“Your loyalty. To Kirk. To the men who fought with him. You never question their motives. Few of the men who went with Kirk could have explained to you what he was fighting for. Some believed in slavery. Most just wanted to partake in a good fight. But you stand behind them, you support them, you want a memorial to honor them.”
“And I think you should have ridden at his side.”
“He only wanted me to ride as far as the border.”
“What?”
“He’d heard that some of the older men planned to stretch my neck because I didn’t enlist. He wanted to give me an armed escort to Mexico, but I wasn’t interested in leaving.”
“What’d he say when you told him that?”
“Most of what he said I can’t repeat to a lady. Basically, he called me a fool and said I’d end up dying for my beliefs. I asked him if he was willing to give less than his life for what he believed.”
“He wasn’t,” she whispered.
Within the shadows created by the moon, he held her gaze. “The only difference between us was that your husband was willing to kill for what he believed in. I wasn’t.”
The flowers slept, their petals folded in slumber, yet their scent lingered on the air. Meg hadn’t noticed it as she walked to the swimming hole, but she noticed it now as she walked home.
Over her shoulder, the full moon lent its light, creating soft shadows in the night. Her shadow reached out and dared to touch what she would not: the man walking beside her. Their shadows joined until she could no longer tell where each began.
Just as she could no longer distinguish her feelings for Clay. In the beginning, they’d been as the rock he now carved—clearly defined, hard, unforgiving. Somehow, in the passing days he’d chipped away her hatred as easily as he seemed to chip away the granite. In rare moments, she felt as though he were shaping her into someone different. She wondered if anyone in Cedar Grove would look upon the monument Clayton Holland created … and remain the same.
When they reached the edge of her family’s land, where the furrowed fields began, he stopped. Her house was visible in the distance, a lone lantern hung on the porch to guide weary travelers to a place of rest.
“I’ll wait here till I see you open the door.”
“I crawl in through the window.”
“Ah,” he said, taking a long slow nod. “Which window?”
As she pointed, he leaned to the side. “I’ll be able to see you going in.” He smiled. “Should be interesting to see.”
Studying him as he stood before her, bathed in moonlight, she remembered a time when he would have been welcome on their land, a time when he wouldn’t have stopped at the furrowed fields but would have walked to her door. His hair had dried and the dark locks fell over his brow. She resisted the urge to brush them back.
“Are there"—he rubbed his chest—"are there particular nights you go to the swimming hole? I mean if there are, I’ll be sure and not go those nights.”
“Actually, tonight’s the first time I’ve gone since Kirk left. How about you? What nights do you go?”
“Tonight was the first time for me, too. Do you want to pick a couple of nights so I don’t bother you there anymore?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “I’ll take my chances.”
He nodded. “Well, then, you’d best go on in. I’ll just stay here to make sure you get there safe.”
His eyes caught and held hers in the moonlight. The last thing she wanted was to crawl into an empty bed alone. Like a moth drawn to a flame, she took a step closer. “I won’t slap you if you kiss me again.”
“What if I kissed you the way Stick did?”
“I won’t bite your tongue.”
Lifting his hand, he came within a whisper’s breath of touching her cheek before dropping his hand to his side. Reaching out, Meg wrapped her fingers around his rough hand and pressed it against her cheek. He drew small circles on her cheek with his thumb, then trailed his thumb down to touch the corner of her mouth. She parted her lips in silent invitation.
As though offering her the opportunity to change her mind and run, he moved slowly toward her, his eyes searching hers. She lifted her face to his.
Groaning deep within his throat, he closed his eyes and settled his mouth over hers.
The kiss was tentative, unsure, causing Meg to ache for all the stolen kisses he should have had in his life. He brushed his tongue over her lower lip. She placed her hand on the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his hair. Then she touched her tongue to his and drew him in.
