Lorraine Heath (32 page)

March 3, 1863

Dear Mama Warner,

It took some doing, but I finally located Clay. He looks like death warmed over. You know Clay and his quiet ways. He suffers through their punishments without complaint, and I think that only makes them angrier and causes them to treat him harsher.

I’ve written Jefferson Davis again asking that he exempt Clay based on his beliefs. Every man in my company applied his signature to the letter. We hear that President Davis is not as sympathetic toward conscientious objectors as Abraham Lincoln. Therefore, we hold out little hope for Clay, especially now that the South is in dire need of men.

Of course, Clay would object to our good intentions. He believes he should fight his own battles, and we should fight ours.

Before I left Cedar Grove, he asked me not to get involved in his fight, and I honored his request. And yet, I often wonder if, with my silence, I betrayed him.

I send you Clay’s love, as well as my own, and that of the men in my company. Keep us all in your prayers.

Kirk

Meg crushed the letter to her breast. Perhaps only those who faced death daily were able to recognize that courage could be as quiet as a man’s thoughts.

And with her silence, she had betrayed Clay as well.

“Hoowee! That woman looks mad enough to spit!” Lucian said as he stepped off the porch.

Halting in the doorway, Clay followed his brother’s gaze and saw Meg trudging toward the house. His stomach tightened, and he was grateful he hadn’t eaten much breakfast.

The twins worked their way past him and hopped off the porch. “Mornin', Miz Meg. We wasn’t expectin’ to see you this mornin'.”

“I need someone to pull up the shutters on the shed.”

“No, you don’t,” Clay said. “The shed is staying closed.”

She quirked a thin, dark brow. “My stone is in there, and I want to have a look at it.”

“Your stone?”

“That’s right. I purchased it. It belongs to me.”

“But it’s in my shed, and I don’t want you going in there.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t always have things go the way we want them to. If you won’t pull the shutters up, I’ll do it myself.”

“We’ll get ‘em up for you,” the twins yelled before they darted toward the shed.

“I’ll give them a hand,” Lucian said as he tipped his hat toward Meg and walked away.

She smiled triumphantly, and Clay felt as though he’d just marched into a battle he couldn’t win. He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“I intend to.”

His hand itched, and it had nothing to do with the healing wound. He had an urge to reach out and touch her cheek, press his lips against hers, and invite the softness back into his life. He nodded toward the shed. “They’ve got the shutters up.”

“Are you going to come with me?”

“No, ma’am.”

She tilted up her nose. “Suit yourself.”

“I intend to, Mrs. Warner.”

Spinning on her heel, she walked toward the shed. Clay watched as she ruffled the twins’ hair in passing. Judging from the wide grin on Lucian’s face, Clay decided she smiled at Lucian along the way.

Stepping off the porch, Clay watched her walk into the shed. Sometimes, late at night, he went into the shed and watched the shadows. They changed with the positioning of the moon, but they no longer changed with the touch of his hand.

“What do you reckon she’s lookin’ for?” Josh asked as he sidled up against Clay.

“I don’t know. What did you tell her to look for?”

Josh’s eyes widened. “Didn’t tell her to look for nothin’.”

“Mmm-uh.”

“Honest.”

“After all this time, she just shows up this morning after you two disappeared for a spell yesterday. I find that to be mighty coincidental.”

“Clayton Holland!” she yelled from the doorway. “Get yourself in here.”

Clay leaned against the porch beam. Joe stepped onto the porch. “We did go see her. Our hearts and minds had a meetin’ and decided it was best. Think if you’d let your heart and mind have a meetin', you’d go see what she wanted.”

He knew what the woman wanted: trouble. Shoving away from the beam, he walked toward the shed. If he didn’t look in her eyes, maybe he could avoid giving her what she wanted.

He’d had enough trouble to last a lifetime. All he wanted now was to live alone. He hadn’t gone to church since the night of the attack, and he didn’t plan to go any time in the future. He’d abandoned the hope of proving he wasn’t a coward. Meg saw a coward when she looked at him, and if she did, so would the rest of the world.

He no longer cared about the rest of the world, and he was fighting the toughest battle of his life trying not to care about her.

He sauntered into the shed. She was tapping her foot with a vengeance and had planted her hands on her hips. He lifted his gaze to hers so he wouldn’t be tempted to place his hands on her hips.

Blue fire greeted him.

“It doesn’t look any different from when I was last here,” she said curtly.

“Reckon because it’s not.”

“And why not?”

Laughing, he took his hand out of his pocket. “Because, Mrs. Warner, I can’t hold tools.”

Meg winced at the angry red scar that appeared to be a reflection of the enraged man standing before her. “Does it still hurt?”

He shifted his stance. “It’s a little tender.”

“Have you tried to hold the chisel since the bandages came off?”

“I try every morning.” He curled his hand and held the air. “That’s as much as it’ll close. Even if I could close it all the way, I’ve got no grip. I can’t hammer at a chisel when I don’t have the strength to hold it in place.”

“I could hold the chisel.”

He looked as though she’d just slapped him. “What?”

“I could hold the chisel. You have one good hand, and it’s the hand you use to hold the hammer. I’ll be your left hand.”

“Have you gone insane?”

Taking a deep breath, she walked to the table and studied his tools. He’d used the largest chisel when he began. They’d have to go slower, more carefully. She picked up a smaller chisel. “You can position the chisel, and I’ll hold it in place.”

He plowed his good hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea how hard I have to hit that chisel to crack the stone?”

“If the sound the hammer makes when it strikes the chisel is any indication, then I’d say you have to hit it fairly hard.”

He took a menacing step toward her. “I have to hit it damn hard.”

“I know I’m not as strong as you are, but if I held the chisel with both hands, and we chipped off smaller bits of stone—”

He picked up a hammer and slammed it against the table. Meg flinched.

“That’s how hard I’m gonna hit the chisel. That’s how hard I’m gonna hit your hand if I miss the chisel.”

She took a shaky breath. “Then don’t miss the chisel.”

“Didn’t you learn anything when Robert hit your hand with the hammer?”

“That it hurts.”

“And I’ll leave a hell of a lot more than a bruise.” He hit the table again, and Meg heard the wood split. “I’ll break your bones! I’ll crush your hand!”

She tilted her chin. “I’m willing to risk it.”

He slung the hammer to a distant corner. “Well, I’m not.”

He started to stalk away.

“I read Kirk’s letter last night.”

He came to an abrupt halt.

“You told me he gave you the pouch of letters a few months before he died.”

“That’s right.”

“He dated his letter June 30—the eve of the Battle of Gettysburg.”

He bowed his head. “I searched his pockets before I buried him. That was all I took.”

Hesitantly, she walked across the shed and placed her palm on his back. She felt him stiffen. “The letter isn’t very long.” She withdrew the letter from her pocket and extended it toward him. “I’d like for you to read it.”

He shook his head. “It’s not mine to read.”

“I’m giving you permission to read his thoughts before he was taken from us.”

His jaw tensed, and she watched him swallow. She removed the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. “Please,” she said quietly.

Slowly, he took the letter from her. Breathing deeply, he lowered his gaze to the letter. Meg didn’t have to see the words to know what he read. She’d memorized the letter during the night.

June 30, 1863

My dearest Meg,

I should be sleeping, but the night sky beckons to me. I look at it and think of you as you were the day I rode away. How proud I was, Meg, to know the beautiful woman waving me bravely, on was my love.

I spoke with Clay recently. I told him if he should ever carve again, to carve my beloved as she looked when last I gazed upon her.

I will take you with me now into my dreams. Sleep well, my love, and know that the happiness you have brought me knows no bounds.

Affectionately yours,

Kirk

Dropping his hand to his side, Clay squeezed his eyes shut. She watched his throat work and knew he was fighting the same emotions she’d fought during the night.

She’d expected the letter to be different, written as though Kirk knew it was the last time he’d have an opportunity to write her, but he’d written it as though he would write another letter, as though he would again gaze upon the night sky and carry memories of her into his dreams.

“You chose to capture the moment he left because he asked you to carve me. You’re not making a monument to honor those who rode away. You’re making a monument to honor those who watched them go.”

“Courage is shown in different ways. That’s what I was hoping to show.”

“And it’s what you are showing. The monument will be in memory of those who died, and it’ll honor so many more. You have to finish it.”

He spun around and glared at her, holding up his hand as though it were a claw. “I can’t!”

“We had an agreement, an understanding. You gave me your word that you’d make the monument if I purchased the stone. I purchased the stone. Now, you’re going back on your word when you told me you’d die first.”

“I’ve got no choice,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

“Yes, you do.” She walked to the table and picked up the smaller chisel. “I’ve been thinking about the monument. I take it this portion you haven’t touched yet is going to be my backside when you’re done.”

He furrowed his brow and took a step nearer. “Yeah,” he admitted cautiously.

“Well, I figure it’ll take us a while to get used to working together so this is where we’d begin. The worst thing that can happen is that we’ll chip away too much, and I’ll have a smaller backside. I wouldn’t mind that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your backside.”

“You don’t think it’s too wide?” she asked, her voice lighter.

Averting his gaze, he blushed. “No, I don’t think it’s too wide,” he growled. “But you’re wrong about the worse thing that can happen. I could smash your hand to hell.”

She wrapped her hand around his. “If you break my hand, we’ll stop … until it heals.”

He dropped his chin to his chest and slowly shook his head. “Meg, I don’t want to give you hands as ugly as mine.”

“How can they be ugly if you give them the chance to create something that will mean so much to so many people?”

She retrieved his hammer from the corner and handed it to him. “We’ll go slowly and chip off a little bit at a time. Just show me how you want the chisel positioned against the stone.”

He gave her a weak smile. “You’re crazy. It’ll take us years to finish.”

“I have nothing else I’d rather do.”

“All right. Stand over here,” he said as though resigned to her determination.

He set the hammer on the floor, and with his good hand he helped her position the chisel. She wrapped both hands around the chisel.

“Think you can hold it steady?” he asked.

She nodded, although she wasn’t at all certain. She didn’t want to let Kirk down, but more than that, she didn’t want to disappoint Clay now that she’d placed his dream back within reach.

He hefted the hammer and placed his wounded hand over hers. “I can’t grip the chisel, but I can at least protect your hands. This is gonna be awkward as hell.”

He tapped the hammer against the chisel a couple of times as though trying to get his bearings. He took a deep breath and swung his arm. Meg closed her eyes.

She heard the echo and felt the vibration travel down her arm as the hammer hit the chisel. She opened her eyes and reveled in the sweet victory. “It worked! We can do it!”

Clay walked to the table. He dropped the hammer on the wooden surface and stared out the window. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

A
LTHOUGH
M
AMA
W
ARNER WAS NOT AWARE OF HER SURROUNDINGS
, Robert, bless his heart, told the townspeople that it was too much for her to have visitors traipsing in and out all day, and he restricted their visits to the afternoon. His thoughtfulness left Meg free to spend the mornings working with Clay. Their progress was slow because Clay took long moments to study the rock after they chipped off each small piece.

He told her it was because he found it strange not to hold the chisel himself, and he didn’t feel as close to the stone, but she suspected that the real reason was his anxiety about her hands.

And he had reason for that.

Meg hadn’t lived a soft life, but her hands had never worked so hard. She wasn’t accustomed to gripping a heavy piece of metal and holding onto it when harder metal slammed against it. Sometimes, she thought her teeth would rattle loose from the impact.

Then she’d glance at Clay’s hand covering hers, and she’d keep her complaints to herself. The wound was still puckered and red as it mended and scarred. She had a strong urge to place a kiss on the scar, which ran across his palm and traveled along the back of his hand.

She imagined that his agonized cry that night had come not so much from the pain, but from the realization that they had killed his dream.

But there were moments when she felt his hand close a little more over hers, when he’d hit the hammer against the chisel and the hand covering hers would react from instinct and tighten its hold.

She relished those moments, held them deep inside her, and longed for the day when her hands could slip away from the chisel and return his to the place where it belonged.