look lovely carved out of this."
Always to Remember Page 6