Always to Remember

by Lorraine Heath

  Clay slipped his fingers between the buttons on his shirt and rubbed his chest "I don't know why she asked. I haven't figured it out yet. I'm not even sure I care. I'll be carving again, and this time, I'll create something that's not going into a graveyard."

  Lucian ambled to the sideboard, dunked the dipper into the bucket of water, lifted it, and poured the water over his dark head. The water fell to his shoulders, then slid down his body to create a small pool on the puncheon floor. "It's so damned hot tonight I don't know how you can sit there with all your clothes on."

  He sauntered to the bedroom door, halted, and glanced over his shoulder. "You're wasting your time. She won't come tomorrow."

  She didn't come.

  With his fingers wrapped around the paper that he'd rolled into a scroll, Clay sat on the porch. The sun had long since disappeared over the horizon. The stars dotted the blackened sky like minuscule diamonds thrown haphazardly onto velvet. The heat of day faded into the warmth of night.

  She wasn't going to come.

  He unfolded his body and tapped the paper against his thigh. He inhaled deeply, wanting to smell honeysuckle. He listened to the crickets, wishing their cadence resembled a woman's voice.

  He walked into the silent house. His brothers had gone to bed earlier, leaving a lone lantern on the table beside the meal Clay hadn't eaten. He picked up the lantern and went to the room that had once belonged to his parents, the room where Lucian had slept until Clay returned.

  Closing the door, he tossed the scroll onto the bed, then

  ALWAYS TO REMEMBER

  knelt before the oak dresser and set the lantern on the floor. He pulled out the bottom drawer. The scent of gunpowder from long ago wafted out through the opening. He removed a worn and frayed canvas knapsack and carried it to the bed.

  Sitting on the bed, he carefully untied the braids of thin rope that held the flaps closed. Lifting the bag, he dumped the envelopes onto the red-and-white quilt his mother had made. Reverently, he picked up an envelope, held it beneath his nose, and inhaled.

  Honeysuckle.

  Slowly he trailed his fingers over the delicate script. During the time the army had held him as a prisoner, when the loneliness had consumed him until he felt it as a gnawing hunger in his gut, these envelopes had sustained him. He pulled them out, smelted them, and touched them.

  He pretended the woman who sent them had written his name instead of another's across the envelope. Although he never read (he letters housed in the envelopes, he knew they contained words of love and longing, perhaps a little loneliness, and a great deal of pride. A wife's letter to her husband would reflect all those things and more.

  One by one, he placed the envelopes back into the bag. Reaching across the bed, he picked up the rolled sketches and slid them into the bag before lacing the braided ropes.

  Stretching out on the bed, he stared at the ceiling and wondered if Meg Warner had drifted off to sleep with memories of her husband.

  The bench swing squeaked as Meg pressed her bare Iocs against the porch and gave a lazy push. Drawing comfort from the gentle swaying, she tucked her foot beneath her.

  Late in the afternoon. Reverend Baxter had stopped by unexpectedly, hinting at and receiving an invitation to supper. She tried to convince herself that it was his presence alone that had prevented her from returning to the Hollands' farm as she'd promised. But if that were the sole reason she hadn't gone, she'd go to the farm tomorrow to look at the sketches.

  And she already knew in her heart that she wouldn't go tomorrow either. It wasn't Reverend Baxter that stopped her. It was Clayton Holland. She couldn't fathom the difference between the man Clay was before the war and the man he was now.

  The wind whispered a lover's rhapsody through the trees, carrying her back to a time when love and joy filled her heart a time when laughter and smiles were wrapped around confidence.

  Her wedding day.

  Everyone came to share her joyeven Clay. He stood by Kirk's side as Kirk pledged himself to Meg until death. She paid scant attention to Clay or anyone else that day. She only had eyes for Kirk, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile that promised a lifetime of happiness.

  After the ceremony. Kirk teased Clay and told him he had to dance with the bride. Clay shook his head, his face burning a bright red, until finally he relented and asked her for a dance. They waltzed, but Meg could recall nothing else. Distracted, she searched over Clay's shoulder for Kirk among the guests, wanting to be back in his arms.

  She slipped her foot from beneath her now and pushed against the porch again. As lazily as the swaying of the swing, her mind wandered to the day Kirk left He had talked with Clay at the edge of town. She thought it odd because everyone knew Clay had not enlisted. They shook hands, then Kirk embraced him. A manly embrace. Two men. One leaving, surrounded by family and friends. The other standing alone on the edge of town.

  She hadn't understood how Kirk tolerated being so close to Clay, but no lime had remained to ask inconsequential questions. Their final moments came too swiftly, filled with pledges of undying love and remembrance, the promise to write, and the promise to return home soon. She kept her promise to write. He was unable to keep his promise to return home.

  Along with her neighbors, she rejoiced when the army came for Clay, glad that at last he would serve the Confederacy. Rumors that he had still refused to join his company on the battlefield were whispered on the wind and chilled Meg's heart. Clay and Kirk had been friends. Clay had not only betrayed the Confederacy, he'd betrayed Kirk.

  But for the first time, she wondered what price he'd paid to return home. Did he wake at night to the screams of dying men as she so often did? The depth of despair in his brown eyes seemed to indicate that he might.

  Her request for a monument had put a spark of hope in his eyes, which was the last thing she intended. How had he managed to find her request an honor?

  The memorial was meant to be Clay's punishment as much as a tribute to the heroes of Cedar Grove. The sooner he began working, the sooner he'd finishand the sooner his punishment would end.

  Slowly. She must proceed slowly. She'd give the hope in his eyes time to die before going to his farm to look at the sketches. Sighing, she drew her legs up beneath her on the swing. She had nothing else to do with her time.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Meg finished playing the hymn, folded her hands in her lap, and tried to focus her attention on Reverend Baxter's words.

  The church door opened and distant footsteps resounded. She held her breath until they fell into silence.

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she allowed her gaze to wander toward the back of the church. Her heart slammed against her ribs when she discovered Clayton Holland's intense gaze riveted on her.

  He sat alone, his face solemn. He lifted some sort of cloth pouch so she could see it over the congregation. Then he lowered it, stood, and walked out of the church empty-handed.

  Meg balled her hands in her lap, refusing to feel guilty about not having returned to his farm as she'd promised. Clay was a man without honor, and as such, he deserved no respect.

  The pouch, however, was another matter. She could no longer see it, but knowing that he'd brought it for her and left itwhatever it heldon the last pew made her feel as though she were sitting on a cactus. She'd never squirmed so much in her life.

  When Reverend Baxter finally signaled her to begin the final hymn, her hands itched to touch the canvas bag instead of the organ keys. She'd never realized how slowly people walked from the church. Did she always play this hymn three times before the church was empty?

  When the only movements within the sanctuary were the dust motes waltzing in the sunlight, Meg rose from the bench, walked down the steps from the dais, strolled as calmly as she could to the last pew, and slid onto the hardwood bench.

  With feathery touches, she stroked the silken threads she had embroidered to form Kirk's initials in the pouch. Lifting the soiled fl
ap, she peered inside the canvas bag, then poured the contents onto the bench. Gunpowder overpowered the scent of honeysuckle.

  Ignoring the rolled paper, she gathered the letters together, pressed them against her bosom, and wept. An immense grief swept over her, tearing open the wounds of her heart, wounds she thought had begun to heal.

  Sometimes, she felt as though whatever weaponry had struck Kirk down had sent its death knell across the miles to Texas and embedded its anguish in her heart.

  Clutching the canvas bag, her palms sweating, Meg guided the chestnut mare through the trees that bordered the river. Within her heart, molten rage simmered because Clay had possession of Kirk's pouch and her letters these many months and hadn't returned them to her. Her hatred intensified as she considered the possibility that he may have read the letters, read the intimate words she meant to share only with her husband.

  Determined to get answers, she urged her horse toward the bend in the river where Lucian had told her she'd find Clay. She ducked beneath a low branch, the sweat on her palms increasing.

  She drew her horse to a halt beneath the branches of another tree. Ensconced in shadows, she forgot her anger as she took in the scene unfolding before her.

  Deep and vibrant. Clay's laughter rumbled as he stood in the brown river, the gently flowing water lapping at his hips. His back was to her, but with his clothes drenched and plastered to his body, she could see that he was extremely slender, she could even detect the barest rippling of his muscles beneath his shirt as he scooped the water and tossed it toward his brothers. The twins had discarded their shirts, and their bare shoulders displayed a host of freckles.

  Without warning, they yelled and lunged for Clay. The force of their combined assault took him under the water. The twins emerged first, holding their stomachs and throwing their heads back to send their guffaws toward the blue sky above. Clay came up, sputtering, shaking his head, and sending a spray of water toward his brothers. Then moving quickly, he plucked one boy out of the water.

  Meg gasped. The child was as naked as a blue jay. She knew she should avert her gaze, but she hadn't seen anyone so enjoy life in years.

  Clay tossed the boy in the water. Then, laughing, he turned to his other brother. Taunting the boy, he tried to wave him nearer. When the boy refused to approach, Clay plunged out of the water. The boy screamed as he came out of the water, cradled in his brother's arms. Then he hollered louder and struggled harder. "Put me down!"

  "Not until you say I won!" Clay yelled.

  "Gawd Almighty! She's watchin' us!"

  Clay spun around, the naked boy dangling in his arms and kicking. His broad smile disappeared like sunshine vanishing as a dark cloud passes before the sun. His chest heaving from his efforts, he released his hold, and the child splashed into the water.

  She dismounted and walked to the edge of the river bank. "I need to speak with you."

  "You boys, stay here," he ordered as he plowed through the river.

  "Heck fire! We ain't got no choice!" one twin yelled.

  "You swim in your clothes?" she asked as he neared the muddy bank.

  Her offered her an uncertain smile. "They unexpectedly lured me in." He stepped onto the grass.

  "You didn't even take your socks off?"

  "I don't like the way mud feels between my toes." Absently, he combed his fingers through his wet hair, lifting it off his brow. "You wanted to talk?"

  She lifted the pouch. "About this."

  He nodded as though her words came as no surprise, then jerked his head to the side. "Mind if we sit on the boulder so I can dry in the sun and keep an eye on the twins?"

  "That'll be fine."

  She followed as his long legs ate up the short distance. He hoisted himself with ease onto the large boulder at the river's edge. Then he reached down to help her.

  Ignoring his hand, she waited until he withdrew it and scooted to the far edge of the rock. Hampered by her skirt, she awkwardly scrambled until she gained her seat. She hadn't bothered to change into suitable riding clothes. She'd just wanted to find him as soon as she could and get this dreaded confrontation over with.

  She wiggled her bottom on the rough, warm surface until she was as comfortable as she thought possible. Then she turned her attention to Clay. As he stared at the river, his face resembled the rock, hard and implacable. She cleared her throat. He didn't give her the courtesy of an acknowledgment, and she refused to call him by name.

  "This is Kirk's bag," she finally said, not disguising the irritation in her voice.

  "I know that."

  "I want to know how you came to have it!" she spat, her anger rising to the surface.

  He snapped his head around, his brown eyes dark and stormy. "I tried to tell you the other day when you came to the farm, but you gave me holy hell because I dared to mention your precious husband's name."

  It seemed to surprise him as much as it did her to hear the crack of her palm against his cheek. Then the astonishment changed into a deep sadness before he turned his face away from her.

  "Your husband brought it to me a few months before he was killed," he said quietly.

  She balled up her hand, still throbbing from the blow she'd delivered. "Why?"

  "Said he had a premonition, didn't think he was gonna make it home. He was afraid in the chaos the letters would get lost. He thought they'd be safe with me."

  "Because there wasn't a chance in hell that you'd be killed, was there?" she asked, contempt adding a sharp edge to her words. "Can you even begin to understand how much courage it took for them to march onto that battlefield knowing they might be killed? How could you not stand by their side?"

  "If you have to ask, there isn't any explanation in the world I can give you that would satisfy you."

  Shaking her bowed head, she clutched the pouch to her breast. "I don't understand why he wasn't revolted by the thought of your hands touching these precious letters."

  "Because he understood."

  Swivelling her head, she scrutinized his profile, stark against the blue sky. "He understood what?"

  Slowly, he turned his intense gaze on her. "Why I wouldn't fight."

  "I don't believe you."

  He rolled his slender shoulders into a careless shrug. "Believe what you want. That's what everybody around here does anyway."

  She lowered the pouch to her lap and peered at him, dreading his answer. "Did you touch them?" She watched as truth warred against deception, and she knew the answer even before his eyes filled with regret.

  "Yes."

  She squeezed her eyes shut as pain consumed her heart until it was a physical ache, and tears trailed down her cheeks.

  "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.

  Slowly, she shook her head. No apology on earth could atone for what he'd done. She felt utterly and completely violated.

  "I I never took the letters out. I only touched the envelopes. I was just so damn alone, so damn lonely sometimes I just needed to have some kind of"

  Opening her tear-filled eyes, she stared at him. "You didn't read the letters?"

  He shook his head. "You could lake the letters out, bum the envelopes"

  "You only touched the envelopes !"

  Remorse washed over his face. "And smelled them. They always smelled so sweet like honeysuckle."

  Lifting a letter, she wondered how he managed to notice the honeysuckle when the acrid scent of gunpowder practically drowned it out. She'd been disappointed when she opened the pouch and discovered how distant the honeysuckle smelled. A smile of remembrance graced her lips as she brought the letter to her nose and sniffed. "Kirk liked the smell of honeysuckle," she said softly. "I always slipped a few honeysuckle petals between the folds of the letters."

  "It probably reminded him of you."

  Blushing, she turned her face away. No conversation with this man ever went the way she planned. His sad eyes, his honesty always took the fight out of her. She wiped away any trace of previous tears and forced all sof
tness from her eyes before she dared look at him again. "Why didn't you touch your own envelopes. Didn't your family write you?"

  "My ma wrote me."

  "Then why didn't you read those letters?" she snapped.

  "Because they wouldn't give them to me."

  His answer startled her. She assumed that an unwritten code guaranteed that a letter be given to the person for whom it was addressed. She shuddered at the thought of Kirk not receiving her letters. "If they didn't give them to you, how can you be sure she sent them?"

  "Because they showed them to me just before they burned them. They'd" Despair contorted his face as he closed his eyes.

  Meg's hand was almost resting on top of his before she realized that she was about to offer this man comfortthe last thing she wanted to give him. She jerked her hand back, but her curiosity had been piqued. "What did they do?"

  Opening his eyes, he glanced down the river, slipped his fingers between the buttons on his shirt, and nibbed his chest "Doesn't matter now."

  "But why did they burn your letters?"

  "Because they hated me as much as you do and weren't real keen on seeing me happy." He heaved a deep sigh. "Then Ma and Pa died while I was gone."

  She watched his throat work convulsively as though he were struggling to keep his emotions tamped down.

  "I don't even know what she wrote in all those letters she sent," he said in a hoarse, ravaged voice. "I don't know if she understood or if she was worried. I'll never know."

  Meg caught herself before she voiced her sorrow over the loss of his mother's words. She could imagine the devastation she would feel if she discovered that every word she had written Kirk had been burned without his reading them.

  As though he'd revealed too much, he ran a finger along a tiny fissure in the boulder, his eyes straying toward the distant horizon. "Did you read the letter he wrote you?" he asked.