Lorraine Heath (14 page)

“Yes, it does. You’re trying to get to the batting.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I reckon so, although that doesn’t make it sound very exciting.”

“Which figure will you work on first?”

“In the beginning, I’ll work on the whole monument.”

“I don’t understand how you can work on the whole thing when it’s so big. I thought you’d work on it in sections.”

“I work on it in layers. See your shadow?”

She glanced at the silhouette stretching out behind her.

“It’s not your true shape, but it’s close enough that a person could tell from looking at your shadow that you were a woman. I try and imagine what the monument’s shadow will look like from every side, and I concentrate on those images. Then I’ll use the larger chisels and points to create the monument’s shadow in stone. When I have everything shaped so it resembles a shadow, I’ll switch to the smaller tools and work on the details.”

“How do you know if you’re doing it right?”

He dropped his gaze to the ground. He didn’t know; he wouldn’t know until the monument was finished. “I’ve had a lot of failures.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “Do you want to see them?”

Her eyes widened in wonder. “Your failures?”

He nodded.

“You kept them?”

“Most of them, so I could figure out what I did wrong.”

“Where are they?”

He smiled. “In the graveyard.”

“It’s not your typical graveyard,” he said as they walked past the house to an area where pecan trees provided a cool morning shade. “It’s just a place where my ideas died.”

Meg stepped carefully around odd shapes of stone that peered through the wildflowers.

“Pa used to bring the stone out here when he was finished with it so what I started with wasn’t the best quality anyway.” He knelt in the tall grass and moved the weeds aside. “This was the first thing I ever tried to carve. Reckon I was about eight.” He peered at her. “What do you think it is?”

She hoped an eight-year-old boy wasn’t buried deep inside him expecting her to guess what he’d created. She didn’t care if she hurt the man, but she didn’t want to hurt the child. She grimaced. “A cloud?”

He smiled broadly. “A turtle. It was a good thing to start with because it’s flat and close to the ground so I didn’t have to worry about it supporting any weight.”

“What did you learn from your turtle?”

He trailed his finger along a fissure in the rock. “When I started carving the lines on his shell, I set a narrow point so it went straight up and down and its tip touched the rock. When I hit the flat end of the point with the hammer, the metal cracked the turtle’s back. I learned to always work at an angle so I don’t crack the stone.” Leaning over, he pulled another rock into a standing position. “This—”

“A rabbit!” Meg smiled triumphantly as she knelt beside him.

He released his hold on the rabbit, and it fell, buried again within the tall grass. “The rabbit won’t sit up because his weight’s not distributed evenly.”

“It might have helped if you’d given him two ears.”

“I tried.” He reached into the grass and picked up a broken piece of stone. “I made the top of his ear pointed, and then I flared out so it would look like he was listening. Then I came back in, to where his ear would join his head.”

He outlined the ear with his fingers as he talked. Even when he didn’t have tools in his grasp, he carved the images with his hands. She could envision an alert rabbit sitting in the field listening for the sound of a predator.

He wrapped his thumb and forefinger in a circle around the base of the ear. “But I got carried away with the carving and made this part too narrow. It couldn’t support the weight of the ear above it. It’s a deafening sound when you hear the crack of rock, and you aren’t holding tools.”

“How are you going to keep that from happening with the monument?”

“I’m not going to give anyone ears.”

Meg didn’t know why she laughed. Perhaps it was the image of two people and a horse without ears, or perhaps it was the way Clay fought to appear serious. He grinned, and she shook her head. “I’m serious. It seems as though the monument could crumble very easily.”

“It could, but since your husband didn’t have big ears, I think we’ll be all right.”

“What’s going to stop the horse’s legs from snapping under his weight?”

A smile of appreciation lit his face, and Meg felt the pleasure flow through her.

“You’re right. The legs are the problem.” Using both hands, he touched the tips of his fingers together to form a steeple and spread his palms apart. “It won’t be apparent, but the monument will look like a pyramid from all sides. It’ll be narrow and more detailed at the top. As I near the base, I’ll leave more stone in place. I don’t plan to hollow out the area between the horse’s hind legs. I’ll keep the stone there so it can act as support for the weight above.”

“Won’t that look odd?”

“I don’t think so. Hopefully, the rider and the woman will capture everyone’s attention, and no one will care about the horse. I’ll carve the horse’s flank and the outside of his legs. I’ll carve the details in his tail, but it’ll serve as support, too. I’ll bring it up from the base so it’ll look as though the horse is rising out of the stone. I’ll do the same thing with the flag. Your arms will be raised, but the flag will drape down to the base, so you’re not actually holding the flag. The flag is supporting your raised arms.”

“Do you foresee any problems in carving me?”

“None at all since you don’t have big …"—his gaze flitted to her breasts just before he averted his eyes and turned scarlet—“ears.”

He picked up the rabbit’s ear and tossed it aside. It grated across the turtle.

Watching Clay’s cheeks turn crimson, Meg felt a wickedness grow inside her. “Is that why you’re using me in the monument? Because I have small … ears?”

She thought he was going to hop over some stones. He scrounged around until he located a small rock. He threw it toward the trees. “Your ears are perfect. Your form …”

She watched him struggle to speak without drawing images of her in the air with his hands.

“Is perfect. That’s why I’m using you as the model.”

“You don’t think my … ears are too small?”

His cheeks turned so red, Meg was surprised they didn’t ignite into flames.

“No, I don’t think they’re too small.”

“So you won’t have any trouble carving my … ears?”

“No, I won’t have any trouble carving your ears.”

“I wouldn’t want to end up here.”

He met her gaze. “I’ll do all in my power to see that you don’t.”

She studied the abundance of stone. Each piece was imperfect: a fallen angel without a nose, a dog without a tail. Yet, each stood in silent tribute to determination. Each had provided a lesson, so none were truly failures.

“It seems as though it would have been less work to go to school and learn to be a sculptor,” she said.

“No schools in the area.”

“Kirk told me that you wanted to go to Europe.”

He studied his hands. “That was a boy’s dream.”

“Didn’t the man have the same dream? Why didn’t you go?”

“The timing wasn’t right. War was in the air.” He shrugged. “I had this stupid notion that if I left, people would think I’d gone to avoid the war. Thought they wouldn’t welcome me back when I was ready to return. Thought if I stayed, they’d at least respect the stand I took.” He released a mirthless laugh. “Guess the past few years didn’t turn out the way any of us thought they would.” He stood. “Let’s see if I can at least do justice to this monument you want.”

As she rose and followed him away from the field, Meg realized he’d shown her more than a graveyard of broken stones and a place where his ideas had died. He’d shown her a place of broken dreams.

She watched as Clay walked with more confidence to the shed. His graveyard of stone wasn’t that much different from other graveyards. She always drew strength from her visits to her mother’s resting place. Perhaps he drew strength from his past carvings.

He tied the bandanna over his nose and mouth, walked to the table, wrapped his fingers around a large chisel, and hefted a hammer. “Reckon I’ll get started. You’ll want to cover your nose and mouth.”

Sitting in the chair, Meg brought the bandanna around her face and knotted it behind her head. She felt the excitement mount until it was almost a physical presence. He shoved the stool she’d tripped over the day before to one side of the granite and climbed onto it so his eyes were level with the top of the rock.

He ran his hand over the corner. Then he leveled his gaze on her. “This is when you have to be quiet.”

Nodding in understanding, Meg shifted her backside in the chair. She wanted to stand on that stool with him so she could watch the stone from his perspective. Unfortunately, she didn’t think the stool was wide enough for both of them. She would have had to wrap her arms around him for support.

Reluctantly, she admitted she’d have to be content with her present vantage point.

He set the chisel so it touched the stone at an angle. Then he swung the hammer so it slammed against the flat end of the chisel. A clang and a crack resounded around her. He shifted the chisel slightly and swung again. Meg heard another ring and a crack. She held her breath. He swung the hammer with another fluid movement, and the sound of cracking granite drowned out the metal ping. She watched the corner of chipped stone sail through the air and land near her feet.

Clay jerked his bandanna down, hopped off the stool, bent, and retrieved the fallen stone. He held it toward her. “You can keep the first chunk as a memento.”

Meg lowered her scarf and studied the rock that barely covered her palm. “It’s so small. I expected you to knock it off in huge chunks.”

“Once I take it off, I can’t put it back on, so I only take off a little bit at a time.”

She stared at the huge hunk of granite sitting in the middle of the shed. Then she stared at the small piece of stone resting in her palm. “It’ll take you forever to finish the monument.”

“Not forever. I figure a couple of years.”

“Years!”

He furrowed his brow. “How long did you think it would take?”

“Two or three months.”

Leaning against the rock, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Why should the amount of time make a difference to you?”

Meg stood and began pacing between her chair and the door. “I just hadn’t expected it to take so long. I’m anxious for people to see the monument.”

“You could tell them about it.”

“No!” She came to an abrupt halt. “People wouldn’t understand.”

“They wouldn’t understand you wanting a monument to honor their fallen sons?”

“They wouldn’t understand my talking to you, my presence in this shed, my putting foot on your land. They’d think I’d forgiven you for your cowardice, and I certainly haven’t done that.” She tramped over to the chair and sat. “Just get back to work.”

“You want to tell me the real reason you asked me to make this monument?”

Clutching the granite, Meg felt it dig into her palm. “Please, just go back to work.”

He set his tools on the stool, walked to the chair, and knelt before her. “Just tell me what it is you want, Meg, and I’ll give it to you. I’ll work until my hands bleed. I’ll work until my soul bleeds, but it won’t bring him back. It won’t give you the life you had before the war.”

Meg squeezed her eyes to shut out his intense gaze. She didn’t want to look into brown eyes that said he’d already suffered. She didn’t want to know about his dreams, or his failures, or rabbits with only one ear.

“The war weakened the South,” he said quietly. “Don’t let it weaken you.”

Opening her eyes, she tilted her chin. “I’m hardly weak. I just hadn’t expected to spend the next two years of my life in your company, but if that’s the price I have to pay in order to have the monument, I’ll pay it.”

A corner of his mouth tilted up, and she thought she’d probably hit him if he smiled again.

“Ah, so it’s being in my company for such a long time that’s bothering you.” He unfolded his body and walked to the stone. “It’s an awfully big piece of stone. I hope I can do it in two years.” He peered at her. “Might take three.” He picked up his tools. “Maybe four.”

“If you say five—”

The teasing glint left his eyes. The half smile withered away.

“For you, Mrs. Warner, I’ll finish it in a year.”

Clay sank into the hot water. The steam rose and misted his face.

He was a damned fool.

The stiffness was already settling into his neck and shoulders, and he dreaded waking in the morning. He’d pushed himself harder than he’d intended, certainly harder than he was accustomed to. He hadn’t swung a hammer with such a steady rhythm in a long time, and tomorrow he’d pay for it. He hadn’t worked faster, but he’d worked longer.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the fire crackle in the hearth. A bath before a blazing fire was a luxury he hadn’t indulged in since his return home. When he bathed, he did it in his room behind a locked door because too many people lived in this house.

Tonight was an exception. Taking care of Meg’s horse had worn the twins out, and they’d fallen asleep early. Lucian hadn’t returned from Austin.

Clay had decided to pamper himself.

Besides, he needed to celebrate.

Meg Warner had teased him.

Lord, he’d been so embarrassed by what he’d almost said that he nearly missed the fact that she was teasing him. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to look at her ears or her perfectly shaped curves again without turning red.

He supposed since she’d been married, she knew how a man’s mind worked. He supposed since she’d been married to Kirk, she was comfortable with the way a man’s mind worked.

He wished he understood how a woman’s mind worked.

One minute she was teasing him, and the next she was worried because she was going to spend time with him.

Lifting his foot from the water, he scratched the memento from the leg irons he’d worn as a prisoner. He kept his scars to himself, especially those that weren’t visible even when he stripped down.

Slipping his foot back into the water, he rested his head against the wooden tub and watched the firelight play against the wall.