“A beard? I can’t imagine Kirk with a beard.”
He offered her a small grin. “Well, it wasn’t much of a beard.”
“Was it as blond as his hair?”
“A little darker.”
“Did it make him look older?”
“Considerably,” he said, although he knew it was the war that had aged his friend.
Her hands tightened their grasp on the paper until her knuckles turned white. “Did he … did he still believe in the Cause?”
Clay nodded. He didn’t want to hurt Meg, but Kirk’s words echoed through his mind.You were right. There’s no glory to be found in war. I just want to go home, but the damn Yankees won’t let us.
“Do you think he was afraid of dying? I mean, when death came, do you think he had regrets?”
“He believed in a state’s right to secede, to govern itself. That’s what he was fighting for. He felt his beliefs were worth dying for so I don’t think he regretted giving his life as he did, but I imagine he regretted not being able to hold you again.”
Tears flooded her eyes, and Clay wondered how he could have said something so stupid. He’d wanted to reassure her, but he didn’t know a damn thing about the kind of words women wanted to hear. The tears spilled over onto her cheeks, and he thought he’d drown in them. He took a step toward her, hesitated, then strode from the building.
In disbelief, Meg watched him leave. She walked to the small stool, sat, and buried her face in her hands. She cried with a force that caused her chest and shoulders to ache. Kirk had grown a beard, and she’d never seen it.
She felt a light touch on each shoulder and lifted her tear-streaked face. The twins looked at her with concern reflected in their eyes.
“Clay said you was in need of comfort,” one said. He squeezed her shoulder. “Said we was to give it to you.”
The other twin dug a soiled piece of cloth out of his pocket and extended it toward her. “Only blew my nose on it once, and it was a long time back. You’re welcome to use it. I don’t mind.”
Meg took the offering and used the cleanest corner to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She forced a tremulous smile as she handed the cloth back to him. “Thank you.”
Nodding, he stuffed it into his pocket. “We ain’t got much experience at givin’ comfort, but when I’m feelin’ sad ‘cuz I ain’t got no ma, Clay makes me close my eyes and do some powerful thinkin’ about her. He says there’s a touch of heaven in our hearts so our ma’s always with us even though we can’t see her.”
“Your brother says some smart things, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am, but he can’t make biscuits worth a damn.”
Sitting on an old tree stump beside the house, Clay fought the urge to return to the shed. He wanted to wrap his arms around Meg, lay her head against his chest, and comfort her. Instead, he sent the twins to her.
Perhaps hewasa coward after all, for it was fear that made him leave, fear that if he touched her, she’d slap him again, and he’d crumble into a thousand pieces of nothing.
He stopped his wood carving.
He had the ugliest damn hands in the entire state. When he was a boy, they’d been too big for his skinny arms, and he’d always felt like a mongrel pup waiting to grow into its big paws. Whenever possible, he’d kept them shoved deeply into his pockets.
Now he was grown, but his hands still looked too large. His palms were rough from years of running them over abrasive rock. When he relaxed his hands, the veins and muscles continued to stick up like an unsightly mountain range.
But they were the ugliest when he carved. When he held tools and tightened his grip, everything in his hands and forearms visibly strained with his effort.
He couldn’t imagine that any woman would want hands as big or as rough as his to touch her. He knew his hands repulsed Meg, not only because of the way they looked, but because of what they hadn’t done.
His hands had never killed a man.
He saw her small feet come into view and lifted his gaze to hers. “You all right?”
She nodded. “Thank you for sending the twins to me.”
“They always seem to know the right thing to say.”
