Cautiously, he lifted his hand and touched the ebony wisps of hair that were no longer threaded through her braid.
His words following the attack had only deepened the wound piercing his pride. The emotional pain would eventually lessen, and his wounded pride would scar, but he’d rather carry the self-inflicted scar than ever again witness the agony and fear he’d seen in Meg’s eyes.
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 twins 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 hand 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.”
