Always to Remember

by Lorraine Heath

  Both twins stared, concern clearly reflected in their young faces. "Let her look, Clay. We don't want you to die on us."

  "I'm not gonna die." Scowling, he moved the apron away from his head.

  "You're too tall. You're going to have to bend down so I can see," Meg said.

  "Maybe you're just loo short."

  "No one's ever complained about my size."

  "No one's complained about my height"

  "How many people talk to you7"

  He bent his head but not before Meg saw that her teasing had cut him deeper than she'd intended. She'd assumed that he wasn't bothered by people in the area shunning him. He continued to attend church, but other than that he kept to himself much as he had before the war.

  Kirk's mother had always used silence as her weapon whenever she was angry at anyone. Meg remembered how much it hurt the first time the woman refused to talk to her. She would have preferred yelling to the ominous quiet. She had assumed that the pain ran deeper because it involved family.

  Perhaps Daniel was wrong. Clay didn't need to have their fists pounded into his face to feel their hatred. Their silence pummelled him just as effectively.

  Gently, Meg parted his hair until she could see the wound. "That's some gash. Do you have a needle and thread? I could sew it up."

  He straightened. "It doesn't need to be sewed."

  "You could use the needle and thread Clay was usin' to fix the hole in my shirt," one twin offered.

  "It docs need stitches," she insisted.

  He tightened his jaw. "Fine." He walked across the room, dropped into a chair at the table, crossed his arms over his chest, and sat unmoving as though he'd become one of his statues.

  The twin rushed to a sewing basket beside a chair and proudly produced the needle and thread.

  "Which one are you?" Meg asked.

  "Josh," he said, his face beaming.

  "I'll never be able to tell you apart."

  "It's easy. Joe's got more freckles."

  "I do not," Joe said as he climbed onto the table.

  "What are you doing?" Clay asked.

  "I ain't never seen nobody sew somebody up before."

  "It's no different than sewing cloth so get outta here."

  Josh scrambled onto the table. "Ah, Clay, let us have a look see."

  "You might make Mrs. Warner nervous, and she'll end up sewing the tip of my ear to my head."

  Laughing, the twins punched each other on the arm. Then they grew serious. "Will we make you nervous, Miz Warner?" Joe asked.

  She smiled. "No. Do you have any whiskey?"

  "No, ma'am," Clay said.

  Gingerly, Meg lifted the strands of his hair aside. "Well, the blood probably washed out the wound."

  "Probably."

  "This may hurt," she said quietly.

  "That should make you happy," he said.

  He was right. She could jab the needle a little deeper than necessary, pull it through slower than usual, and prolong his misery. She look a deep breath to steady her fingers and poked the needle through his flesh.

  He didn't flinch. If Meg hadn't known better, she'd think he'd turned into stone.

  "Gawd Almighty! She stuck that needle right into your head Clay. Look, Joe, all that blood looks like a red river runnin' through a forest of hair. Ain't that somethin'?"

  Joe dropped to his backside and let his legs dangle over the edge of the table. "I think I'm gonna puke."

  "Do it outside," Clay ordered through clenched teeth.

  So he hadn't turned to stone after all.

  "Don't that hurt, Clay?" Josh asked. "I'd be a hollerin'"

  "Then I'll make sure I never lower the mantel over the hearth."

  The boy smiled. "Miz Warner, you gonna eat breakfast with us? We're havin' biscuits again." His eyes filled with delight at the prospect. "Reckon Clay'd fix you one."

  "Or maybe I'll just swipe his," she said as her fingers nimbly worked to close the gash.

  "He don't make him one."

  "Why not?" Meg asked.

  "He never eats much lessen he shoots a buck or somethin' big. Then he eats like he's got two bellies to fill."

  "Mrs. Warner isn't interested in my eating habits," Clay said sharply, but his tone didn't take the smile off Josh's face.

  Meg had a feeling she knew why he ate heartily when the food was plentiful. The man probably didn't eat at all when little graced their table. She had an irrational urge to bop him on the head.

  "All done," she said as she snipped the thread.

  "I appreciate it"

  "I can't have you bleeding to death on me. Who'd make my monument?"

  He peered up at her and grinned slightly. "Right"

  "What's that gawd-awful smell?" Josh asked. "Did you puke, Joe?"

  "Nah, I didn't puke. I swallowed it back down."

  Clay bolted from the chair and rushed to the hearth. "Damn." Grabbing a heavy cloth, he pulled the pan of biscuits off a shelf set in the wall of the hearth.

  "They look worse than what we had yesterday," Josh said.

  Clay thumped the blackened bread. "They are worse."

  "I suppose it's my fault," Meg said.

  "It's nobody's fault," Clay said. "It just happened."

  "Still, I feel responsible. I'll make another batch."

  "I'll bet she can make good biscuits, Clay. Will you let her?"

  "I reckon." He set the pan on the table and headed for the door. "I've already eaten, so just fix something for the twins."

  "Where are you going?" Meg asked.

  "I've got chores to finish up." He walked out of the house.

  Meg smiled at the twins. "I'm not sure if I remember how to make just two biscuits."

  Clay had never known torture could be so sweet

  Meg's fingers brushing lightly across his scalp had sent warmth flowing through his body clear down to his boots.

  He wished she'd taken her time instead of rushing through the job, but he knew she hadn't wanted to touch him any longer than necessary.

  Part of him wished she'd never touched him at all.

  A greater part of him wished she'd never stopped.

  He laid his hand against the granite. He was accustomed to the feel of rough rock grating against his palms. He imagined every inch of Meg was unlike anything he'd ever touched. She was probably soft, smooth, and as warm as a Texas summer.

  A couple of times while she was stitching him up, her breast had come close to grazing his cheek. He had held his breath, not certain what he'd do if she actually did brush against him. The moment never came, so he could only wonder what it might have felt like.

  He hit the stone. He should have been paying attention to Josh, not Meg's curves. The boy had a tendency to run at the mouth, speaking his mind and everyone else's. As a result, he'd told Meg a lot more than Clay would have liked. How many biscuits he cooked was none of her damn business.

  He walked around the stone, trailing his fingers over the gritty surface. Every morning he came to the shed and pulled open the windows to let in the first rays of sunlight Then he touched the granite, getting a feel for the rough texture beneath his roughened hands. He'd spent hours imagining where he would first place his chisel, how hard he would tap his hammer. He thought about the sound of that initial crack and how much to cut away before he actually began shaping the figures.

  A dozen times he'd picked up his tools with steady hands. He touched the chisel So the rock, studying the angle, determining how the stone would react to the assault. He could see every movement in his head and had been tempted to begin chipping away the unwanted stone.

  But he'd refrained because Meg wanted to watch.

  And now his palms were sweating so badly he didn't think he'd be able to get a good grip on his tools.

  He walked to a low table where he kept his tools laid out. He wrapped his hand around a chisel and felt it slide through his palm. He closed his eyes. He didn't want to disappoint her. He wanted this monument to be
all that she thought it could be and more.

  Opening his eyes, he stared across the fields. That she sat in judgment of him didn't bother him. That she might sit in judgment of his efforts within the shed did.

  He lowered his gaze and watched as delicate fingers pushed a plate across the table. He slid his gaze over to Meg. "I said I'd already eaten."

  She shrugged innocently. "I'm used to cooking for three. Besides, judging by the weight of your biscuits, I'd say you used a lot more of your staples than I did. I wrote my recipe on a piece of paper and left it on the table in the house." She tapped the plate. "Kirk always liked biscuits with honey. So eat it. You can't afford to waste anything around here."

  He leaned his hip against the table and picked up the plate. He bit into the warm honey-drenched biscuit and nearly groaned. "This is better than what you cooked on the way back from Austin."

  "It helps to have soda and milk."

  "Soda?"

  She nodded quickly, and the corners of her mouth tipped up slightly.

  He shoved the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. No telling what else he hadn't put in the batter that he was supposed to.

  "I don't suppose you'd start working on the monument today?" she asked.

  He set the plate aside. "I was thinking about it, since you're here." He scattered a stack of papers across the table. "I've been studying the rock since we brought it home, trying to see it from all sides, from the corners, from the top, the bottom."

  She picked up a piece of paper. "And you think this is what it looks like on the inside?"

  "It's what I need to make it look like on the inside."

  She lifted her eyes from the drawing, and Clay captured her gaze. "Do you understand?" he asked.

  "You look at things so hard," she said in amazement. "Whenever you look at something, anythingthe rock, the twins, meyou look so intense, it's almost frightening."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't know I did that."

  "I know. Kirk told me you didn't look at the world like everyone else does. He said when he looked at me, he saw a beautiful girl, but when you looked at me, you saw lines, curves, and angles that were beautiful. You look at things so hard because you try to figure out exactly what it is that makes them look the way they do."

  He nodded in agreement. "I stare a lot"

  "When we were growing up, I hated it when you stared at me."

  He lowered his gaze to the ground. "I didn't mean to offend you or anyone else for that matter."

  "It no longer bothers me that you look at things so hard."

  He dared to lift his gaze to hers. "It doesn't?"

  She shook her head and picked up the first drawing he'd sketched for her. "You remember everything because you study it. This is exactly what Kirk looked like the last time I saw him." She held his gaze. "What did he look like the last time you saw him?"

  Clay felt as though she had just slammed a chisel through his heart. He saw her chin quiver, and he couldn't tell her the truth.

  "Didn't you see him when he brought you the letters? What did he look like then?"

  He combed his fingers through his hair, wincing when he hit the gash she'd mended. "Tired. He looked tired."

  "Was he thin?"

  "Everyone was thin. They were having a hard time getting supplies through." She looked so damn fragile trying to pretend she wasn't hurting. He'd never expected Meg to look fragile. "He'd grown a beard."

  "A beard? I can't imagine Kirk with a beard."

  He offered her a small grin. "Well, it wasn't much of a beard."

  "Was it as blonde as his hair?"

  "A little darker."

  "Did it make him look older?"

  "Considerably," he said, although he knew it was the war that had aged his friend.

  Her hands tightened their grasp on the paper until her knuckles turned white. "Did he did he still believe in the Cause?"

  Clay nodded. He didn't want to hurt Meg, but Kirk's words echoed through his mind. You were right. There's no glory to be found in war. I just want to go home, but the damn Yankees won't let us .

  "Do you think he was afraid of dying? I mean, when death came, do you think he had regrets?"

  "He believed in a state's right to secede, to govern itself. That's what he was fighting for. He felt his beliefs were worth dying for so I don't think he regretted giving his life as he did, but I imagine he regretted not being able to hold you again."

  Tears flooded her eyes, and Clay wondered how he could have said something so stupid. He'd wanted to reassure her, but he didn't know a damn thing about the kind of words women wanted to hear. The tears spilled over onto her cheeks, and he thought he'd drown in them. He took a step toward her, hesitated, then strode from the building.

  In disbelief, Meg watched him leave. She walked to the small stool, sat, and buried her face in her hands. She cried with a force that caused her chest and shoulders to ache. Kirk had grown a beard, and she'd never seen it.

  She felt a light touch on each shoulder and lifted her tear-streaked face. The twins looked at her with concern reflected in their eyes.

  "Clay said you was in need of comfort," one said. He squeezed her shoulder. "Said we was to give it to you."

  The other twin dug a soiled piece of cloth out of his pocket and extended it toward her. "Only blew my nose on it once, and it was a long time back. You're welcome to use it. I don't mind."

  Meg took the offering and used the cleanest comer to

  wipe the tears from her cheeks. She forced a tremulous smile as she handed the cloth back to him. "Thank you."

  Nodding, he stuffed it into his pocket "We ain't got much experience at givin' comfort, but when I'm feelin' sad 'cuz I ain't got no ma, Clay makes me close my eyes and do some powerful thinkin' about her. He says there's a touch of heaven in our hearts so our ma's always with us even though we can't see her."

  "Your brother says some smart things, doesn't he?"

  "Yes, ma'am, but he can't make biscuits worth a damn."

  Sitting on an old tree stump beside the house, Clay fought the urge to return to the shed. He wanted to wrap his arms around Meg, lay her head against his chest, and comfort her. Instead, he sent the twins to her.

  Perhaps he was a coward after all, for it was fear that made him leave, fear that if he touched her, she'd slap him again, and he'd crumble into a thousand pieces of nothing.

  He stopped his wood carving.

  He had the ugliest damn hands in the entire state. When he was a boy, they'd been too big for his skinny arms, and he'd always felt like a mongrel pup waiting to grow into its big paws. Whenever possible, he'd kept them shoved deeply into his pockets.

  Now he was grown, but his hands still looked too large. His palms were rough from years of running them over abrasive rock. When he relaxed his hands, the veins and muscles continued to stick up like an unsightly mountain range.

  But they were the ugliest when he carved. When he held tools and tightened his grip, everything in his hands and forearms visibly strained with his effort.

  He couldn't imagine that any woman would want hands as big or as rough as his to touch her. He knew his hands repulsed Meg, not only because of the way they looked, but because of what they hadn't done.

  His hands had never killed a man.

  He saw her small feet come into view and lifted his gaze to hers. "You all right?"

  She nodded. "Thank you for sending the twins to me."

  "They always seem to know the right thing to say."

  "They knew exactly what to say."

  "I think it's because children don't weigh their words before they say them." He laid his knife on the stump and stood. "I think it'd be best if I waited until tomorrow to start work on the monument."

  She wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "All right I'll come back tomorrow."

  "I'll open the shed early so you don't have to sneak in."

  She forced a quivering smile. "I wasn't planning on sneaking. See you in the morning." She turned to
leave.

  Stopping, she looked at him.

  He extended the wooden carving toward her. "This is what your husband looked like the day he told me he was going to marry you. Thought you might want it."

  She took the offering and studied it. "He couldn't have been any older than twelve."

  "That sounds about right."

  "Why are you giving me a present?"

  "It's not a present It's just something I carved, and now I've got no use for it. If you don't want it, you can throw it away. Makes no difference to me."

  "Is this what you were working on when we traveled to Austin?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She trailed her fingers over the small features he'd carved. Then she extended it toward him. "I can't take it."

  "Why not?"

  "Because we are not friends. We will never be friends. If I accept this, I'd be" She shook her head. "I don't know. I just know I can't take it."

  "Consider it payment for stitching my head. I know it's not much, considering I nearly bled to death, but it's all I have to trade. The carving for my life. Considering the value you place on my life, it's probably a fair trade."

  "Doesn't it bother you that I hate you?"

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, meeting her cold blue gaze, he said quietly, "It bothers me a great deal."

  Meg stared at the land where Mama Warner's sons and daughters had once toiled and crops had flourished. One by one, her children had left to build their own homes and harvest their own dreams. In abundance, the wildflowers had reclaimed the fallow fields.

  Shortly after her return from Austin, with a strong need to tell someone about the granite and the monument, she'd confided in Mama Warner. She knew Kirk's grandmother wouldn't judge her actions and would understand her motives.

  She'd come here today to savor and share her first victory, but she'd only shared the carving of Kirk that Clay had given her. She didn't know why, but she couldn't boast about the pain she'd seen reflected in Clay's eyes when he'd answered her question.

  Lowering her gaze, she touched the delicate petal of a wooden flower that Mama Warner had planted in a wooden box. Kirk had made the box for his grandmother when he was ten. Clay had carved the flowers from twigs and bits of wood and painted them blue.

  Everywhere Meg looked, she ran into their lives, intertwined.