Always to Remember

by Lorraine Heath

  He had a strong desire, a stronger need to wake Meg, pull

  her into his bed, apologize for his harsh words, and love her one last time.

  Instead, he gently moved her hand off his chest and eased out of bed, holding his breath against the shards of pain traveling through his arm, chest, and head.

  Getting dressed was no easy task, and he contented himself with getting his trousers over his hips and buttoned. He'd never intended for anyone to know how harshly he'd been treated. Some people in the area would have reveled in the knowledge, some would have pitied him, others would have agonized over the way he had been treated. He wanted none of those emotions directed his way for what he'd willingly accepted and brought on himself.

  But gentle, caring hands had exposed the scars. Raising his arms nearly caused him to reel over with the pain, so he knew it would be impossible to pull his shirt over his head. His shirt remained as she'd left it draped neatly over a chair, the blood removed, the damp ends touching the floor.

  Quietly he walked around the bed to where Meg slept. He'd probably never again awaken to find a woman asleep near him. He placed a light kiss on her cheek before leaving the room.

  As she awoke, Meg arched her spine to get the knots and tightness out of her back and shoulders. She should have gone with her instincts and crawled into bed with Clay, but she was afraid she'd cause him further pain if she rolled against him in her sleep.

  Easing back in the chair, she rubbed her neck, opened her eyes, and stared at the empty bed. She hopped out of the chair and frantically searched the room. Having just awakened, she needed a minute before she realized that the room gave a man no place to hide.

  She darted into the living room area. Nothing stirred. She

  crossed to the other bedroom and glanced inside. The (wins were sleeping. Sometime during the night, Lucian had returned, for he was sprawled over his bed, his clothes and boots still on.

  She rushed outside. With feathery fingers, dawn was creeping over the land. The door to the shed was open.

  Hurrying to the shed, Meg tripped over her clumsy feet. Picking herself off the ground, she brushed the dirt off her hands and continued. Her heart pounding, her breathing labored, she reached the doorway and came to a dead stop. Clay was slumped against the granite, his eyes closed, his mouth turned down. In the dim light spilling in through the doorway, he looked as though something as heavy as the monument weighed upon his heart.

  She walked into the shed and knelt beside him. He cradled his wounded hand. The pristine white bandage Dr. Martin had wrapped around his head was now crumpled, bloody, and loose fitting as though Clay had discarded it and retrieved it without care.

  He heaved a melancholy sigh that sounded as mournful as the wind that preceded the first storm of winter. "I wasn't the only one who wouldn't carry a rifle."

  He opened his eyes, and Meg fell into the dark brown depths, which had aged considerably since yesterday. Lightly touching the white wisps of hair at his temples, she understood at last that it was the harshness of other men that had aged Clay, not the passing years.

  "They hung some men by their thumbs to convince them carrying a rifle was what they should do," he said hoarsely. "I listened to those men scream, and I prayed they wouldn't hang me by my thumbs. I was afraid if my thumbs were pulled free of my hands, I wouldn't be able to hold my tools, I wouldn't be able to carve when I got home. A damn selfish thing to pray for, but they never hung me by my thumbs."

  She trailed her fingers along his roughened cheek. She wanted to shave him, trim his hair, prepare him a nice warm bath, and never let anything harsh touch him again. "They hurt you in other ways," she said quietly.

  She watched his Adam's apple move slowly up and down. "They deprived me of sleep, deprived me of my mother's letters, and branded me a deserter."

  "Dr. Martin said they'd planned to execute you."

  "Changed their minds. They wrapped heavy chains around my ankles and kept me prisoner at a fort instead."

  "Is that where Kirk visited you?" He nodded slightly. "You'd written him that my ma and pa had died. He thought if he showed your letter to the officer in charge, he'd send me home."

  She felt the anger swell inside her at the injustice. "But he didn't release you."

  "I asked him not to show him the letter." Stunned, Meg sat back on her heels. "Why?"

  "Your letter was four months old. Lucian was coming up on the age when they would have wanted him to enlist Figured since I hadn't heard from him, that maybe he was content where he was. Our parents' deaths gave him an honorable reason not to enlist"

  "It gave you an honorable reason to return home." He shook his head. "I wasn't sure how Lucian felt about the war, but I took his silence as a plea not to come home. Maybe that was wrong on my part, but they'd already done all they were going to do to me. After Gettysburg, I stayed with Dr. Martin and helped him tend the wounded till the war ended."

  "Why didn't you tell me all this sooner?"

  "What difference does it make? You're no different than the Confederate officers. You want a man who's willing to kill. I won't. I told them I'd tend wounded, but Captain

  Roberts had gone to West Point with Robert E. Lee's son, and by God, every man under his command would carry a rifle."

  "But you didn't."

  "No, ma'am. Figured if I held a rifle, the day would come when they'd order me to shoot it, so I never gave them the chance."

  She touched her fingers to the scar that marked him as a deserter. "I'm so sorry they did all this to you."

  "Arc you, Meg?"

  She felt as though a frozen river had just traveled along her spine. "Of course I am."

  "I'm not so sure. I may have figured out why you wanted me to make the monument."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Why did you ask me to make the memorial?"

  The reasons raced through her mind: her reasons in the beginning were vastly different from her reasons now. She'd planted the seeds for retribution, and they'd flourished, but the harvest in no way resembled the bitter fruits she'd expected. She knew she'd waited too long to answer his question when his eyes dulled and one corner of his mouth lifted mockingly.

  "You place a man's dream within reach, and then you do all in your power to see he never touches it. That's why you wanted the marble instead of the granite, why you came here every day. You didn't want to watch me carve the monument, you wanted to see me fail."

  "Perhaps in the beginning"

  "And when you realized I wouldn't fail, you decided to make me suffer"

  "No!"

  "You just happened to be here last night"

  "I was here because you didn't meet me at the swimming hole."

  "If I'd been at the swimming hole, would they have taken their vengeance out on my brothers?"

  "I don't know."

  He glared at her. "Is that why you made love with me the other night? So I'd know exactly what it was I'd never have?"

  "No!"

  "I could have done it, you know. I could have given you a monument to honor Kirk, Stick, your brothers, and all the other men who sacrificed everything in the name of honor."

  "You still can. You can finish the monument"

  He shook his head, his dark brows knitting together over the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes tighter. "I can't close my hand."

  "Because it's bandaged."

  "I took off the bandage."

  "The pain"

  "I fought the pain. I can't close my hand."

  "Once it's healed"

  "It won't make a difference." He struggled to his feet. "They say you reap what you sow. Well, take a good look at your monument, Mrs. Warner. They took away my ability to finish it, and they left you with nothing but shadows to honor those you loved."

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  Meg crawled through her bedroom window. She walked to the washstand and splashed the cool water on her face, but it couldn't wash away
the dark circles beneath her eyes or the heaviness that had settled in her throat.

  She needed to cook breakfast, and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and cry, long and hard, until she was so exhausted that she'd sleep without dreaming of Clay.

  Lethargically, she walked to the kitchen and took a pot off the wall. Her father and brother would have to be content with porridge because she didn't have the energy to fix anything else.

  She heard Daniel coming down the hallway whistling "Dixie." Perhaps his hatred toward Clay would be less if her father had let him leave and be the drummer boy for the Confederacy that he'd wanted to be. Unfortunately, drummer boys had died as well.

  "Mornin' Meg." He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "What are you fixin'?"

  "Porridge."

  "Sounds good."

  Smiling, she looked at him over her shoulder. Porridge was his least favorite meal. "You seem awfully happy this morning."

  "Yes, ma'am. You don't have to worry about that yellow-bellied coward touching you no more."

  Meg's heart constricted so tightly she thought it might stop beating. "What?"

  He released her, dragged a chair out from the table, and dropped his body into the seat. "We took care of him last night. Didn't we, Pa?"

  Meg spun around. Her father averted his gaze as he took his chair. "That's right," he said quietly.

  Daniel planted his elbows on the table. "He won't be touching any of our women any time soon, that's for damn sure. My brothers would have been proud of us."

  Meg thought she was going to be sick to her stomach. The room began to spin and tilt.

  A hard knock sounded on the door, and Meg took a deep breath, trying to right her world, wondering if anything would ever feel right again.

  Robert stepped into the kitchen, and Meg knew from the sadness in his eyes what was coming before he spoke.

  "Mama Warner's taken a turn for the worse."

  Easing onto the bed, Meg brushed the wisps of silver hair away from the wrinkled brow. "Were you here with Mama Warner throughout the night?"

  "Where else would I have been?" Robert asked.

  She lifted her gaze to the man standing beside her. "My father, my brother, and some other men attacked Clay last night. They put a knife through his hand. I think they did it because he touched me after church yesterday."

  Robert knelt beside her. "What is Holland to you, Meg?"

  She felt the tears well in her eyes.

  Reaching out with his thumb, he captured a fallen tear. "So that's the way of it, is it?" He smiled sadly. "I suppose I'd be wasting my breath if I asked you to marry me."

  "I love him, Robert. I didn't want to. Things would certainly be simpler if I'd fallen in love with you."

  "Would it have made a difference if I had two arms?"

  She cradled his cheek. "No."

  He laid his hand over hers. "I didn't think my loss would matter to you. You're a special lady, Meg. You don't look like you're aware of that this morning, but you are." He stood. "Once word gets out about Mama Warner, we'll have more company than we can shake a stick at. I'll try and keep as many as I can out of here because you sure don't look like you need company today."

  "Thank you, Robert."

  He walked from the room, and Meg took the frail hand into her own. She leaned over Mama Warner. "Can you hear me, or are you too close to heaven to hear us anymore? I feel like I'm in hell."

  She studied the pale features that time had lined with wisdom. "You knew Clay wasn't a coward. If you'd told me, I wouldn't have believed you, but he showed me in so many ways. The irony is that he's the only one among us who isn't a coward. I think that's why we all hated him so much. He is exactly what we believed ourselves to be."

  Lucian had a strong urge to punch Clay in the jaw. Not out of hatred, but out of love. He wanted to knock some sense into his brother.

  In the days after the attack, Clay took his meals on the porchaloneand spent his time walking through the fields of corn stalks, pulling weeds.

  He never raised the shutters on the shed. He didn't talk about his past or the future. He didn't talk at all unless the twins asked him a question, and then he discouraged them by giving them an abrupt answer.

  Sometimes, Lucian would see him staring in the direction

  of the Warner farm. For long moments, he wouldn't move. Then he'd look toward the shed, shove his hands into his pockets, bow his head, and begin walking through the fields of growing corn.

  Lucian walked along the row of com until his shadow fell across Clay, who was kneeling beside a corn stalk. "I was thinking, next year we could rent those oxen to help us plow the fields, maybe take in an extra acre or two."

  Clay tugged a weed out of the soil. "Whatever you think is best." Standing, he removed his hat and squinted against the sunlight. "Once we harvest the crops, I'll be moving on, so any time you want we can go into town and have the deed to the farm put in your name."

  "What about the monument?"

  "It's served its purpose."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  Clay looked toward the shed. "It was never meant to be more than shadows of a dream."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Clay squinted into the distance. "Do you see that?"

  Lucian followed his gaze. Black clouds billowed up from the earth. "Looks like smoke."

  "Joe, Josh!" Clay yelled.

  The boys stopped hoeing and rushed to his side. "Go to the barn and get some blankets. It looks like Sam Johnson's field is on fire. Hurry."

  "You're not gonna held put it out, are you?" Lucian asked.

  "How will he make it through the winter if he loses his crop?"

  Lucian jerked his hat off his head. "God damm it! Not one of them would come over here and piss on our crops if they were on fire."

  "I can't help the way they are, but I'll be damned before I become like them."

  Clay began running across the field. Lucian followed. He was beginning to think his older brother was the most aggravating man he knew.

  The twins caught up with them, (heir faces filled with exuberance. Clay yanked a blanket away Josh. "Don't get too close to the fire and don't breathe in the smoke."

  Against his better judgment, Lucian took the blanket that Joe offered him.

  By the time they arrived, neighbors were already pitching in, beating back the fire. Lucian took his place beside his brothers, slapping the blanket against the bright orange flames. In their eagerness, the twins kept getting too close to the fire, and he and Clay continually dragged them back to safety.

  Lucian glanced at Clay's blackened sweaty face. He probably looked as grimy, but he felt good. It had been long time since he'd felt as though they were a family, united in a cause. He wished now that he had helped Clay with his side of the barn. His past regrets were many. He was determined to have fewer in the future.

  The flames before them died a quiet death, and Clay rubbed each boy's head. "Good job."

  They began walking over the charred field. Sam Johnson was shaking hands with his neighbors and thanking them for their help. He came to an abrupt halt when his eyes fell on Clay. Clay met his gaze.

  "Clay, your hand's bleedin'," Josh said.

  Clay glanced at the blood seeping through the bandage. "It'll be all right. Come on, we need to get home now."

  In long strides, Lucian set out to follow his brothers.

  "Lucian?"

  Stopping and turning, he stared at Sam. Sam extended his hand. "I wanted to thank you for helping me out here."

  Lucian ignored his hand. "Don't thank me. If it'd been left up to me, we wouldn't have come, but Clay's the head of the family, and he was worried you might have a hard winter if you lost your crops."

  Sam ducked his head, his face turning beet red. "Look, things got out of hand the other night He wasn't supposed to get hurt. We were just going to frighten him."

  "You didn't do anything to stop them from hurting
him though, did you?"

  Sam snapped his head up. "I didn't see you out there stopping us either."

  Lucian took a menacing step forward and Sam flinched. "No, you didn't, but I won't make that mistake again. You and your friends show up on our land again with flour sacks over your heads, and you'll have to put knives through four of us."

  Meg was grateful that Mama Warner had drifted closer to heaven and was unaware of all that had happened the last night Meg saw Clay. The knowledge would have broken the older woman's heart.

  It very nearly broke Meg's.

  Each day she sat in the rocker beside the bed and read The Scarlet Letter aloud. She could not read the words without thinking of the puckered pink scar that Clay bore upon his chest. The army had hurt him. The people in the area had hurt him. Yet she knew she'd hurt him most of all.

  "Meg?"

  She glanced up and gave Robert a warm smile.

  "You have company. The Holland twins."

  Rising from the rocker, she set the book on the table and slipped past Robert. She hurried into the kitchen. She'd

  never been so happy to see anyone in her life as she wrapped her arms around both boys.

  "I've missed you," Meg said as she planted a kiss on each boy's forehead.

  "Yes, ma'am, we been missin' you, too," Josh said.

  "Do you want a piece of pic? I made it fresh this morning."

  "No, ma'am, we didn't come here for ourselves. We came about Clay."

  "How's his hand?"

  "It ain't bandaged no more, but he don't never use it He just keeps it buried in his pocket like he's ashamed of it or something. Thought maybe you could come talk to him"

  Shaking her head, she stepped back. "I can't."

  "But, Miz Meg, he just walks up one row of corn and down the other all day long. We know he said some powerful ugly words the night he was hurt, but that was plain talkin', Miz Meg. Not Clay. He didn't mean none of it. Wish you'd come back and let him apologize."