"I'll never be able to tell you apart."

"It's easy. Joe's got more freckles."

"I do not," Joe said as he climbed onto the table.

"What are you doing?" Clay asked.

"I ain't never seen nobody sew somebody up before."

"It's no different than sewing cloth so get outta here."

Josh scrambled onto the table. "Ah, Clay, let us have a look see."

"You might make Mrs. Warner nervous, and she'll end up sewing the tip of my ear to my head."

Laughing, the twins punched each other on the arm. Then they grew serious. "Will we make you nervous,

Miz Warner?" Joe asked.

She smiled. "No. Do you have any whiskey?"

"No, ma'am," Clay said.

Gingerly, Meg lifted the strands of his hair aside. "Well, the blood probably washed out the wound."

"Probably."

"This may hurt," she said quietly.

"That should make you happy," he said.

He was right. She could jab the needle a little deeper than necessary, pull it through slower than usual,

and prolong his misery. She look a deep breath to steady her fingers and poked the needle through his flesh.

He didn't flinch. If Meg hadn't known better, she'd think he'd turned into stone.

"Gawd Almighty! She stuck that needle right into your head Clay. Look, Joe, all that blood looks like a red river runnin' through a forest of hair. Ain't that somethin'?"

Joe dropped to his backside and let his legs dangle over the edge of the table. "I think I'm gonna puke."

"Do it outside," Clay ordered through clenched teeth.

So he hadn't turned to stone after all.

"Don't that hurt, Clay?" Josh asked. "I'd be a hollerin'-"

"Then I'll make sure I never lower the mantel over the hearth."

The boy smiled. "Miz Warner, you gonna eat breakfast with us? We're havin' biscuits again." His eyes

filled with delight at the prospect. "Reckon Clay'd fix you one."

"Or maybe I'll just swipe his," she said as her fingers nimbly worked to close the gash.

"He don't make him one."

"Why not?" Meg asked.

"He never eats much lessen he shoots a buck or somethin' big. Then he eats like he's got two bellies to

fill."

"Mrs. Warner isn't interested in my eating habits," Clay said sharply, but his tone didn't take the smile off Josh's face.

Meg had a feeling she knew why he ate heartily when the food was plentiful. The man probably didn't eat

at all when little graced their table. She had an irrational urge to bop him on the head.

"All done," she said as she snipped the thread.

"I appreciate it"

"I can't have you bleeding to death on me. Who'd make my monument?"

He peered up at her and grinned slightly. "Right"

"What's that gawd-awful smell?" Josh asked. "Did you puke, Joe?"

"Nah, I didn't puke. I swallowed it back down."

Clay bolted from the chair and rushed to the hearth. "Damn." Grabbing a heavy cloth, he pulled the pan

of biscuits off a shelf set in the wall of the hearth.

"They look worse than what we had yesterday," Josh said.

Clay thumped the blackened bread. "They are worse."

"I suppose it's my fault," Meg said.

"It's nobody's fault," Clay said. "It just happened."

"Still, I feel responsible. I'll make another batch."

"I'll bet she can make good biscuits, Clay. Will you let her?"

"I reckon." He set the pan on the table and headed for the door. "I've already eaten, so just fix something

for the twins."

"Where are you going?" Meg asked.

"I've got chores to finish up." He walked out of the house.

Meg smiled at the twins. "I'm not sure if I remember how to make just two biscuits."

Clay had never known torture could be so sweet

Meg's fingers brushing lightly across his scalp had sent warmth flowing through his body clear down to his boots.

He wished she'd taken her time instead of rushing through the job, but he knew she hadn't wanted to touch him any longer than necessary.

Part of him wished she'd never touched him at all.

A greater part of him wished she'd never stopped.

He laid his hand against the granite. He was accustomed to the feel of rough rock grating against his palms. He imagined every inch of Meg was unlike anything he'd ever touched. She was probably soft, smooth, and as warm as a Texas summer.

A couple of times while she was stitching him up, her breast had come close to grazing his cheek. He had held his breath, not certain what he'd do if she actually did brush against him. The moment never came, so he could only wonder what it might have felt like.

He hit the stone. He should have been paying attention to Josh, not Meg's curves. The boy had a tendency to run at the mouth, speaking his mind and everyone else's. As a result, he'd told Meg a lot more than Clay would have liked. How many biscuits he cooked was none of her damn business.

He walked around the stone, trailing his fingers over the gritty surface. Every morning he came to the shed and pulled open the windows to let in the first rays of sunlight Then he touched the granite, getting a feel for the rough texture beneath his roughened hands. He'd spent hours imagining where he would first place his chisel, how hard he would tap his hammer. He thought about the sound of that initial crack and how much to cut away before he actually began shaping the figures.

A dozen times he'd picked up his tools with steady hands. He touched the chisel So the rock, studying the angle, determining how the stone would react to the assault. He could see every movement in his head and had been tempted to begin chipping away the unwanted stone.

But he'd refrained because Meg wanted to watch.

And now his palms were sweating so badly he didn't think he'd be able to get a good grip on his tools.

He walked to a low table where he kept his tools laid out. He wrapped his hand around a chisel and felt it slide through his palm. He closed his eyes. He didn't want to disappoint her. He wanted this monument

to be all that she thought it could be... and more.

Opening his eyes, he stared across the fields. That she sat in judgment of him didn't bother him. That she might sit in judgment of his efforts within the shed did.

He lowered his gaze and watched as delicate fingers pushed a plate across the table. He slid his gaze