Moaning softly, she pressed her head back against the quilt, arching her throat. Clay had learned that she liked it when he used his mouth to blaze a trail along the ivory column of her throat. Each night he learned more what she enjoyed because each night, she gave a little more of herself to him.
Gliding her hands along his shoulders, she kneaded his muscles. “You feel so tight, you must have worked extra hard today.”
“Worked extra long.” He lifted his face, his gaze holding hers. “I want you to come and see what I’ve done before you go home tonight.”
“I wish you could work at night.”
“Lanterns wouldn’t give me enough light. I need the sun.”
“You carved a headstone during a storm at night.”
“That was different. It’s smaller. I have to keep all the monument in sight. Shadows at night would distort the stone. No telling what I’d end up carving.”
She threaded her fingers through his hair and rubbed her thumbs in circles over his temples. “Have you made Mama Warner’s marker?”
“I made it the day after I saw her.”
“Is that what you want to show me?”
“No, making markers never brings me joy.”
“What you did today—”
“I think it’ll bring you joy.”
Walking through the moonless night, her hand wrapped firmly within his, Meg wanted to tell Clay that he brought her joy.
Watching Mama Warner grow weaker with each passing day, knowing she could do nothing but offer comfort and company, Meg went home exhausted each evening. Only the knowledge that she’d see Clay carried her through the long hours of the day.
She didn’t know why she’d denied herself the pleasure of his company that first week or why she thought she was too tired to crawl out the window and run to the darkened swimming hole.
She enjoyed listening to his voice as he talked about his day. Carving, she discovered, was very much like plowing a field, only the crops he hoped to harvest grew from seeds planted in dreams. Mesmerized, she’d watch his hands create shapes in the air as she was certain they’d created shapes in the stone. He talked low, his voice a caress in the night. She took the sound of his voice, the feel of his kiss into her dreams, drew strength from the small amount of time that they had together each night.
They neared the shed, and he gripped her hand harder as he slowed his steps. He opened the shed door.
“You oiled it,” she whispered.
“Yeah, sometimes I just come out here and sit, long before dawn. I prefer not to wake the twins when I do.”
They stepped into the shed, and he released his hold on her hand. She heard scratching, then a flame flared, and he lit a lantern. Lifting it over his shoulder, he walked toward the statue.
Meg eased around him and lifted her gaze. “Oh, my.”
He held out his hand. Slipping her hand into his, she stepped onto the stool. With trembling fingers, she touched the stone face.
“What do you think?” he asked quietly.
“It looks just like him,” she said in awe. She worked her other hand free of Clay’s grasp and touched both palms to Kirk’s cheeks. She ran her fingers over the stone brow, along the eyes, and down the nose. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s hardly perfect.”
“You captured so well the man he was before the war. Look at the pride reflected in his face. He has no doubts. He believes in what he’s doing.” She sighed wistfully. “I wish Mama Warner could see this.”
“Why can’t she?”
“She’s so weak, she can’t even get out of bed, and you certainly can’t drag the monument to her.”
“I could bring her here.”
