"No, ma'am. We think he felt a sight worse. He moped around the bam all day. Then Clay asked him if he wanted to get away for a few days. Lucian jumped on that idea like a fly on a cow chip, and off he went with the oxen." He shrugged. "But we don't know if he's comin' back."

"I'm sure he'll come back," she said, trying to instill conviction in her words when she wasn't at all certain. Lucian's hatred of Clay rivaled her own.

"We surely do hope so 'cuz we're gonna need him come harvest time. We planted us a cash crop this year. Lucian only ever planted enough for us to eat 'cuz we didn't have no help with the fields. But Clay said if we all worked a little harder, we could have some extra to sell. So we planted some extra acres of com. When it comes up, we'll be pert' near rich, and we'll have biscuits every mornin'."

Meg glanced over the furrowed fields. The Holland acreage had always paled in comparison with everyone else's. Clay's father had more interest in stone than in soil.

The twin stopped walking and the entourage hailed. He tilted his face back so he could meet Meg's questioning gaze. "You ain't gonna tell Clay that I swore yesterday when I was talkin' about his biscuits, are you? He says we can't swear till we're sixteen. If we swear before (hen, he'll wash our mouths out with soap, and we ain't never supposed to swear in front of a lady. Yesterday, that 'damn' just soda slipped out of my mouth, and then I couldn't shove it back in."

"I don't imagine I'll be telling him about your swearing."

"Well, if you decide you gotta tell him, just remember that I'm Joe."

"You sure as heck ain't!" the other twin yelled, voicing his thoughts for the first time.

"I am, too. You can even count my freckles. You'll see that I got the most."

He stretched so he stood on the tips of his bare toes, and she could see his freckles more clearly. From the comer of her eye, she watched the other twin struggle with his dilemma: to prove he was Joe without confessing to having the most freckles.

"I'm not going to tell him," she said.

"Cross your heart?"

Meg drew a cross over her heart. "Cross my heart."

"See, Joe. I knew she wouldn't want your mouth to get washed out with soap."

"And what if you'd been wrong? You were the one that said 'damn,' not roe." the quieter twin stated.

"But I wasn't wrong. Come on, Miz Warner. Clay's in the shed wailin' on you. He's been there since dawn. Reckon he thought you'd be early again this mornin'."

She'd wanted to be here at dawn, but she'd waited until her father and brother had left for the fields. They seldom returned home before dusk so she wasn't concerned with their noticing her absence during the day. "Has he started carving on the stone yet?"

"No, ma'am, but I think he was sorely tempted to. He keeps pickin' up his tools, but then he just puts 'em back down."

They neared the shed, and the twins veered away from her. "Don't worry about your horse none," Josh said, smiling.

She watched the twins and horse disappear around the comer. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the shed.

Clay stood beside the low table. The wind ruffled his hair, dragging it across the collar of his worn flannel shirt. He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Morning."

Pursing her lips, holding her return greeting captive, she tilted her head slightly.

"Thought I'd start this morning," he said.

"That's why I'm here."

Nodding, he turned his attention to the table. He picked up a tool and set it down.

He gazed out the window.

He touched the tools.

He looked out the window again.

Meg wasn't familiar with the implements. Tools that plowed into stone were a little different from those that plowed into earth, but she did know that in order for Clay to use them effectively, he had to hold them longer than it took to sneeze.

She crossed her arms and shoved them beneath her breasts. The man must have taken lessons in moving

from his mule.

He walked slowly around the granite, studying it as though he'd only just seen it. He stopped and looked at her standing in the doorway. "I'll get you a chair."

With long strides, he quickly left the shed. Stupefied, Meg glanced around. She could have sat on the

empty stool nestled in the corner.

He returned moments later and set a hard-backed wooden chair beneath the threshold. Meg picked it up, carried it closer to the stone, and sat.

"It'd be best if you sat by the door," Clay said.

"Why?"

"Because when I start working, dust and stone are gonna fly everywhere."

"I'll take my chances."

"Fine."

He stomped out again, leaving Meg to stare at the door. She wiped her sweating palms along her skirt.

Clay walked in carrying a piece of red cloth. "This was my pa's. It's clean. You can tie it around your

face, cover you nose and mouth so you're not breathing in all the dust."

"Do you have one?"

Nodding, he pulled a similar cloth out of his pocket.

"Then I guess we're all set," she said.

"Yes, ma'am." He walked to the table and picked up an instrument with a blunt end.

"What's that?" Meg asked.

"A chisel." He held up a tool which looked similar to a large nail. "This is a point."

Meg cursed her curiosity, but couldn't resist it She rose from the chair and walked to the table. "Why do

you have them in different sizes?"

"I use the larger ones in the beginning when I'm chipping away the stone I don't need." He touched smaller tools that had finer points or smaller blunt ends. "I use these when I'm working on the details."

"You even have different hammers."

He held a hammer with pointed grooves in both ends. "I use this one to pound the granite into shape." He

set it down and waved his hand over the remaining hammers which had flat ends. "I use the heavier hammers at first, then I'll use the lighter hammers."

"How did you learn when to use each tool?"

"By making mistakes." He wiped his palms on his trousers. "Are you thirsty? I can draw you some water from the well."

She shook her head. "No, I'm just fine."

"Let me know if you want some water."

"I will."

He touch the largest chisel. "Think I'll have a drink of water before I get started."

Clay strode out of the shed and crossed the yard to the well. With rapid-fire motions that resembled

those of a Gatlin gun, he turned the crank and brought the bucket from the bottom of the well. He set it

on the stone ledge and dunked his head in the cool water.

All night, he'd planned the moment when he'd chip away his first bit of stone, and he certainly hadn't expected to be distracted by honeysuckle. The damned fragrance floated around Meg like a low cloud on a misty morning. He knew she hadn't worn the scent for him. She was just in the habit of bathing in it or throwing it on her body or whatever the hell she did to tease a man's nostrils.

He kept his head submerged until he thought his lungs would explode from lack of air. He jerked his head out, took a deep breath, and threw his head back, tunneling his fingers through his hair, careful to avoid the spot she'd stitched the day before. He nibbed his hands over his face, wondering how long it'd take his hair to dry so he didn't look like a drowned cat. He hadn't even considered that he'd have to explain -.

"Are you nervous?" she asked quietly behind him.

Clay nearly jumped over the well. He spun around.

She held up a finger to silence his protest. "You didn't have any tools in your hands."

With a rueful smile, he sighed and sat on the edge of the well. "I've never done anything this big before, or

something that was so important."

"I disagree. My mother's headstone was just as important."

"It was a little different and a lot smaller."

"But you're accustomed to carving granite. You know how the rock will respond to your touch."

She gazed at his hands, and he fought against shoving them into his pockets. He couldn't work with his

hands in his pockets, and he couldn't work wearing gloves. She'd spend a lot of time staring at his large ugly hands. The sooner he accepted that, the better.

She lifted her eyes to his. "How do you know where to begin?"

"You ever make a quilt?" he asked. "Of course. What woman hasn't?"

"Well, you know how you take all the little pieces and sew them together? It's like you're building something. I do the opposite. I take something that's finished-like the rock-and scrape away its covering to reveal what it is inside." He plowed his hands through his hair. "That doesn't make sense."