Lorraine Heath (15 page)

What did Meg want?

She wanted more than the monument from him. Of that, he was certain. He supposed she’d tell him when she was good and ready. Until then, he’d enjoy the few moments of happiness he stole from her: calling her Meg when she was too upset to notice; teasing her until she teased back; being near enough to touch her.

The front door hinges squeaked as the latch rattled. Clay sprang halfway out of the tub as the door swung open. Momentarily he froze, then dropped into the water until the undulating waves his actions created lapped at his chin. “What are you doing here?”

Lucian closed the door. “I live here.”

“I mean what are you doing back tonight?”

He shrugged. “No money. Nothing to do in Austin. Didn’t see any point in staying when I at least have a bed here.” He grabbed a chair, pulled it across the room, and sat beside the tub. “Didn’t realize I’d been gone so long. Is it Saturday already?”

“I started working with the stone today. Got covered in dust. Felt the need for a bath.”

“You’re not gonna bathe every night, are you?”

“What business is it of yours?”

Lucian shrugged. “Just wondering. I ain’t never heard of a man taking as many baths as you have since you got home. It’s a wonder we got any water left in the well.” He dipped his finger into the water. “Damn, that water’s hot.”

Clay slapped his hand away. “I like it hot.”

“That could scald a man.”

“Why don’t you go on to bed and leave me in peace?”

Lucian stretched his long legs before him and crossed one foot over his ankle. “I’m not tired.”

“Then why don’t you leave so I can wash up and get out of the water?”

“I ain’t stopping you from washing up. Besides, I’ve seen your bare ass.” He flicked the water toward Clay’s face. “When did you get so damn modest?”

“I didn’t have any privacy while I was away. I’d like to have some now that I’m home.”

Lucian scraped his boots across the floor, planted his feet firmly on either side of the chair, leaned forward, and braced his forearms on his thighs. “You never talk about what happened while you were away.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“What’d you do while you were gone? You didn’t sit on a tree stump and whittle.”

“No, I didn’t whittle.”

“You didn’t fight.”

“I didn’t pick up a rifle and kill men if that’s what you mean.”

“So what’d you do?”

Clay sighed deeply. Since his return, no one had asked what he’d done during all the years he was away. So much had happened, and he wanted to forget most of it. “They held me prisoner at a fort for awhile, doing anything the officers considered ‘hard labor’ to fill up the days and nights.”

Lucian studied the puncheon floor between his feet. “You think they’d have let you come home sooner if I’d written them that Ma and Pa had died?”

“Probably not.”

Lucian glanced up, then dropped his gaze. “I thought about writing—”

“I don’t think it would have made a difference.”

Slowly, he nodded as though giving himself time to contemplate his next words. He spoke cautiously in a voice that reminded Clay of a child trying desperately to avoid a well-deserved whipping. “I wasn’t afraid. I would have fought, but I had things to take care of here. I couldn’t leave the twins, and I didn’t have time to write—”

“You stayed where you were most needed. Nobody questions that.”

Lucian bolted from the chair. “That’s right. I’m not like you. I’m not a coward.” He swung an arm through the air as though he were lost in a dark cave and couldn’t find his way to the sunlight. “Hell, you don’t even fight back. You could at least have hit me.”

“I thought I did.”

“Hell, no. You didn’t lay a finger on me.” “Then why are you hurting?”

Plowing his hands through his hair, Lucian stormed toward the door. “Christ, I don’t know. I’m sleeping in the barn tonight.” He slammed the door behind him.

Clay groaned as the twins opened their bedroom door and peered out.

“What the heck’s goin’ on?” Josh asked.

“Lucian’s home. Go on to bed.”

The boys padded across the room to the bathtub. “Why the heck are you bathin'?” Josh asked. “It ain’t Saturday.”

“I felt dirty after working with stone all day.”

“We feel dirty all the time. That ain’t no reason to bathe. People bathe when they want to look nice for somebody. You sweet on Miz Warner?”

“Did you say you were feeling dirty?” Clay asked.

The boys exchanged glances.

“Because if you are, I’ll put you in this water as soon as I get out.”

“Nah, we ain’t feelin’ dirty. Not tonight.”

“You feeling sleepy? Because if you’re not, I’m gonna put you in this water anyway.”

Both boys opened their mouths wide and yawned.

“Get on to bed,” Clay said.

The boys trudged back to their room and closed the door.

Clay grabbed the lye soap and scrubbed briskly. Leaning to the side, he reached for the towel. The front door opened, and Clay slid back into the water.

“I came home to sleep in my bed,” Lucian growled. “By God, I’m gonna sleep there.”

He slammed the front door, then slammed the door to the bedroom he shared with the twins.

Clay waited until silence filled the house, the water turned cold, and the fire died in the hearth before he ventured from the tub.

Celebrating was a risky undertaking in this house.

I
T WAS TORTURE TO SIT IN SILENCE AS
C
LAY WORKED.

A thousand questions surfaced within Meg’s mind as she watched him chip away the stone, piece by piece. She held her curiosity and tongue in check because she knew if she interrupted his concentration, he could turn the chisel at an incorrect angle, hit it harder than he should, or slam the hammer where he shouldn’t.

But it was torment to sit perfectly still while he moved with that steady, fluid rhythm that never faltered. His lean body emanated a controlled strength as he repeatedly swung the hammer and adjusted the angle of the chisel.

He’d rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. Meg watched in fascination as his muscles tightened until his arms looked as hard as the stone into which he cut. His large hands held the chisel and hammer with a death grip.

Only his brown eyes were visible above the red bandanna. His gaze never strayed from the chisel. His thick, dark brows met above the bridge of his nose to form a deep furrow in his brow.

He ignored the sweat trickling along his temple. His attention was focused solely on the stone and the tools he wielded with the expertise of a marksman.

Just as early morning dew gathered on clover, beads of moisture coated the back of his neck. She imagined that it covered his throat as well, but the bandanna prevented her from seeing if it pooled within the hollow at the base of his throat. She watched as wet streaks appeared on his shirt.

Heat permeated the shed. Even with the windows open and a slight breeze blowing through, the air was still hot. Meg pressed her bandanna against her upper lip to blot the moisture that tickled her face.

Every day she sat in the sweltering warmth watching him work. Every day she expected him to remove his shirt and give his body some release from the baking heat. She had on occasion thought of suggesting it to him. She didn’t want him to collapse.

But more, she wanted to see his entire body tense and carry the strength that was so evident in his hands and forearms. She had the impression that his craft had carefully molded his entire body over the years until it was as finely tempered as his tools.

His shirt hung loosely off his shoulders, his trousers were a shade too short. He’d grown taller and thinner since the day he’d stood on the outskirts of town watching his friends ride away. Yet his clothes could not conceal the intensity with which he worked. From the white hair at his temples to the worn soles on his boots, he gave himself up to what he was doing: he was merely an extension of his tools, using his mind, his imagination, and every muscle he possessed to take Nature’s work of art and turn it into his own.

Sometimes, she thought she might feel a keen sense of loss when he finally did complete the statue; She wasn’t altogether certain that the finished monument could possibly cause the swelling emotions that she felt as she watched the fabric of stone unfold.

Clay was a master at unraveling Nature’s quilt, and Meg often wished the townspeople could see the making of the monument because its creation seemed as significant as its completion.

The clanging of metal against metal ceased. The furrows in his brow lessened, and he pulled down the bandanna. He took a deep breath and touched his fingers to the portion that remained after his latest efforts.

She never could tell if he was pleased with the progress he was making. He stepped down from the stool and walked to the low table where he kept a bucket of water.

Every question Meg had wanted to ask escaped her mind. She jerked her bandanna down, jumped up from the chair, and clambered onto the stool so she could look closely at the silhouette. “This will be Kirk’s head, won’t it?” She swiveled her head around to meet Clay’s gaze. “If you’re going to make that silhouette the horse, you must intend for this one to be Kirk. Am I right?”

A smile of appreciation slowly eased onto his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

She turned her attention back to the stone, and Clay watched her fingers touch the stone with reverence. He wondered how many times she’d touched her husband in the same manner.

“His head wasn’t this big,” she said.

“It won’t be that big when I’m done. I like to leave plenty of stone to work with.”

She nodded in understanding. Clay lifted the wooden lid off the bucket and brought the dipper to his mouth. He let the water trickle slowly down his throat.

With each passing day, he stopped working more often just so he could watch her hop up from that chair, climb onto that stool, and touch the stone.

He returned the dipper to the bucket and covered it so the dust and stone couldn’t get into the water. Then he leaned one hip against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. He so enjoyed watching her excitement. He could hardly wait to begin working on the details.

“Are you going to start carving his face?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to wait until I have all the forms cut out.”

She didn’t like his answer. He could tell by the rapid tapping of her foot. Kirk had warned him about that.
When her foot starts tapping, I head for the hills till she cools down.

He didn’t think she was angry, just frustrated. In the past couple of months since he’d begun the project, he’d learned that his patience greatly exceeded hers.

She stopped tapping her foot and tilted her chin. “I don’t see why you can’t work on his face. You know this is his face. It would be nice to go ahead and have it finished.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I’ll admit I’m tempted, but I know I need to get all the shadows shaped out before I start working on the details. When I’m working on the shapes, I have to keep the whole monument in my head, the relationship of each piece to the other. I don’t want to lose that feeling before I’ve got everything cut down.”

“I don’t think it would hurt to make one exception.”

“When you’re making a quilt, do you start quilting as soon as you’ve finished sewing that first block?”

She stuck out her tongue, and Clay chuckled. The action made her appear so young, almost like the girl she’d once been.

“Want to make yourself useful?” he asked.

Wrinkling her nose, she looked at the stone littering the ground. “You need the area cleaned?”

“No, ma’am. The twins haul the stone out every evening. I need you for something more important.” Picking up his tools, he walked over to the stone. “I have to create the horse and rider from memory, but the woman …” He glanced up at her and smiled—"will be much easier to carve because I have a model. If you’re willing.”

Her face flushed. “You’re going to start working on me? But you haven’t finished the horse and rider.”

“I told you I work on the whole monument. I begin at the top and work my way down. Right now, I’d like to get the size and shape of the woman just right and mark her distance from the rider.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Stand where I can see you and pretend you’re holding a flag.”

She clambered down from the stool. “Where should I stand? Here?”

He stepped onto the stool and tilted his head. “Move a little to your right.”

She took a step as small as a piece of chipped stone. “A little more,” he said.

She inched over, and Clay rubbed his eyes. They’d be here until evening. He climbed down from the stool and drew an
X
in the dirt near her feet. “Stand here.”

He stepped onto the stool and looked at her. “Now, raise your arms so your hands are just below your chin.”

“Shouldn’t I raise them above my head? I was handing Kirk the flag. I didn’t want him to have to reach far for it.”

“I don’t want anything to block the view of your face. It’s more important than the flag.”

Blushing, she began to fidget.

“You’re gonna have to stand still.”

She stopped squirming, but she looked as nervous as she had the first Sunday she played the organ in church.

“All right, I need you to turn just a little to your left. A little more. A little more. Perfect.”

“Is this so you can see my ears better?”

He pointed toward the silhouette she’d identified as Kirk’s head. “It’s so he can see your ears better.”

She smiled. “Would it help if I brought some calico from home that I could drape down and pretend was the flag?”

“It might. If your arms get tired, you can lower them. I’m not doing anything right now that will be messed up if you move, but it’s easier if you’re still.”

“I’m, ready.”

Clay had always liked the natural look of stone. Plain and unadorned, it possessed a simple beauty. At this moment, though, he wished he had material that could hold the blue of Meg’s eyes and the rosy glow of her cheeks. No matter how hard he worked, he’d never be able to capture her beauty in the granite.