“Meg?” a quiet voice asked behind her.
She twisted and looked toward the door. “Hello, Tom.”
Uncertainly, he stepped into the room, holding a bundle. “Sally sent me with some clothes. We thought you might want to get Clay out of those muddy clothes.”
Rising, Meg took the clothes from him. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”
Blushing, Tom cleared his throat.
“Since you said you’d been watching Clay work, I was wondering if you knew anything about our little girl’s marker … his pa didn’t make it, did he?”
Meg hesitated, wondering how Clay would feel about their knowing the truth. She hoped if these people came to know him as she did, perhaps the hatred would melt away. “No, his father didn’t make the marker.”
“Didn’t think so. I was walking through the cemetery, lookin’ at the markers his pa made, the ones he made. The ones Clay made look different. I can’t explain it, but it’s as if he put his soul into it.”
“Carving is very special to him.”
Nodding solemnly, he settled his hat on his head. “Tell Clay that when it’s time to harvest, I’ll help him with his fields. It’s the least I can do to pay him back for the marker.”
“Would you do me a favor?” Meg asked.
“Sure.”
“Would you run out to the Holland farm and let Lucian know what happened?”
“I’d be happy to, but John and Caroline Wright already went. Caroline said she’d watch the twins if Lucian wanted to come in.” He smiled and shrugged. “Reckon some of us are startin’ to see things a little different.”
He left, and Meg returned to Clay’s side. She brushed the hair off his brow. The bloody and bruised knot near his temple frightened her. She had a feeling it frightened Dr. Martin as well.
Leaning over, Meg combed her fingers through Clay’s hair again and again. “Please, Clay, I know you’re tired of fighting, but please fight once more for me. Wake up so we can go home.”
The pounding in Clay’s head increased as he opened his eyes. Yesterday was a haze. He remembered Meg kept prodding him to wake up. Every time he did, she kissed him and told him to go back to sleep.
Her actions made no sense.
When Dr. Martin woke him, he’d ask Clay how many fingers he was holding up. Clay figured that as a doctor, the man would be smart enough to know how many fingers he was shoving in Clay’s face.
He preferred for Meg to wake him.
He eased his legs off the bed and pressed his hands to his temples. He didn’t remember coming home, but home he was.
He stood and walked to the chair where someone had left his carefully folded clothes. He worked his way into them, fighting the nagging ache in his head.
He opened the door to his room and gazed into the living area. A small smile crept across his face. Meg was bending before the hearth, humming.
He thought he could enjoy waking to the sight of her every morning for the rest of his life. The pain in his head increased. He needed to talk to her about that. He had reasons why he couldn’t marry her, but he couldn’t remember what they were.
Turning, she saw him. A beautiful smile eased onto her face. None of the reasons he had could have been strong enough to fight the lure of that smile.
She crossed the room, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him tenderly.
“How are you feeling this morning?” she asked.
“My head hurts a little.”
“You should sit down.” Taking his hand, she led him to the table and pulled out a chair.
He eased down. “Something smells good.”
