The knowledge reflected in Mama Warner’s eyes drove Meg to ride through the moonless night with the rain pelting her back. She drew her mare to a halt near the Holland homestead.
Darkness encased the house. She’d expected it to look that way, as though everyone inside were sleeping.
Markers weren’t made in the house.
She guided her mare toward the shed. Someone had lowered the shutters against the force of the wind and rain. The door was partially open, spilling pale light into the night.
Meg dismounted beneath a tree to give her horse some protection from the rain. She sloshed through the growing puddles until she reached the shed. Standing in the doorway with the rain dripping off the brim of Kirk’s hat, she learned what Mama Warner had already surmised.
Clay’s father hadn’t made any headstones before he died.
Hunched over so he was almost parallel with the tablet of stone, Clay sat on a stool at his low worktable.
As though she were a wraith, Meg moved silently toward him. The thunder rumbled. Clay stilled momentarily, then continued with his task.
With the windows closed, the room was stifling hot. No breeze blew through to cool him. The sweat drenched the back of his shirt, and he wiped his brow. He worked by the flame of a solitary lantern.
Halting at the edge of the shadows, Meg watched as he used the small chisel and hammer to create an abundance of delicate detailing on the tiny headstone. With a gentle breath, he blew the dust of his labors away from each letter and design as he completed it.
An eternity seemed to pass before he set his tools aside, rolled his shoulders, and bowed his head.
“It’s beautiful,” Meg said quietly.
“Christ!” He leapt off the stool and stared at her. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to know Lucian doesn’t do lettering.” She trailed her trembling fingers over the perfectly carved script. “You created a beautiful headstone for a child, and you’re giving the credit to your father and brother.”
“Then why don’t you tell everyone tomorrow so they can crush it into dust, and Tom’s wife can have something else to grieve over?”
He stepped away from her. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm. He stopped, but didn’t look at her. “Do you truly believe they’d destroy a child’s headstone if they knew you made it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The uncompromising briskness in his voice caused her to release her hold on him. He walked across the room to a corner where he kept an assortment of odds and ends. He picked up a blanket and ripped it in two. He brought one piece back to the table and wrapped it around the headstone with the same gentleness that a person may have used to wrap a blanket around an infant.
Meg walked to the hunk of granite and placed her hand on the rough stone. She could almost see Kirk in the shadows, could hear the neigh of his horse, his promises, and his courageous yell. “Do you think they’ll destroy this monument?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
Over her shoulder, she watched him smooth out the wrinkles in the blanket as though it mattered how he delivered the marker to the church. “Why don’t you think they’ll destroy this monument?”
“Because we’re not going to tell them I made it.”
She stepped away from the granite. “What?”
He turned from his task and met her gaze. “I haven’t thought through the particulars yet, but we’ll find a way to get it to town without anybody knowing. You can tell folks you had some fellow back east make it.”
“You’re not going to put your name on the backside?”
“I thought we’d agreed this memorial would reflect the names of those who died fighting for their convictions.”
“We did.”
“Well, now I didn’t die, did I?”
“And you didn’t fight either,” she reminded him.
“You think the only battles fought are done so with rifles, and the only wounds that kill draw blood. You think courage is loud, boisterous, and proud. Mrs. Warner, I don’t think you have a clue as to what this memorial truly represents.”
