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Always to Remember Page 3
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Meg's heart swelled with devotion as they reared their horses before galloping away to face the bitter foe.
Her heart broke with their deaths.
Rolling to her side, she studied the granite figurine that graced her bedside table. A doe protectively shielded her fawn beneath an intricately carved bush. Kirk had given her the statuette because they had seen the deer the day he asked her to become his wife.
But Clayton Holland had sculpted it.
Clay and his father had cut the words into most of the headstones in the cemetery beside the church. Sometimes they carved small statues, particularly for the children's resting places. She had been tempted to ask Clay to carve granite markers for Kirk and her brothers, but she could not bring herself to ask anything of the town's coward.
The Union army buried Kirk and her brothers where they'd fallen, along with so many others. As the months rolled into years, she remembered them through a misty gray fog, their features veiled by the passage of time. She could no longer remember the exact shade of Kirk's eyes. Were they the blue of a sky at dawn or sunset?
Crudely, she'd carved Kirk's name and her brothers' names in wood and set the markers in the family plot. Her action constituted a vain attempt to hold onto them, a desperate need to have something by which to remember them. But her makeshift memorial didn't stop their images from slipping away or ease her pain.
With trembling fingers, she touched the fawn. How could Clay have returned? How could he hold his head up knowing he was a coward? He owed the young men of Cedar Grove, owed them something for not standing beside them. She wanted him to suffer as much as they had before death, as much as she did now in life.
Daniel often said he wanted to pound Clay into the ground, but Meg wanted more. In time, the pain from a physical beating would recede, heal, and scar, but wounds inflicted to the heart left scars that never stopped hurting.
She wanted Clayton Holland to experience the kind of invisible pain that cut thoroughly. She wanted, needed him to face his cowardice, to have it carved into his heart so deeply that he would feel it with every breath he took for as long as he lived.
* * *
Chapter Two
Meg halted her mare beneath the shade of a pecan tree that bordered the Holland property.
His bare bronzed back glistening with the sweat of his labors, Lucian toiled in the field using a hoe to shift the soil over the seeds. Clay, with damp splotches circling the back and sleeves of his shirt, was guiding the plow through the field as the mule dragged it. Somehow she was not surprised that Clay wore a shirt while he worked. She'd not forgotten how quiet and soft-spoken he'd been in his youth.
As she prodded her horse through the furrowed field, Lucian spotted her. He straightened, propped his elbow on the hoe, and smiled. "Good day, Mrs. Warner!"
Irritated that Clay continued to plow the field as though company had not come to call, she drew her horse to a halt beside Lucian. "How are you, Mr. Holland?"
"Hot. And you?"
"A bit warm. I need to speak with your brother."
He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You're here to see Clay?"
"I have some business to discuss with him."
"Business?" He chuckled. "The last person to discuss business with Clay did it with his fist. Is that what you're planning'!"
"No, it is not."
"Too bad." He gave her a sheepish grin. "Guess I'd best let him know you're here. He dreams while he plows the field." He turned on his heel. "Clay!" Lucian peered at her when his brother failed to respond. "See what I mean7 I'll get him for you."
He ran across the field, caught up with Clay, and spoke words Meg couldn't hear. Clay drew the mule to a halt and glanced over his shoulder. The brim of his hat shadowed his face so she had no idea what he was thinking. He ambled toward her while Lucian politely stayed with the mule.
As he neared, he removed his hat and squinted against the harshness of the sun. She hadn't seen Clay up close since his return. The abundant streaks of white feathering through the brown hair at his temples astonished her. He and Kirk had been of the same age, and yet he looked considerably older than she imagined Kirk would have looked at twenty-five.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
His solemnly spoken words caused her to realize she'd been staring at him for some time. Thrusting up her chin, she narrowed her eyes. "Are you indeed?"
"Yes, ma'am, I am. Your husband and brothers were fine men."
"They died with courage and honor."
"Yes, ma'am, they did. Kirk came"
"How dare you!" she hissed, her fingers tightening on the reins. "How dare you speak his name!"
Despair flashed through his eyes. "I meant no disrespect."
"No disrespect! Your very presence here is a disrespect."
Slowly, he shook his head and slid his gaze past her. "Shall I gather up the stones?"
"What?"
"Nothing. Just say what you came to say and be done with it."
He met her gaze, and she wondered when his brown eyes had grown so aged.
"I didn't come here to fight." Preparing to dismount, she swung her leg over the saddle. He took a step forward to help her. She stopped his movements with a cold look of disdain. Sighing, he stepped back. She placed her feet on the ground, holding the reins loosely threaded through her fingers.
Yesterday morning during the church service while she watched Clay as he sat in the last pew, she'd planted the seeds for retribution in her mind. The idea had blossomed by the end of the day and kept her awake most of the night. When she had made the final decision in the hours before dawn to come here, she'd decided she would not address him. "Mr. Holland" showed a measure of respect for which she felt none, and "Clay" indicated an intimacy, a friendship that she would never share with this man.
Gently, she slapped the reins against her thigh. "Do you remember the small figurine your made for my husband?"
The memory of a happier time flitted across his face and lit his eyes. "The one wish the deer?"
"Yes. There have been times when I've wanted to smash it against the wall and watch it crumble into a thousand pieces because your hands touched it. I haven't because it was a gift from my husband. I tell you this because I don't want you to have any doubts as to what my feelings for you are. Do you understand?"
Her words effectively snuffed out the light in his eyes. "Perfectly."
Meg swallowed, wondering if she'd been too harsh. She'd meant to lash out at him, but now that she had, she felt little satisfaction. Deep creases lined his weathered face. At first, she thought they'd surfaced because he was squinting at the sun, but even now, when his eyes had adjusted to the sunlight and he was no longer squinting, the grooves remained.
She heaved a frustrated sigh, needing his help but sickened at the thought of asking for it. She decided her best approach was to ignore her abhorrence of this man and simply state her reason for being here. "I want a memorial built to honor the fine young men of Cedar Grove who gave their lives with courage during the war, and you're the only person I know with the skills to make it."
"A memorial?"
"Yes, a statue of some kind that we could put in the center of town."
"And you want me to make it?"
"Yes. I realize"
Presenting his lean back to her, he slowly raked his fingers through his hair. She thought he was going to walk away, but he stood, gazing at something she couldn't see. He turned back around, worry and concern etched across his features. "I haven't cut any stone in a long while."
"Are you as afraid of this task as you were of the war?"
Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized her. She tilted up her chin.
"What kind of material did you want to use?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"What did you have in mind for it to look like?"
"I'm not sure. The only thing I do know is that within the base, I want you to carve the name of every man who died."
"Tha
t would be twenty-two names."
Startled, she blinked, her fingers tightening on the reins. "You know how many men died?"
"I can recite their names for you if you like."
"All of them?"
"All of them."
"Oh I see," she mumbled.
"You seem disappointed."
"No, I I just didn't expect it, that's all."
"What did you expect?"
His knowledge had caught her off guard. She herself hadn't known the exact number of young men who had perished. She'd mourned them as a whole, focusing her deepest grief on the loss of Kirk and her brothers. Pulling back her shoulders, she regained her composure. "I didn't expect you to be quite so willing to help. As to the fee"
"I don't want payment."
Meg felt her shoulders slump. She'd wanted the satisfaction of telling him he'd do it because he owed them that much, that she wasn't going to pay him anything. He shifted his stance as though suddenly uncomfortable and studied the ground.
"There is the matter of the materials." He lifted his gaze to hers. "I haven't the means to purchase them."
Feeling (he control slip back into her hands, she tilted her chin. "I have."
He nodded and something akin to hope plunged into the dark depths of his eyes. "I could sketch out some ideas tonight."
"I'll want to look at them, of course. To put it bluntly while you're working on this project, I'll be looking over your shoulder. I want it done to my specifications."
"On one condition."
In disbelief, she stared at him as though he'd suddenly donned a blue uniform. "I beg your pardon?"
"I have one condition"
"Impossible. I'm providing the materials"
"I'm providing the labor."
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, her foot packing the recently loosened dirt back into the earth. "What's your condition?"
"The base will be a block with four sides. Three sides will carry the names of those who fell in battleseven names on each side, eight on the front. On the fourth side, I'll carve whatever I want."
"No, that's impossible, completely out of the question. You might put something entirely unsuitable."
"Then I won't do it It was a pleasure visiting with you, Mrs. Warner, but now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my field."
Meg watched in dismay as he dropped his hat onto his head, spun, and began walking toward his plow. "Wait! You can't refuse!"
"Last I heard this was a free country!" he yelled, not bothering to glance back at her.
She rushed after him, unable to catch up to his long strides. "Stop!"
He quickened his pace.
"Stop! Please!" she called out
Halting abruptly, he turned slowly to face her. Short of breath, she was angry by the time she reached him, but he had skills possessed by no other man in this area. "What did you want to put on the fourth side?"
"I don't know yet"
"Can I at least have a say in what you put there?"
"No, ma'am."
She stomped the ground. "Damn you! You owe"
"I don't owe anything. They made their choice, and I made mine. They paid their price, but I'm still paying mine and getting mighty damn tired of it If you want the memorial, I'll make it, but I'm not going to pour my sweat, my heart, and my soul into it and not claim a corner of it as mine." A deep sadness filled his eyes. "I give you my word that when I'm done, nothing engraved on the memorial will detract from its meaning."
"And what do you perceive as its meaning?"
"To honor those who fought and died for their convictions."
She met his gaze, studying him, surprised by his words. How could he understand what he'd never experienced? She fought the tears glistening within her eyes. "This is important to me," she whispered hoarsely.
"I realize that."
She turned away, working to regain her emotions. She needed something more than wooden markers casting shadows over empty graves to keep the memory of those she loved from fading. She wanted Clay to make the memorial so he would be constantly reminded of his own cowardice. Before dawn, it had seemed the perfect punishment for him, more lasting than any beating her brother could give him.
Yet nothing had gone as she'd expected since she'd dismounted. Every sentence she'd practiced had been altered by his response. She spun aroundballing her hands at her sides, thrusting her chin upwardand met his gaze. "All right. You can have your side of the base to do with as you wish, but I have two conditions of my own."
"And they are?"
"You're to tell no one what you're working on. It's to remain a secret until it's displayed."
"And the other condition?"
"Under no circumstances are you to ever think that this forced partnership makes us friends. If our paths cross in town, I will ignore your presence, and I would appreciate it greatly if you would ignore mine."
"In other words, you don't want anyone to know you have any association with the likes of me."
"Precisely. Are we agreed?"
"Agreed." He gave her a sad crooked grin. "I don't guess you want to shake on it."
She gazed at his hands, dirty from toiling in the fields, but it wasn't the soil beneath his fingernails that caused her to wrinkle her nose. "No, I have no desire to shake your hand."
He shoved his hands into his pockets. "When do you want to see those sketches?"
"I'll come by late tomorrow afternoon. The sooner we get started, the sooner we'll finish."
He nodded as silence wove around them. She wouldn't thank him for doing what she considered his duty. He wouldn't thank her for fear she'd rescind the offer.
"I'll have Lucian help you mount," he said after several long moments.
Nodding, she turned and tromped to the mare, not nearly as confident with this plan as she had been earlier. Perhaps everything had seemed to fall into place at dawn because she wasn't completely awake.
She glanced over her shoulder. Lucian was walking toward her while Clay stood in the middle of the field, his back to her, his hat clutched in one hand, his dark head bowed.
Sitting at the table. Clay worked diligently to capture the statue on paper. He wanted Meg to see the monument as he saw it.
Meg.
His hands stilled as thoughts of her filled his mind. Dear Lord, but he'd forgotten how pretty her eyes were. How pretty any woman's eyes were. It had been so long since he'd looked closely into a woman's eyes. He wondered what made a woman's eyes seem so much prettier than a man's when they were the same color.
Meg Warner's eyes were a cornflower blue corridor that led to her tortured soul. Had he ever seen so much suffering in anyone's eyes? He had, but none of the suffering he had seen in the army hospital touched him as hers had today.
How many years younger was shetwo or three? He couldn't remember. Not that it mattered. Her youth had died on the battlefield with her husband. She'd buried her smiles and her laughter with Kirk. That was one of the greater tragedies of war that he hadn't recognized until he returned home.
The not knowing experienced by those who sat by the home fires was worse than anything the soldiers felt. Soldiers knew if they were alive or dead, but those away from the battle could do little more than worry, and it took a toll on them.
He didn't think the memorial would give Meg back her youth, but he hoped it would help put the war behind her. She was too young and beautiful to spend her life in mourning. She needed to loosen the tight bun that held her hair captive so her glorious ebony strands could blow freely in the wind. He imagined a woman's hair felt softer than a man's. He couldn't remember ever touching his mother's hair, but he remembered tights when she came to tuck him and his brothers into bed, and her hair wasn't braided. On those nights, his father stood in their bedroom doorway waiting for her. As a boy, he hadn't thought much about it As a man, he thought about it a great deal, wondering how it would feel to wait for a woman, seeing her hair flowing around her and knowing she sough
t to please him.
Just before he'd gone to fetch Lucian, the breeze had touched Meg, then moved on to touch him, bringing her scent with it.
Honeysuckle. She smelled of honeysuckle. He thought about her pert little nose. He'd wanted to smile every time she tilted it to demonstrate her disdain toward him. If her obvious hatred for him hadn't been so great, hadn't hurt so badly, he might have smiled.
The lantern on the table cast a yellow glow over his work. The house was quiet except for an occasional board creaking as it settled and an infrequent hiss of the lantern.
He didn't mind the quiet. What he found difficult was hearing people talk and knowing that none of the words would be directed his way. This afternoon, having someone talk to him had been pure heaven. The anger in her voice, the curtness of her tone hadn't bothered him nearly as much as it would have if he hadn't been starved for conversation.
Tomorrow he'd receive a little more conversation when she returned. To prolong her stay, maybe he could explain the sketches. He never drew sketches as finely as his father had. Clay saw the images in his mind, and his hands could carve what his mind saw, but they were too big and clumsy to draw what he saw.
He studied the drawing as be envisioned the statue from the front. The lines gave him all the information he needed, and he hoped Meg would understand what the monument would reflect when he was finished. He moved the lop sheet of paper aside and bent over the unmarred white paper that remained. Two sides of the memorial would be equally important. He set to work sketching what he was certain would be his favorite portion of the monument.
Hearing the door to his brothers' bedroom open, he lifted his gaze. Scratching his backside, Lucian stood in the doorway as naked as the day he was bom.
"You still up?" Lucian asked through an open-mouthed yawn. "It's gotta be after midnight."
"I wanted to finish these sketches."
Lucian shook his head. "You think she's bestowing upon you some honor?" He snorted. "God, you're so damn gullible. She was tempting you today. She's not gonna have you make a monument. Why would she ask the town's coward to make a tribute to its fallen heroes?"