Always to Remember Page 10

  "Do you like my buffalo grass?" Mama Warner asked.

  Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Meg turned and smiled at Kirk's grandmother. She'd grown frail since the war. Her grandsons and two of her sons had ridden away in gray. Only one grandson had returned, but it was Kirk's death that had nearly broken the woman's spirit. She'd always been closest to Kirk.

  "They look like bluebonnets," Meg said.

  "Years ago, when I was young and filled with dreams, I watched the buffalo forage on the blue weeds that coated the hills. I haven't seen a buffalo in a good long while, but I always have my buffalo grass." She pressed the wooden carving against her breast. "And now, I almost have my grandson again."

  Quickly, Meg crossed the room and knelt beside the rocking chair. "I didn't mean to upset you with the carving."

  The older woman touched a gnarled finger to Meg's cheek. "Ah, child, memories don't upset me. They're all I have in my winter years to keep me warm." She trailed her finger along Kirk's likeness. "I can almost see his freckles. Kirk hated them so, and Clayton knew it, but he still put the shadow of them here. He always carves what he sees. Honest to a fault that boy is. Did you notice the freckles?"

  Meg smiled. "No, ma'am, I guess I didn't look (hat closely."

  "It's just a little difference in the shading. Over the years, Clayton has become skilled at carving. When he was a boy, he'd bring me things and ask me to guess what they were. Cot to the point where I hated to guess. I said a cloud once, and it was a pig. Nearly broke his heart. Not that he'd let me know that, of course, but his eyes don't just see more than most. They also tell more than most. But you gotta look closely. Have you looked closely, Meg?"

  "I try not to look at him at all. I hate him and all he stands for."

  "You said that too strongly."

  "Because my hatred for him is strong."

  "Or is it not strong enough? You accepted his gift"

  "I only took it because he didn't want it, and I thought you might like to have it. I certainly don't want it."

  "But it's a likeness of Kirk when he was a boy."

  Standing, Meg held up her hands to emphasize her point "He made it. I can't keep it."

  Mama Warner leaned back in her rocker. "But you've asked him to make you a monument"

  Meg walked to the window and gazed at the flowers Nature had created, trying to ignore the flowers that a boy had made. "That's different. The monument isn't for me specifically. It's to serve as punishment for him, and it'll serve as a memorial for the others."

  She heard the gentle creaking of the rocking chair. Sometimes, she wished she were small enough to crawl onto Mama Warner's lap as she rocked. She glanced over her shoulder and watched the older woman slowly touch every line and curve of the carving.

  "I'd say Kirk was about twelve when he looked like this," Mama Warner said.

  Returning to the woman's side, Meg placed her hand over one disfigured by years of fighting to survive. "That's what he said."

  "He? Will you not even say his name to me?"

  "Speaking his name sickens me."

  "And yet you plan to spend the coming days in his company."

  "So I can witness his suffering."

  "Revenge has a way of turning on itself, sweet Meg." Mama Warner gently touched the tip of her finger to a tear

  ALWAYS TO REMEMBER

  that clung tenaciously to Meg's eyelash. "Are you not the one who will suffer?"

  Roughly, Meg swiped the tear away. "I made the mistake of asking him about Kirk. In the future, I won't speak to him at all."

  "In silence you'll watch him work? Sometimes, silence can be so very loud. Remember how you cried when Kirk's mother wouldn't talk to you?"

  "Which is why I know it'll be an additional punishment for him."

  "You feel strongly about this, don't you?"

  "Yes, ma'am. They were all so young, so brave, filled with conviction. They were men of honor. He betrayed them when he didn't stand by them."

  "And you think he'll come to recognize his failings as he works on this monument?"

  "If he doesn't, he will by the time he's carved every name into stone. He'll have to face each man's memory again."

  "And when he's finished?"

  "Then we'll have a tribute to those who gave their lives for the Cause."

  "A tribute steeped in revenge. It'll be interesting to see if this monument will become what you envision, to see how deeply your punishment will cut into his soul. Will you bring me my box?"

  Meg knew the box. It sat in a corner beside the window. Kirk had made it, using cedar. The scent circled Meg as she shoved the box across the floor to the rocking chair.

  Leaning forward. Mama Warner rubbed her fingers over the bluebonnets that Clay had carved in the lid. Her wispy white hair fell across her cheeks and along her shoulders as though it were delicate lace. She lifted the lid and carefully placed the carving of Kirk inside the box. "There will come a day when I'll tell you to take this box home with you. You

  do it without questioning me. This box and the things inside it are for you."

  "I don't want the carving he made."

  "A day will come when you will want it. When you're young, you wish for things in the future, but when you grow old you wish for things from the past."

  "This box should go to your children."

  "Had Kirk not died, this box would have gone to him. He loved you. He'd want you to have it. I want you to have it, and I'll ask you to take it before I die so my children won't be fighting over it I'll be leaving them enough around here to fight about. They're Texans, and Texans surely do enjoy their fights."

  "Not all Texans."

  "We can't seem to steer the conversation away from Clayton. Why is that? What did he say to make you cry?" Meg felt fresh tears well within her eyes. "He told me Kirk had grown a beard." She laid her cheek against Mama Warner's knee. "It hurls. It hurts to know he saw Kirk after I did and knows things about Kirk that I don't."

  Mama Warner gently brushed her fingers over Meg's hair. "I know, child."

  "I hate him all the more because his memories of Kirk are fresher than mine."

  "Memories don't age, Meg."

  Lifting her face, Meg met the older woman's blue gaze, a gaze that very much resembled Kirk's. "No, but they fade."

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  Meg set the plate op bacon on the table and took her seat. Her father sat at the head of the table. To his left, two chairs remained empty. To his right, set another empty chair. Each served as a reminder of the young men who had once toiled in the fields beside Thomas Crawford.

  Meg sat across from Daniel at the end of the table closest to where their mother had sat. In the thirteen years since her mother's death, only dust and the gentle caress of a dusting rag had touched her mother's chair.

  Waiting quietly while her father and Daniel scooped food onto their plates, she missed the banter that had once been as abundant as the food. Enjoyable conversation during meals had ridden away with her brothers.

  Daniel moved the bacon around on his plate before lifting his blue gaze to hers. "Burned it a bit, didn't you, Meg?"

  She tilted her nose. "I like it crisp."

  "Thought I heard you moving around in the middle of the night," her father said.

  She began Tilling her plate. She'd risen an hour earlier and thought she'd been quiet as she moved through the house. "I wanted to get my chores finished early. I thought I'd visit with Mama Warner today."

  Her father leaned back, chewing his food as intently as he

  seemed to be studying her. "You've been spending a lot of lime with Mama Warner of late."

  "She's aging. I'm not certain she'll be with us that much longer, and I want to glean some of her wisdom."

  Nodding, her father returned to his meal. With shaking fingers, Meg picked up her fork. She didn't like lying to her father, but she feared he'd grab his rifle if she told him she was planning to spend the day in Clay's comp
any.

  "We'll be working Sam Johnson's fields this week if you need us."

  The shortage of able-bodied men to work the fields was a hardship that the local families had overcome by gathering to work each other's fields. With her father and Daniel working other farms, they seldom came home before dusk.

  As Kirk's wife, she'd grown accustomed to her independence. It had been an adjustment when she moved back home, but now her father expected no more from her than a meal at dawn, a meal at sunset, clean clothes, and a tidy house. Although it would no doubt wear her out, she was certain she could maintain all her chores and still spend a good part of the day watching Clay work.

  "You need a husband."

  Meg snapped her head around and stared at her father.

  "You need a husband and children to occupy your day, not an old woman," he said.

  "Who would she marry?" Daniel asked. "She don't want to marry Reverend Baxter. He doesn't even bother to invite himself to dinner anymore. All the other men around here are either years older or years younger, except for the damn coward, and I know Meg ain't interested in him, not the way she glares at him during church service. I'm surprised he hasn't burst into flames."

  The table shook as Thomas pounded his fist down on it. "By God, I don't want talk of that man in my house." He

  glanced at the empty chairs on either side of him, his jaws clenched. "He turned his back on my sons. By God, we should have hanged him the day our sons rode away." Rising from his chair, he stalked out of the house, the door slamming in his wake.

  Accustomed to his father's outbursts, Daniel simply shoved his plate forward and laid his forearms on the table, leaning forward slightly. "Some of us are thinking maybe we ought to tar and feather the coward."

  "What would that accomplish?" Meg asked, tearing her gaze from the vibrating door.

  "Might make him leave this area. Every time there's a good wind, it brings the stench of his fear blowing across the fields."

  "That's not enough," Meg said quietly. "Daniel, do you remember when you took Michael's harmonica without asking?"

  Daniel dropped his gaze to the table and nodded. "Yeah, and I lost it"

  "Did he tar and feather you when he found out?"

  "No, he just gave me that puppy dog look of his and made me feel guilty as hell for losing his most treasured possession."

  "And you still feel guilty about it because you came to understand what you took from Michael. The town's coward needs to understand that he betrayed my husband and our brothers so he can cany the knowledge and pain with him for the rest of his life."

  "How can we make him understand that? I sure as hell ain't gonna give him a puppy dog look."

  Gazing into his earnest face, she was tempted to tell him about the monument, but Daniel hadn't yet acquired the patience that came with age. She didn't think he'd understand the motives behind the monument. She didn't want to

  take a chance that he or her father would try to stop her from watching Clay work. "I don't know," she said quietly. "But I'm sure there's a way."

  Meg felt the familiar ache in her heart as she watched the twins race toward her, each trying to outdistance the other. She didn't know how she could miss something she'd never had, but she did miss having her own children. Dismounting, she smiled and waited for them to reach her.

  "Mornin', Miz Warner!" they cried as they ran past her, circled, and loped back, breathless from their efforts. She ruffled their red hair. "Good morning."

  "Want us to see after your horse?" one asked. "Do you know how to care for a horse?"

  "Yes, ma'am." The boy's eyes brightened. "Clay taught us last night. It ain't that much different from takin' care of the mule. Clay said lookin' after a lady's horse was the gentlemanly thing to do, and he wants us to grow up to be gentlemen. Says it's important to know how to treat a lady." She handed the reins to the twins, and they started walking toward the shed.

  "We had biscuits again this mornin'," the twin continued. "Clay musta used your recipe 'cuz they was better than what he cooked before. 'Course, they still wasn't as good as yours, but they come pretty close."

  "Did he make three?"

  "Yes, ma'am. He surely did. Course, he'll probably stop eatin' one if Lucian comes home."

  "When will Lucian be home?"

  "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Before he left, he hit Clay."

  Meg stared at the child. "He hit him?"

  "Yes, ma'am. You know what Clay did?" She shook her head.

  ALWAYS TO REMEMBER

  "He just got up off the ground, wiped the blood away from his mouth, and asked Lucian if he fell better."

  "Did he feel better?"

  "No, ma'am. We think he felt a sight worse. He moped around the bam all day. Then Clay asked him if he wanted to get away for a few days. Lucian jumped on that idea like a fly on a cow chip, and off he went with the oxen." He shrugged. "But we don't know if he's comin' back."

  "I'm sure he'll come back," she said, trying to instill conviction in her words when she wasn't at all certain. Lucian's hatred of Clay rivaled her own.

  "We surely do hope so 'cuz we're gonna need him come harvest time. We planted us a cash crop this year. Lucian only ever planted enough for us to eat 'cuz we didn't have no help with the fields. But Clay said if we all worked a little harder, we could have some extra to sell. So we planted some extra acres of com. When it comes up, we'll be pert' near rich, and we'll have biscuits every mornin'."

  Meg glanced over the furrowed fields. The Holland acreage had always paled in comparison with everyone else's. Clay's father had more interest in stone than in soil.

  The twin stopped walking and the entourage hailed. He tilted his face back so he could meet Meg's questioning gaze. "You ain't gonna tell Clay that I swore yesterday when I was talkin' about his biscuits, are you? He says we can't swear till we're sixteen. If we swear before (hen, he'll wash our mouths out with soap, and we ain't never supposed to swear in front of a lady. Yesterday, that 'damn' just soda slipped out of my mouth, and then I couldn't shove it back in."

  "I don't imagine I'll be telling him about your swearing."

  "Well, if you decide you gotta tell him, just remember that I'm Joe."

  "You sure as heck ain't!" the other twin yelled, voicing his thoughts for the first time.

  "I am, too. You can even count my freckles. You'll see that I got the most."

  He stretched so he stood on the tips of his bare toes, and she could see his freckles more clearly. From the comer of her eye, she watched the other twin struggle with his dilemma: to prove he was Joe without confessing to having the most freckles.

  "I'm not going to tell him," she said.

  "Cross your heart?"

  Meg drew a cross over her heart. "Cross my heart."

  "See, Joe. I knew she wouldn't want your mouth to get washed out with soap."

  "And what if you'd been wrong? You were the one that said 'damn,' not roe." the quieter twin stated.

  "But I wasn't wrong. Come on, Miz Warner. Clay's in the shed wailin' on you. He's been there since dawn. Reckon he thought you'd be early again this mornin'."

  She'd wanted to be here at dawn, but she'd waited until her father and brother had left for the fields. They seldom returned home before dusk so she wasn't concerned with their noticing her absence during the day. "Has he started carving on the stone yet?"

  "No, ma'am, but I think he was sorely tempted to. He keeps pickin' up his tools, but then he just puts 'em back down."

  They neared the shed, and the twins veered away from her. "Don't worry about your horse none," Josh said, smiling.

  She watched the twins and horse disappear around the comer. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the shed.

  Clay stood beside the low table. The wind ruffled his hair,

  dragging it across the collar of his worn flannel shirt. He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Morning."

  Pursing her lips, holding her return greeting captive, she tilted her head sligh
tly.

  "Thought I'd start this morning," he said.

  "That's why I'm here."

  Nodding, he turned his attention to the table. He picked up a tool and set it down.

  He gazed out the window.

  He touched the tools.

  He looked out the window again.

  Meg wasn't familiar with the implements. Tools that plowed into stone were a little different from those that plowed into earth, but she did know that in order for Clay to use them effectively, he had to hold them longer than it took to sneeze.

  She crossed her arms and shoved them beneath her breasts. The man must have taken lessons in moving from his mule.

  He walked slowly around the granite, studying it as though he'd only just seen it. He stopped and looked at her standing in the doorway. "I'll get you a chair."

  With long strides, he quickly left the shed. Stupefied, Meg glanced around. She could have sat on the empty stool nestled in the corner.

  He returned moments later and set a hard-backed wooden chair beneath the threshold. Meg picked it up, carried it closer to the stone, and sat.

  "It'd be best if you sat by the door," Clay said.

  "Why?"

  "Because when I start working, dust and stone are gonna fly everywhere."

  "I'll take my chances."

  "Fine."

  He stomped out again, leaving Meg to stare at the door. She wiped her sweating palms along her skirt.

  Clay walked in carrying a piece of red cloth. "This was my pa's. It's clean. You can tie it around your face, cover you nose and mouth so you're not breathing in all the dust."

  "Do you have one?"

  Nodding, he pulled a similar cloth out of his pocket.

  "Then I guess we're all set," she said.

  "Yes, ma'am." He walked to the table and picked up an instrument with a blunt end.

  "What's that?" Meg asked.

  "A chisel." He held up a tool which looked similar to a large nail. "This is a point."

  Meg cursed her curiosity, but couldn't resist it She rose from the chair and walked to the table. "Why do you have them in different sizes?"

  "I use the larger ones in the beginning when I'm chipping away the stone I don't need." He touched smaller tools that had finer points or smaller blunt ends. "I use these when I'm working on the details."