Meg asked. He gave her an unappreciative stare as she cowered
behind the door. "What were you doing? Listening?" Meeting his gaze, she straightened her stance and angled
her chin defiantly. "Well, I had to make certain he wasn't
going to come in here."
"I told you I'd see to it he didn't come in here."
"And you're a man of your word."
"I'd die before I went back on my word." Turning away from her, he walked to his table and
fingered the smaller instruments. "I won't be working on the
memorial anymore today so you can go on home."
"Where are the headstones? I don't recall seeing any."
"I've seen them and I'll find them," he said as he stared
out the window. "Everything is such a mess in here. Do you want me to
help you find them?"
He spun around. "I want you to go home."
She tilted her nose. "Maybe I don't want to go home."
"You've got no choice. Your condition was that you'd
look over my shoulder while I worked on the memorial. Now, I'm not working on it, and I'm not inviting you to stay."
"I didn't realize my company offended you." His eyes captured hers and shackled them to the truth. "I'm not the one who was afraid Tom might see me here." Her cheeks flamed red as she lowered her gaze. "You have to understand that the hatred people feel toward you goes beyond your shadow to touch those around you."
"I do understand thatonly too well, as a matter of fact."
"Then you can't blame me for not wanting to be seen in your company."
He turned his attention back to the fields beyond the window. "No, I don't blame you."
"Do you want me to let Lucian know you need him?"
"No, I'll take care of it"
"They'll need me to play the organ at the memorial service. You can work on the monument tomorrow without me. I'll try to stop by in the evening to check on your progress."
"You do that, Mrs. Warner."
His father never took money for children's markers. Meg shook her head. Little wonder they still lived in a house made of rough hewn logs while other folks had bought lumber and rebuilt their homes once the sawmill had opened.
She stared past the wooden buffalo grass to the darkening sky. "A storm's rolling in," she said quietly. "He said it always rains when someone dies. I never noticed. He notices everything."
"We really need to give Clayton a name," Mama Warner said as she rocked slowly in her chair. "It takes this old brain
of mine too dadgum long to figure out who you're talking about sometimes."
Sighing, Meg turned away from the window. "Sally Graham's baby died."
Mama Warner ceased her rocking. "A sad thing to lose a child. Lost four myself. You'd think it wouldn't hurt losing a little one but the pain is as great as if they'd been with you all your life. You can't remember what it was like before they touched your heart, and you can never forget them."
Meg walked across the room, knelt, and took the aged hands into her own. "Do you want to hear something amazingly wonderful?" She smiled. "Before he died, his father carved a headstone for a child and inscribed the exact words on it that Sally wanted for her daughter. Can you believe that?"
Mama Warner worked her hand free of Meg's grasp and cradled Meg's chin within her palm. "Do you believe it, child?"
"Of course."
The older woman smiled. "Then that's all that matters."
The knowledge reflected in Mama Warner's eyes drove Meg to ride through the moonless night with the rain pelting her back. She drew her mare to a halt near the Holland homestead.
Darkness encased the house. She'd expected it to look that way, as though everyone inside were sleeping.
Markers weren't made in the house.
She guided her mare toward the shed. Someone had lowered the shutters against the force of the wind and rain. The door was partially open, spilling pale light into the night.
Meg dismounted beneath a tree to give her horse some protection from the rain. She sloshed through the growing
puddles until she reached the shed. Standing in the doorway with the rain dripping off the brim of Kirk's hat, she learned what Mama Warner had already surmised.
Clay's father hadn't made any headstones before he died.
Hunched over so he was almost parallel with the tablet of stone, Clay sat on a stool at his low worktable.
As though she were a wraith, Meg moved silently toward him. The thunder rumbled. Clay stilled momentarily, then continued with his task.
With the windows closed, the room was Stirling hot. No breeze blew through to cool him. The sweat drenched the back of his shirt, and he wiped his brow. He worked by the flame of a solitary lantern.
Halting at the edge of the shadows, Meg watched as he used the small chisel and hammer to create an abundance of delicate detailing on the tiny headstone. With a gentle breath, he blew the dust of his labors away from each letter and design as he completed it
An eternity seemed to pass before he set his tools aside, rolled his shoulders, and bowed his head.
"It's beautiful," Meg said quietly.
"Christ!" He leapt off the stool and stared at her. "How long have you been here?"
"Long enough to know Lucian doesn't do lettering." She trailed her trembling fingers over the perfectly carved script "You created a beautiful headstone for a child, and you're giving the credit to your father and brother."
"Then why don't you tell everyone tomorrow so they can crush it into dust, and Tom's wife can have something else to grieve over?"
He stepped away from her. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm. He slopped, but didn't look at her. "Do you truly believe they'd destroy a child's headstone if they knew you made it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
The uncompromising briskness in his voice caused her to release her hold on him. He walked across the room to a comer where he kept an assortment of odds and ends. He picked up a blanket and ripped it in two. He brought one piece back to the table and wrapped it around the headstone with the same gentleness that a person may have used to wrap a blanket around an infant.
Meg walked to the hunk of granite and placed her hand on the rough stone. She could almost see Kirk in the shadows, could hear the neigh of his horse, his promises, and his courageous yell. "Do you think they'll destroy this monument?" she asked.
"No, ma'am."
Over her shoulder, she watched him smooth out the wrinkles in the blanket as though it mattered how he delivered the marker to the church. "Why don't you think they'll destroy this monument?"
"Because we're not going to tell them I made it."
She stepped away from the granite. "What?"
He turned from his task and met her gaze. "I haven't thought through the particulars yet, but we'll find a way to get it to town without anybody knowing. You can tell folks you had some fellow back cast make it."
"You're not going to put your name on the backside?"
"I thought we'd agreed this memorial would reflect the names of those who died fighting for their convictions."
"We did."
"Well, now I didn't die, did I?"
"And you didn't fight either," she reminded him.
"You think the only battles fought are done so with rifles, and the only wounds that kill draw blood. You think courage is loud, boisterous, and proud. Mrs. Warner, I don't think you have a clue as to what this memorial truly represents."
* * *
Chapter Ten
Sitting on toe porch swing, Meg watched clouds drift across the moon as her thoughts slowly wandered to Clay.
With his gaze always riveted on the granite stone that was slowly materializing into three distinct shapes, he worked from dawn until dusk with the steady determination of a man who wanted to rid himself of a despised burden. His rare smiles and occasional teasing no longer surfaced. He seldom stopped chiseling to rest, and when he did, he walked out of the shed.<
br />
Meg suspected he dunked his head in a bucket of water drawn from the well because he always returned with water dripping from his hair and his shirt collar soaked as though it alone had stood in a storm.
Each day, he acknowledged her presence with a "Mom-ing" when she walked into the shed. At the end of the day, he stepped off the stool, walked to his low table, set his tools down, stared out the window, and spoke to her once more. "I'm done for the day."
Meg loathed the days that dragged by more than she hated the days when she'd waited in dread for news of Kirk. She felt as though she resided in a prison, a prison that she herself had built, using hatred for bricks and revenge for mortar. She had wanted to punish Clay, but she too ended up suffering.
She didn't want to sit in that shed where silent voices loomed and the steady clinking of hammer to chisel echoed, but she couldn't stay away.
Every day, his hands revealed more of the shadows. The muscles along his neck, back, and arms strained with his efforts. Then they gradually relaxed, and he touched the stone as though to apologize for his harsh treatment and to promise it would all be worth it.
He hit the stone with enough force to send the sound of a crack ricocheting around the shed. Then he glided his palm over the granite creating a rasping whisper.
The whisper stayed with her long after she left the shed. It haunted her dreams, along with the memory of his hands creating mesmerizing shapes from simple stone.
Sometimes, she felt an apology rise in her throat, and she'd clamp her lips to keep them from filling the shed with remorse and regret She wasn't the one who had hurt him. It was his cowardice and his failure to recognize it that caused his pain. He thought she should stand by his side even though he had been unwilling to stand beside Kirk.
She'd laugh at the irony if it didn't hurt so badly.
She watched a silhouette move through the night.
"What are you doing out here, Meg?" Daniel asked as he stepped onto the porch.
"Just thinking. Where have you been?"
Shrugging, he combed his fingers through his dark hair and dropped to the porch, pressing his back against a beam. "Me and Sam Johnson had some talking to do. Where's Pa?"
"He fell asleep in the chair."
"I reckon that's belter than the barn."
"I suppose." She sighed. "I guess we all grieve in our own way."
"I want to do more than grieve, Meg. I want to do
something for my brothers. I should have gone with them. I could have been their drummer boy."
"Drummer boys died, too, Daniel. Then who'd help build the Wrights a barn tomorrow?"
He gave her a wry smile in the darkness. "You think Stick would approve of Caroline marrying John?"
Everyone called Caroline's first husband Stick because he'd been so tall and thin. They teased him about it, claiming that as long as he marched into battle sideways, the bullets would whiz right past him. But the bullets hadn't missed him.
John Wright had spent two years in a Union prison. In a tattered gray uniform, he had been heading home to a little fork in the road west of Cedar Grove. Weary from his journey, he stopped beneath the shade of a tree on Caroline's property. He never reached the fork in the road.
He had married Caroline two weeks ago, and now the community had a reason to celebrate and a barn to raise.
Meg held fond recollections of Stick, memories she'd never shared with Kirk. "Yes, I think he would have approved."
Shortly after dawn swept the dew from the ground, Meg arrived at the Wright homestead with her father and brother. Helen Barton, who took charge of anything that needed to be taken charge of, assigned Meg the momentous chore of keeping the children away from the desserts.
Having risen long before dawn to make many of the pies and cobblers that now adorned the table, Meg should have welcomed a task that required nothing more of her than to wave tiny, dirty fingers away from cakes and cookies.
Instead, she discovered that the chore left her hands with little to do and her mind with less than that. She tried to enjoy the gentle breeze wafting among the trees surrounding
ALWAYS TO REMEMBER
Caroline's house, but then she would find herself imagining that same breeze blowing through three large windows of a shed. She wondered if it had stirred Clay's hair before it traveled to work her own strands free from their netting.
She'd captured her hair in a delicate chignon instead of wrapping it into a tight bun. She wasn't accustomed to the weight of her hair brushing along her neck and shoulders.
The hammers echoed in the distance as the men worked to build the bam, and she compared the staccato beat to the steady rhythm Clay used to hammer the stone. She knew she should enjoy the sound of men working together on a common project, but she longed to hear the solitary strains that one man produced as he worked alone, expecting no praise for his efforts.
She glanced at the long table of desserts. Watching desserts held no appeal. She'd rather watch Clay.
Yesterday, when she told him she planned to spend the day at the Wrights' farm, he merely nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets. They both knew the need for willing hands to build a bam did not include his.
She wondered if he had begun cutting the stone at dawnor had he waited? Kirk's shoulders were a visible silhouette in the stone now. She wondered if he'd work down to Kirk's waist first or carve her shoulders.
The desserts weren't going anywhere. She could sneak away for a few hours, and no one would notice. She'd just peck inside the shed and see how much progress he'd made
"Hello, Meg," a solemn male voice said, vibrating behind her.
Spinning around, she stared at Kirk, her heart thumping so loudly she no longer heard the distant hammers. He had the same blond hair, but deep crevices resembling furrowed fields touched the corners of his blue eyes. He appeared
much older and more mature. His beard, darker than his hair, was thick. Not at all the way she'd envisioned it.
"I don't know if you remember me," he said. "I'm Kirk's cousin, Robert."
She felt her breath rush out and pressed her hand to her throat. "Of course. We met at the wedding." Against her will, her gaze flitted to his empty sleeve.
"Left arm at Shiloh," he said with a sad smile that implored her not to pity him.
With tears in her eyes, she tilted her chin and returned his smile. "But you're safe now, and that's all that matters." She wrapped her arms around his neck and felt his arm go around her waist. "You reminded me of Kirk," she whispered in a raw voice.
"I'm sorry he didn't come home."
Releasing her hold, she wiped away her tears. "So many didn't. None of the young men who went with Kirk returned. It's left so many fathers without sons, wives without husbands, and children without fathers. We're extremely grateful for those who did come back."
"Yeah, well, nothin's the same. That's for damn sure." He blushed. "Pardon my language."
"How's your farm? It was somewhere north of Austin, wasn't it?"
"It was, but I didn't have the money to pay the taxes on it, so I had to give it up. Came here to help my uncle with his farm."
"Are you living with Kirk's parents then?"
"With that mean-spirited mother of Kirk's? No, ma'am. I'd rather be in a Union prison than inside the walls of their house when she gets a bee in her bonnet. I'm living with Mama Warner."
"I visited her recently. She didn't tell me you were there."
"I've only been here a few days, and she didn't know I
was coming until I showed up on her doorstep. She told me you frequently stop by. I was looking for you."
He uttered his words with such sincerity that Meg almost wept.
"I hope my being there won't stop you from coming by to see Mama Warner," he said. "She enjoys your company."
Meg knew Mama Warner enjoyed any company since her legs had grown weak and she was confined to her house. "Of course I'll continue to visit. I love her dearly. She seems to understand p
eople so well."
"Reckon that's because she's met such an odd assortment during her life. I wasn't going to come here today. Didn't figure a man with one arm could do much to help build a barn, but then she did some low talking"
"Low talking?" she asked.
He spread his lips in a smile so similar to Kirk's that Meg wanted to touch her fingers to each corner of his mouth.
"Yeah, when she wants to impart some wisdom on you to ponder, she talks low so you have to strain to hear her. Guess she figures that way you're paying attention."
"It must work. You're here."
"Yeah, but I haven't figured out what I can do to help."
"Well, if you're up to the excitement, you can help me watch the desserts."
He laughed, and Meg realized she hadn't heard a man laugh since the day she saw Clay playing with the twins in the river. The pounding of rushing feet gained Meg's attention.
Breathless, Helen stopped and grabbed Meg's arm for support "I can't believe he came."
Meg didn't have to ask who he was. The red tinge covering Helen's face and the fire in her blue eyes spoke of a hatred that stretched as far as her husband had journeyed.
Meg followed Helen's gaze and watched Clay climb down from the wagon as the twins clambered out of the back.
"Lucian didn't come?" Meg asked.
"He's been here since dawn. He helped Taffy's father bring the lumber from the mill."
Briefly, Meg wondered if Lucian was sweet on Stick's younger sister. She remembered the summer long ago when Mary Lang had suddenly grown as tall as her brother and taller than any of the boys her age. Teasingly, Lucian said she looked as though she'd been stretched out like taffy. Soon everyone was calling her Taffy.
Helen huffed and stomped the ground as though she could cause the earth to open up and swallow Clay whole. "I just can't believe he had the nerve to come here."
"Maybe he just wanted to help."
"We can do without his help, thank you very much."
Meg watched Clay walk toward the barn. The men had already raised the frame. The hammering stopped, and a heavy silence hovered over the crowd. She wished he hadn't come, but her reasons were far removed from Helen's or anyone else's.
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