over to Meg. "I said I'd already eaten."

She shrugged innocently. "I'm used to cooking for three. Besides, judging by the weight of your biscuits, I'd say you used a lot more of your staples than I did. I wrote my recipe on a piece of paper and left it on the table in the house." She tapped the plate. "Kirk always liked biscuits with honey. So eat it. You can't afford to waste anything around here."

He leaned his hip against the table and picked up the plate. He bit into the warm honey-drenched biscuit and nearly groaned. "This is better than what you cooked on the way back from Austin."

"It helps to have soda and milk."

"Soda?"

She nodded quickly, and the corners of her mouth tipped up slightly.

He shoved the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. No telling what else he hadn't put in the batter that he was supposed to.

"I don't suppose you'd start working on the monument today?" she asked.

He set the plate aside. "I was thinking about it, since you're here." He scattered a stack of papers across

the table. "I've been studying the rock since we brought it home, trying to see it from all sides, from the corners, from the top, the bottom."

She picked up a piece of paper. "And you think this is what it looks like on the inside?"

"It's what I need to make it look like on the inside."

She lifted her eyes from the drawing, and Clay captured her gaze. "Do you understand?" he asked.

"You look at things so hard," she said in amazement. "Whenever you look at something, anything-the

rock, the twins, me-you look so intense, it's almost frightening."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know I did that."

"I know. Kirk told me you didn't look at the world like everyone else does. He said when he looked at

me, he saw a beautiful girl, but when you looked at me, you saw lines, curves, and angles that were beautiful. You look at things so hard because you try to figure out exactly what it is that makes them look the way they do."

He nodded in agreement. "I stare a lot"

"When we were growing up, I hated it when you stared at me."

He lowered his gaze to the ground. "I didn't mean to offend you... or anyone else for that matter."

"It no longer bothers me that you look at things so hard."

He dared to lift his gaze to hers. "It doesn't?"

She shook her head and picked up the first drawing he'd sketched for her. "You remember everything

because you study it. This is exactly what Kirk looked like the last time I saw him." She held his gaze.

"What did he look like the last time you saw him?"

Clay felt as though she had just slammed a chisel through his heart. He saw her chin quiver, and he

couldn't tell her the truth.

"Didn't you see him when he brought you the letters? What did he look like then?"

He combed his fingers through his hair, wincing when he hit the gash she'd mended. "Tired. He looked

tired."

"Was he thin?"

"Everyone was thin. They were having a hard time getting supplies through." She looked so damn fragile

trying to pretend she wasn't hurting. He'd never expected Meg to look fragile. "He'd grown a beard."

"A beard? I can't imagine Kirk with a beard."

He offered her a small grin. "Well, it wasn't much of a beard."

"Was it as blonde as his hair?"

"A little darker."

"Did it make him look older?"

"Considerably," he said, although he knew it was the war that had aged his friend.

Her hands tightened their grasp on the paper until her knuckles turned white. "Did he... did he still

believe in the Cause?"

Clay nodded. He didn't want to hurt Meg, but Kirk's words echoed through his mind. You were right.There's no glory to be found in war. I just want to go home, but the damn Yankees won't let us."Do you think he was afraid of dying? I mean, when death came, do you think he had regrets?""He believed in a state's right to secede, to govern itself. That's what he was fighting for. He felt his beliefs were worth dying for so I don't think he regretted giving his life as he did, but I imagine he regretted not

being able to hold you again."

Tears flooded her eyes, and Clay wondered how he could have said something so stupid. He'd wanted to reassure her, but he didn't know a damn thing about the kind of words women wanted to hear. The tears spilled over onto her cheeks, and he thought he'd drown in them. He took a step toward her, hesitated, then strode from the building.

In disbelief, Meg watched him leave. She walked to the small stool, sat, and buried her face in her hands.

She cried with a force that caused her chest and shoulders to ache. Kirk had grown a beard, and she'd never seen it.

She felt a light touch on each shoulder and lifted her tear-streaked face. The twins looked at her with concern reflected in their eyes.

"Clay said you was in need of comfort," one said. He squeezed her shoulder. "Said we was to give it to

you."

The other twin dug a soiled piece of cloth out of his pocket and extended it toward her. "Only blew my nose on it once, and it was a long time back. You're welcome to use it. I don't mind."

Meg took the offering and used the cleanest comer to

wipe the tears from her cheeks. She forced a tremulous smile as she handed the cloth back to him.

"Thank you."

Nodding, he stuffed it into his pocket "We ain't got much experience at givin' comfort, but when I'm

feelin' sad 'cuz I ain't got no ma, Clay makes me close my eyes and do some powerful thinkin' about her.

He says there's a touch of heaven in our hearts so our ma's always with us even though we can't see her."

"Your brother says some smart things, doesn't he?"

"Yes, ma'am, but he can't make biscuits worth a damn."

Sitting on an old tree stump beside the house, Clay fought the urge to return to the shed. He wanted to wrap his arms around Meg, lay her head against his chest, and comfort her. Instead, he sent the twins to her.

Perhaps he was a coward after all, for it was fear that made him leave, fear that if he touched her, she'dslap him again, and he'd crumble into a thousand pieces of nothing.

He stopped his wood carving.

He had the ugliest damn hands in the entire state. When he was a boy, they'd been too big for his skinny arms, and he'd always felt like a mongrel pup waiting to grow into its big paws. Whenever possible, he'd kept them shoved deeply into his pockets.

Now he was grown, but his hands still looked too large. His palms were rough from years of running them over abrasive rock. When he relaxed his hands, the veins and muscles continued to stick up like an unsightly mountain range.

But they were the ugliest when he carved. When he held tools and tightened his grip, everything in his

hands and forearms visibly strained with his effort.

He couldn't imagine that any woman would want hands as big or as rough as his to touch her. He knew his hands repulsed Meg, not only because of the way they looked, but because of what they hadn't done.

His hands had never killed a man.

He saw her small feet come into view and lifted his gaze to hers. "You all right?"

She nodded. "Thank you for sending the twins to me."

"They always seem to know the right thing to say."

"They knew exactly what to say."