wants 'Here lies the sweetest bud of hope that ever to us was given.'" The young man's face reddened as he met Clay's gaze. "I don't know where Sally got that, but it's what she wants."

Clay nodded solemnly. "My pa carved some headstones before he died. I think there's one with those

words on it."

Disbelief washed over Tom's face. "He did?" Then another somber truth hit him. "But it won't have our little girl's name on it. Sally named her, wants her name on the marker."

"I can have Lucian carve the name and dates."

"Didn't know Lucian did any carving."

"He can carve lettering."

Tom rubbed his scraggly chin. "Sally's father couldn't object to that, could he?"

"I wouldn't think so," Clay said.

"How much would I owe you?"

"My pa didn't take money for headstones he made for children. We won't cither. When is she to be buried?"

"Tomorrow morning. In that little cemetery beside the church."

"I'll place the headstone on the church doorstep at dawn." Tom extended the crumpled paper toward

Clay. "Here's

all the information Lucian will need." Clay took the paper and turned to walk back into the shed. "I'm obliged to you," Tom said. "You didn't have to tell me about them headstones your pa made." Clay looked over his shoulder. "Wouldn't make me much of a neighbor if I hadn't, now would it?" Stepping into the

shed, he stuffed the paper into his pocket. "Your father made some headstones before he died?"

Meg asked. He gave her an unappreciative stare as she cowered behind the door. "What were you doing? Listening?" Meeting his gaze, she straightened her stance and

angled her chin defiantly. "Well, I had to make certain he wasn't going to come in here."

"I told you I'd see to it he didn't come in here."

"And you're a man of your word."

"I'd die before I went back on my word." Turning away from her, he walked to his table and fingered the smaller instruments. "I won't be working on the memorial anymore today so you can go on home."

"Where are the headstones? I don't recall seeing any."

"I've seen them and I'll find them," he said as he stared out the window. "Everything is such a mess in here. Do you want me to help you find them?"

He spun around. "I want you to go home."

She tilted her nose. "Maybe I don't want to go home."

"You've got no choice. Your condition was that you'd look over my shoulder while I worked on the memorial. Now, I'm not working on it, and I'm not inviting

you to stay."

"I didn't realize my company offended you." His eyes captured hers and shackled them to the truth. "I'm not the one who was afraid Tom might see me here." Her cheeks flamed red as she lowered her gaze.

"You have to understand that the hatred people feel toward you goes beyond your shadow to touch those around you."

"I do understand that-only too well, as a matter of fact."

"Then you can't blame me for not wanting to be seen in your company."

He turned his attention back to the fields beyond the window. "No, I don't blame you."

"Do you want me to let Lucian know you need him?"

"No, I'll take care of it"

"They'll need me to play the organ at the memorial service. You can work on the monument tomorrow

without me. I'll try to stop by in the evening to check on your progress."

"You do that, Mrs. Warner."

His father never took money for children's markers. Meg shook her head. Little wonder they still lived in a house made of rough hewn logs while other folks had bought lumber and rebuilt their homes once the sawmill had opened.

She stared past the wooden buffalo grass to the darkening sky. "A storm's rolling in," she said quietly.

"He said it always rains when someone dies. I never noticed. He notices everything."

"We really need to give Clayton a name," Mama Warner said as she rocked slowly in her chair. "It takes this old brain

of mine too dadgum long to figure out who you're talking about sometimes."

Sighing, Meg turned away from the window. "Sally Graham's baby died."

Mama Warner ceased her rocking. "A sad thing to lose a child. Lost four myself. You'd think it wouldn't

hurt losing a little one but the pain is as great as if they'd been with you all your life. You can't remember

what it was like before they touched your heart, and you can never forget them."

Meg walked across the room, knelt, and took the aged hands into her own. "Do you want to hear something amazingly wonderful?" She smiled. "Before he died, his father carved a headstone for a child and inscribed the exact words on it that Sally wanted for her daughter. Can you believe that?"

Mama Warner worked her hand free of Meg's grasp and cradled Meg's chin within her palm. "Do you believe it, child?"

"Of course."

The older woman smiled. "Then that's all that matters."

The knowledge reflected in Mama Warner's eyes drove Meg to ride through the moonless night with the rain pelting her back. She drew her mare to a halt near the Holland homestead.

Darkness encased the house. She'd expected it to look that way, as though everyone inside were sleeping.

Markers weren't made in the house.

She guided her mare toward the shed. Someone had lowered the shutters against the force of the wind and rain. The door was partially open, spilling pale light into the night.

Meg dismounted beneath a tree to give her horse some protection from the rain. She sloshed through the

growing puddles until she reached the shed. Standing in the doorway with the rain dripping off the brim of Kirk's hat, she learned what Mama Warner had already surmised.

Clay's father hadn't made any headstones before he died.

Hunched over so he was almost parallel with the tablet of stone, Clay sat on a stool at his low worktable.

As though she were a wraith, Meg moved silently toward him. The thunder rumbled. Clay stilled

momentarily, then continued with his task.

With the windows closed, the room was Stirling hot. No breeze blew through to cool him. The sweat drenched the back of his shirt, and he wiped his brow. He worked by the flame of a solitary lantern. Halting at the edge of the shadows, Meg watched as he used the small chisel and hammer to create an abundance of delicate detailing on the tiny headstone. With a gentle breath, he blew the dust of his labors away from each letter and design as he completed it An eternity seemed to pass before he set his tools aside, rolled his shoulders, and bowed his head.

"It's beautiful," Meg said quietly.

"Christ!" He leapt off the stool and stared at her. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to know Lucian doesn't do lettering." She trailed her trembling fingers over the perfectly

carved script "You created a beautiful headstone for a child, and you're giving the credit to your father

and brother."

"Then why don't you tell everyone tomorrow so they can crush it into dust, and Tom's wife can have something else to grieve over?"

He stepped away from her. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm. He slopped, but didn't look at her. "Do you truly believe they'd destroy a child's headstone if they knew you made it?"

"Yes, ma'am." The uncompromising briskness in his voice caused her to release her hold on him. He walked across the room to a comer where he kept an assortment of odds and ends. He picked up a blanket and ripped it in two. He brought one piece back to the table and wrapped it around the headstone with the same gentleness that a person may have used to wrap a blanket around an infant.

Meg walked to the hunk of granite and placed her hand on the rough stone. She could almost see Kirk in the shadows, could hear the neigh of his horse, his promises, and his courageous yell. "Do you think they'll destroy this monument?" she asked.

"No, ma'am."

Over her shoulder, she watched him smooth out the wrinkles in the blanket as though it mattered how he delivered the marker to the church. "Why don't you think they'll destroy this monument?"

"Because we're not going to tell them I made it."

She stepped away from the granite. "What?"