His bare bronzed back glistening with the sweat of his labors, Lucian toiled in the field using a hoe to shift the soil over the seeds. Clay, with damp splotches circling the back and sleeves of his shirt, was guiding the plow through the field as the mule dragged it. Somehow she was not surprised that Clay wore a shirt while he worked. She'd not forgotten how quiet and soft-spoken he'd been in his youth.

As she prodded her horse through the furrowed field, Lucian spotted her. He straightened, propped his elbow on the hoe, and smiled. "Good day, Mrs. Warner!"

Irritated that Clay continued to plow the field as though company had not come to call, she drew her horse to a halt beside Lucian. "How are you, Mr. Holland?"

"Hot. And you?"

"A bit warm. I need to speak with your brother."

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You're here to see Clay?"

"I have some business to discuss with him."

"Business?" He chuckled. "The last person to discuss business with Clay did it with his fist. Is that what you're planning'!"

"No, it is not."

"Too bad." He gave her a sheepish grin. "Guess I'd best let him know you're here. He dreams while he plows the field." He turned on his heel. "Clay!" Lucian peered at her when his brother failed to respond. "See what I mean7 I'll get him for you."

He ran across the field, caught up with Clay, and spoke words Meg couldn't hear. Clay drew the mule to a halt and glanced over his shoulder. The brim of his hat shadowed his face so she had no idea what he was thinking. He ambled toward her while Lucian politely stayed with the mule.

As he neared, he removed his hat and squinted against the harshness of the sun. She hadn't seen Clay up close since his return. The abundant streaks of white feathering through the brown hair at his temples astonished her. He and Kirk had been of the same age, and yet he looked considerably older than she imagined Kirk would have looked at twenty-five.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

His solemnly spoken words caused her to realize she'd been staring at him for some time. Thrusting up her chin, she narrowed her eyes. "Are you indeed?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am. Your husband and brothers were fine men."

"They died with courage and honor."

"Yes, ma'am, they did. Kirk came-"

"How dare you!" she hissed, her fingers tightening on the reins. "How dare you speak his name!"

Despair flashed through his eyes. "I meant no disrespect."

"No disrespect! Your very presence here is a disrespect."

Slowly, he shook his head and slid his gaze past her. "Shall I gather up the stones?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Just say what you came to say and be done with it."

He met her gaze, and she wondered when his brown eyes had grown so aged.

"I didn't come here to fight." Preparing to dismount, she swung her leg over the saddle. He took a step

forward to help her. She stopped his movements with a cold look of disdain. Sighing, he stepped back.

She placed her feet on the ground, holding the reins loosely threaded through her fingers.

Yesterday morning during the church service while she watched Clay as he sat in the last pew, she'd planted the seeds for retribution in her mind. The idea had blossomed by the end of the day and kept her awake most of the night. When she had made the final decision in the hours before dawn to come here, she'd decided she would not address him. "Mr. Holland" showed a measure of respect for which she felt none, and "Clay" indicated an intimacy, a friendship that she would never share with this man.

Gently, she slapped the reins against her thigh. "Do you remember the small figurine your made for my husband?"

The memory of a happier time flitted across his face and lit his eyes. "The one wish the deer?"

"Yes. There have been times when I've wanted to smash it against the wall and watch it crumble into a thousand pieces because your hands touched it. I haven't because it was a gift from my husband. I tell you this because I don't want you to have any doubts as to what my feelings for you are. Do you understand?"

Her words effectively snuffed out the light in his eyes. "Perfectly."

Meg swallowed, wondering if she'd been too harsh. She'd meant to lash out at him, but now that she had, she felt little satisfaction. Deep creases lined his weathered face. At first, she thought they'd surfaced

because he was squinting at the sun, but even now, when his eyes had adjusted to the sunlight and he was no longer squinting, the grooves remained.

She heaved a frustrated sigh, needing his help but sickened at the thought of asking for it. She decided

her best approach was to ignore her abhorrence of this man and simply state her reason for being here. "I want a memorial built to honor the fine young men of Cedar Grove who gave their lives with courage

during the war, and you're the only person I know with the skills to make it."

"A memorial?"

"Yes, a statue of some kind that we could put in the center of town."

"And you want me to make it?"

"Yes. I realize-"

Presenting his lean back to her, he slowly raked his fingers through his hair. She thought he was going to

walk away, but he stood, gazing at something she couldn't see. He turned back around, worry and

concern etched across his features. "I haven't cut any stone in a long while."

"Are you as afraid of this task as you were of the war?"

Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized her. She tilted up her chin.

"What kind of material did you want to use?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"What did you have in mind for it to look like?"

"I'm not sure. The only thing I do know is that within the base, I want you to carve the name of every man who died."

"That would be twenty-two names."

Startled, she blinked, her fingers tightening on the reins. "You know how many men died?"

"I can recite their names for you if you like."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

"Oh... I see," she mumbled.

"You seem disappointed."

"No, I... I just didn't expect it, that's all."

"What did you expect?"

His knowledge had caught her off guard. She herself hadn't known the exact number of young men who

had perished. She'd mourned them as a whole, focusing her deepest grief on the loss of Kirk and her

brothers. Pulling back her shoulders, she regained her composure. "I didn't expect you to be quite so

willing to help. As to the fee-"

"I don't want payment."

Meg felt her shoulders slump. She'd wanted the satisfaction of telling him he'd do it because he owed them that much, that she wasn't going to pay him anything. He shifted his stance as though suddenly uncomfortable and studied the ground.

"There is the matter of the materials." He lifted his gaze to hers. "I haven't the means to purchase them."

Feeling (he control slip back into her hands, she tilted her chin. "I have."

He nodded and something akin to hope plunged into the dark depths of his eyes. "I could sketch out