Lorraine Heath (8 page)

She was certain that pride had caused him to shake Clay’s hand that final morning. He had embraced Clay not to say good-bye to a friend, but to whisper farewell to a friendship.

A soft gentle scratching distracted her from thoughts of retribution. She imagined a small animal scurrying along the ground, foraging for food, stopping to sniff the air, then pouncing on a pecan or moving the dried leaves aside to search out a tasty morsel.

She eased up to her elbows. She could hear the rasping more clearly. Quietly, she sat up and peered over the side of the wagon. She couldn’t see any creature, but the scratching grew louder. She looked toward the fire.

Sitting with his back against the tree, one knee raised, one leg stretched out before him, Clay scraped a piece of wood with a small knife. The wind toyed gently with the brown locks covering his bowed head. The rifle rested by his side.

“What are you making?” she asked.

“Damn!” Poking his finger between his lips, Clay glared at her. He removed his finger from his mouth and pressed it against his thigh. “Don’t ever do that when I’ve got tools in my hands.”

“Don’t ever do what?” she asked innocently. “Scare me like that.”

“I’m sorry. I’d forgotten you scare easily.”

“And I’d forgotten you have such a sharp tongue.” He plowed his other hand through his hair. “I don’t know why the hell I agreed to this.”

“I didn’t give you a choice.”

“A man always has a choice, Mrs. Warner.”

“And you chose to be a coward.”

“I chose to follow my conscience.”

“Same difference.”

“I don’t think so. Neither did your husband.”

“It’s not fair to besmirch his character when he’s not here to defend himself. Don’t you think he would have told me if he didn’t think you were a coward?”

“The way the winds of war whipped through Texas, I don’t imagine he spent what little time he had left with you talking.”

She knew her face flamed red with embarrassment as images from the past rose into her mind. “How we spent our final moments together is no concern of yours, but I’ll tell you this. You are goddamned right! We didn’t spend a single breath talking about you. We both knew he might not come back, and we crammed a lifetime into what little time we had left. He sacrificed everything for the Confederacy, while you, his friend, sacrificed nothing. Don’t you dare speak to me about him again. You lost that right when you watched him ride away.”

She dropped onto the wagon bed and curled into a tight ball, fighting back the tears that were suddenly stinging her eyes. Surely, Kirk would have told her if he thought Clay wasn’t a coward.

Then again, he had avoided discussing the war or his enlistment because he knew it worried her to think of his leaving.

She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the tears trail down her cheeks. Even in his letters, he had never written about the war. He had described the scenery, or the weather, or the food. He had told her how much he loved her and how much he missed her.

But he had never shared with her his thoughts as a soldier.

Reaching into the waistband of her trousers, she pulled out Kirk’s crumpled letter. She had yet to read it. She knew his final farewell resided in the letter. Until she read it, her own final farewell remained in her heart.

Clutching the letter, she pressed it against her breast, trying to hold onto a love that was drifting away into a mist of memories.

T
HE LATE AFTERNOON SUN REFLECTED OFF THE PINK GRANITE
mound as it stood with majestic pride against the blue Texas sky. As though they were slumbering giants, huge rocks lay haphazardly along the path of stone leading to the hill. Carefully Meg guided her mare around the rocky rubble as Clay rumbled along in the wagon.

He halted the wagon near a stone house. Someone had chopped down the solitary tree that might have provided shade. As though they were desperate fingers, the bare dead branches of the felled tree strained eerily toward the sun. No one worked; nothing created a sound. Even the wind had ceased its whispering.

Clay climbed down from the wagon. The brim of his hat shadowed his face, revealing none of his thoughts, but then he hadn’t shared any thoughts with her since dawn. She’d awakened to find the promised meal waiting for her. Silence as heavy as that surrounding them now had permeated the air as they traveled. Much to her dismay, she discovered she missed his teasing banter.

As Meg dismounted, a rock turned beneath her foot. She stumbled before catching her balance. With his hand outstretched, Clay took a quick step toward her.

Their eyes met.

He shoved his hand into his pocket. “You need to be careful.”

“I figured that out.” She glanced around the area. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”

He removed his hat and wiped his brow. “I didn’t know what we’d find. Mostly Mr. Schultz sells stone to the Germans who settle in the area. They like to build stone houses.”

“But you’re not building a house.”

“No, but the granite is good quality. I was hoping I could find a hunk of rock that Mr. Schultz hadn’t started cutting into smaller chunks.”

The door to the house opened. A man who looked as though he had been carved from the very land surrounding him stepped into the sunlight. He squinted, then quickly came to greet them. “Young Holland.” He took Clay’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Your papa tell me. I’m glad you are safe. My boy, my Franz. Dey kill him.”

A lone teardrop, out of place among his craggy features, trailed down his cheek. Meg felt an immediate kinship with the man, understood the devastation of his loss. In a gesture of comfort, she placed her hand on his massive shoulder. A painful ache centered in her chest as she felt his trembling. “My heart goes out to you. The Yankees killed so many.”

He stared at her, his eyes hardening. “I not talk about de Yankees. I talk about de Texans. Dey come for him in de middle of de night, people we think are friends. Dey drag him from bed and hang him. Break his mama’s heart to see our good boy die like dat. We come from Germany to find peace. Is not our war. I tell him, ‘Go to Mexico. Come home when dis war is over.'” He shook his head and wiped his eyes. “But he not listen. Den dey come and hang him.”

“Mr. Schultz, I’m so sorry,” Clay said raggedly.

The old man patted his shoulder. “Not your doing. I know dat, and you not here to hear my sorrows. You here to get rock.” He waved his hand in a circle. “Der is not much here. I have no heart for working the quarry. If you no find what you need, I tell you where other quarry is.” He walked away, bent as though he were carrying one of his boulders upon his shoulders.

Clay yanked his hat from his head and plowed his fingers through his hair. “Damn! His son was only a little older than me.” He glared at Meg. “I guess you think it was a just hanging.”

“Every story has more than one side to it.”

“Too bad we can’t have Franz tell us his side.”

“Don’t use that tone with me. I’m not the one who hanged him.”

“No, but you would have. After all, he didn’t stand by your precious Confederacy.”

She paled at his words. “I was never in favor of lynching. I’d heard stories … they sicken me as much as I’m certain they sicken you.” She pressed her fist above her heart. “But I do know if you live in this state and reap its rewards, you answer when it calls.”

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Warner, for many of us, the answer wasn’t quite so simple or easy to give.” Settling his hat on his head, he released a long sigh. “We got here later than I thought we would. Let’s just look around and see if we can find what we want. Then we’ll go into Austin for the night and come back in the morning to pick up the stone.”

Before Meg could reply, he started walking with long, even strides. She followed, carefully picking her way through the scattered rocks that littered the ground. “I suppose you need a large piece,” she called.

“Yes, ma’am. I’d like to make the statue life-size.”

He stopped walking and removed his hat as though he’d suddenly stepped into a place of reverence. Meg quickened her pace, stopping when she reached his side.

Slowly, almost lovingly, he skimmed splayed fingers over a hunk of stone. She tried to imagine it carved into a horse, rider, and woman. She could see nothing beyond what it was: a rock, pure and simple. Huge. Immense. Pink with tiny black specks embedded thrughout.

To her it looked just like all the other rocks that stood there as silent sentinels. Rough and hard, it wasn’t at all what she had in mind when she thought about the monument.

She glanced around the rocky terrain, and a flash of white caught her eye. Cautiously, she walked to the outskirts of the quarry and placed her hand on the stone that sparkled in the sun.

Smiling, she walked back to where Clay was kneeling, looking at the top of the granite from a different angle. “I found the piece you can use,” she said.

Furrowing his brow, he turned his attention to her. “What?”

She pointed to the white rock. “I found a beautiful piece over there.”

He unfolded his lanky body and followed her.

“It’s marble,” he said as they neared her find. “It shouldn’t be here. This is a granite quarry.”

“Well, then, that settles it. Fate must have brought it here. I think the statue would look lovely carved out of this.”

His face troubled, he ran his hand over the rough surface. “I’ve never cut into marble before. I don’t know how it would respond to my touch.”

Meg lowered her gaze to his hands. Long days in the sun had turned them a rich brown. Tiny, thin scars marred his long fingers. He shoved his hands into his pockets. She lifted her eyes to his. “I want the marble.”

Removing his hand from his pocket, he wrapped it around the head of a hammer that was barely visible above the waistband of his trousers. He tugged the hammer free and tightened his grip around the handle.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He removed his hat. “I need to know if there are any cracks inside the rock.”

“How can you tell?”

“Put your ear against the marble.”

She laid her ear against the marble. Pressing his ear to the stone, he gently tapped the hammer against the hard surface. She heard a soft ringing. “It sounds like a bell.”

He nodded. “That means it’s sound. It doesn’t have any cracks inside.”

“Did you test the granite?”

“Yes, ma’am. I heard a nice little chime.” He stepped back and walked around the marble, touching it, studying it as he had the granite, but his face showed no excitement, no reverence. “I think the granite would serve us better.”

“I don’t like the granite. It’s almost pink—”

“Closer to red when the sun hits it just right.”

“So it won’t do at all. The marble is perfect. It’s pure and white like the glorious Cause.”

“You can’t always tell what’s inside a rock by looking at the outside.”

“Then they’re very much like people, aren’t they?” she asked.

His jaw tightened, and he knocked on the rock. “They can be as hardheaded.”

“It’s my money. I’m purchasing this piece.”

“It might not even be for sale. Like I said—”

“Mr. Schultz!” Meg waved her hand in the air, catching the man’s attention. “Mr. Schultz, is this piece for sale?”

He ambled over. “You want it, you have it. My brother bring it from Marble Falls. He think man here want it, but man say no.”

“We do want it,” Meg said, surprised by the excitement building within her. “We’ll come back in the morning to pick it up.”

“I have some men here den to load it on your wagon.”

“You see,” Meg said triumphantly as Schultz walked away, “it was destiny that brought the marble here.”

Shaking his head, Clay looked across the way to the granite. “I can’t explain it, but I know I can cut the granite into what I sketched out for you. This—” He touched the marble. “It wasn’t meant to be a statue. It’d do fine as part of a building, but I think you’ll be disappointed if you ask me to carve it into something it was never meant to be.”

“Then you’ll just have to work doubly hard to make certain I’m not disappointed.” She began to walk away, stumbled, and cursed under her breath.

“You don’t give a damn about the statue, do you?”

Abruptly, she spun around. “Of course I do.”

“If you did, you’d let me pick out the best piece.”

“I’ve explained why I want the marble.”

He stalked over until they stood toe to toe, and she was forced to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

“You want this little project to be as hard on me as you can make it. Fine. Get the marble. I’ll cut it, but if you’re thinking to torture me with your obstinacy and your pert little nose in the air and your ‘we’ll do it my way’ attitude, think again. I can hold my own against any torture that’s handed out.”

Torture.

Lying in the soft bed, Meg wondered why Clay had chosen that word. She wanted to punish him, but torture sounded much harsher than what she’d intended.

They’d arrived at Austin near dusk. Clay had secured a hotel room for her, then curtly told her to sleep on her decision, and he’d see her in the morning.

His abrupt departure suited her just fine. She didn’t care where he was or where he slept. For all she cared, he could sleep on that hunk of granite to which he was so partial.

Pounding her fist into the pillow, she refused to follow his order and rethink her decision. Since she had commissioned him to make the monument, he should make it to please her, not himself. The marble was the best choice. If he didn’t understand that by the light of a new day, he would when he completed the statue.

When he finished cutting it.

When it responded to his touch.

Squeezing her eyes shut did not take away the haunting reminder of Clay’s hands caressing the granite. Her mind danced with her memory of the sketches, intertwining them with the granite until the lines disappeared, and she could no longer see the monument.

The monument was inside the rock, and she wanted desperately to see it. She imagined Clay cutting the stone away to reveal the monument. She saw him shape the woman, carving her face … carving her throat … her shoulders … her breasts …