“What do you want on it?”
She shrugged her small shoulders. “Ma liked birds, and it just seems that we ought to say something about Ma so people will know we loved her mightily.”
He shoved away from the wall and stepped into the shed. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“To make your ma’s marker.”
She shook her head. “Your pa’s supposed to do it.”
“He don’t like doin’ the letterin'. I been doin’ it since I was eight. Ain’t never done birds before so I’ll do some practicin’ first, and you tell me if it’s what you want.”
She sat on a stool beside him all afternoon, watching him work. When each design he created pleased her, he cut it into the marker. He carved all the small things her mother had loved. He carved her childish sentiment—We loved her mightily—because he thought it was beautiful.
In the years since, Meg had never seen a marker with as many etchings on it as her mother’s marker. It still brought tears to her eyes when she visited her mother’s resting place. Within the stone, Clay had captured the innocent love of a child for her mother.
And he’d only been a boy.
She sensed that as a young man with an old man’s eyes, he had a far greater ability to bring the granite to life. The thought scared the hell out of her.
Damn fool woman!
Clay knew he should curse himself, not her. He’d been lured by honeysuckle into hell.
What did he know about marble?
Nothing except that maybe beneath her clothing, Meg Warner resembled marble that had been patiently polished.
He pressed his head against the building and watched the second window on the third floor of the hotel. The window led into the room in which she slept.
He wondered if she slept on her stomach. Last night, he’d been tempted to crawl across the camp and peer over the side of the wagon to catch a glimpse of her sleeping. He ached for the sight of her without the hatred distorting her features.
He’d gladly give his life for just one ounce of the compassion he’d seen reflected in her eyes when she thought Yankees had killed Franz Schultz.
But she’d never give him compassion or understanding. Aggravation, though, was another matter. She seemed intent on giving him plenty of that. If he hadn’t known her before the war, he wouldn’t continue to rein in his temper.
But he had known her. Not well. Certainly, not as well as he would have liked, but well enough to know that her wounds were festering.
If he could find a taker, he’d bet the farm she hadn’t read Kirk’s final letter.
He prayed Kirk hadn’t inscribed the date when he wrote that letter. Clay had taken possession of the letter months after Kirk had given him the pouch. If Meg realized that, she would no doubt ask questions Clay didn’t want to answer.
He picked up his knife and started carving again. He concentrated on the lines and planes of the wood to keep his mind from wandering too far into the past.
He had his own wounds that refused to heal.
Six
STEPPING ONTO THE BOARDWALK,MEG SPOTTEDCLAY’S WAGONin front of the mercantile. Her mare, saddled and waiting, whinnied. Meg ambled over to the mule and rubbed its nose. “Did you sleep as poorly as I did last night?” She smiled. “I’ll bet the same thoughts didn’t keep us awake.”
Walking into the mercantile, she saw Clay standing at the counter. The rotund man behind the counter was inspecting a gold pocket watch.
“Can’t give you much for it.” He waved pudgy fingers toward a glass case. “Everybody’s tradin’ their jewelry since the war ended.”
“I’ll take whatever you’re willing to trade,” Clay said, his eyes focused on something past the man’s shoulder.
The man snapped the watch closed and slipped it into his pocket. “I can spare some flour, some sugar, maybe half a dozen canned goods but that’s about it.”
