"Why did you and the others need to keep this place a secret?" she asked.

He leaned against the boulder. "We wanted a place where we could discuss things in private."

"What sort of things?"

"Men things."

She parted her hair down the middle and peered through the silken crevice at him. "Men things? Like war?"

He rubbed his chest. "Not exactly."

She gave him an impish smile. "Women?"

He had a feeling she knew exactly what they'd discussed. Hell, Kirk had probably told her every

conversation word for word. "We discussed things that concerned us."

She laughed. "Women!" She patted the ground. "Why don't you sit down?"

She went back to brushing her hair, and Clay slowly eased to the ground. He wondered if he could find a

way to touch her hair without her noticing.

She flung her head back and her hair cascaded around her. She wasn't gentle enough when she brushed

her hair. He wanted to show her how she ought to brush it. She pulled her hair over one shoulder and began to attack the ends.

"Who was the first girl you ever kissed?" she asked.

Clay stared at her. She stopped brushing her hair and looked at him. "Did you promise her you wouldn't

tell?"

He dropped his gaze and started picking at the worn sole of his boot.

"Stick was the first boy I ever kissed."

Clay jerked his head up. "Stick? Did he take you to the sawmill?"

"What do you know about the sawmill?"

"He told us he'd take girls on a tour of the sawmill after everyone left for the day. He had three kinds of

tours: the kissing tour, the touching tour, and the-" He cleared his throat.

"The lots-of-touching tour?" she asked.

"Is that the one you went on?"

She shook her head. "The first time, he kissed me behind the schoolhouse, barely touching my lips. A

couple of years later, he took me to the sawmill and surprised me by sticking his tongue in my mouthwhen he kissed me.""He stuck his tongue in your mouth?"She nodded. "I was about thirteen. I wasn't expecting it. I bit him."Clay laughed. "I remember when he couldn't talk for a week. He wouldn't tell us what happened.""So who was the first girl you kissed?"His laughter abruptly died. He rubbed his hands on his thighs. "You," he whispered."I don't remember kissing you. Was it during one of thehay rides we had at harvest time? I kissed a few boys then, but I don't remember-""No." He studied the small patch of ground between her knees and his. Damn honesty. 'Today.""You never kissed a girl before today? Don't you kiss women when you make love-""I need to go." He started to get up and froze when she grabbed his ankle.

"Please stay. It's none of my business."

Reluctantly, he dropped back to the ground. Before the war, he'd had no one special in his life, and a bought woman hadn't appealed to him. Now, he didn't have the money for the only women who would suffer through his touch.

"What's your favorite kind of cake?" she asked as she parted her hair into thirds and began braiding it.

"I like pies."

"What kind?"

"Pecan."

"I hate shelling pecans."

He shrugged. "I don't mind shelling them."

She tossed the thick braid over her shoulder. "Shell me a bowl of pecans sometime, and I'll make you a

pie."

"You don't have to do that."

"Shell me two bowls of pecans so I can keep one pie. That'll make it fair."

The quiet cased around them like a comforting blanket. Clay glanced around a place he'd once enjoyed.

"God, I miss them," he said in a ragged voice. "Kirk, Stick, all my friends. It hurts to think about them sometimes."

"But you wouldn't stand by their sides."

"The war wasn't about us standing together. It made each of us lake a stand for what we believed. Kirk didn't believe in slavery, but he believed a state should have the right to secede."

"And you didn't believe we should have seceded."

"No, ma'am, I did not. Neither did Governor Sam Houston, but no one hung him by his thumbs when he

opposed secession."

"Did someone hang you up by your thumbs?"

"No, I was spared that indignity, but I know plenty who weren't."

She picked up her shoe, and he figured she was going to throw it at him. She dropped it. "The morning

Kirk left... what did he say to you?"

"He asked me to ride with him."

She bowed her head and clenched her fists. "I knew it. I knew he wanted you by his side. Damn you.

Damn you, for betraying his friendship."

Clay chuckled.

She snapped her head up, anger blazing in her eyes. "What's so damn funny?"

"It's just odd that the thing I admire most about you is the very thing that makes you hate me so much."

"What's that?"

"Your loyalty. To Kirk. To the men who fought with him. You never question their motives. Few of the

men who went with Kirk could have explained to you what he was fighting for. Some believed in slavery.

Most just wanted to partake in a good Tight But you stand behind them, you support them, you want a

memorial to honor them."

"And I think you should have ridden at his side."

"He only wanted me to ride as far as the border."

"What?"

"He'd heard that some of the older men planned to stretch my neck because I didn't enlist. He wanted to

give me an armed escort to Mexico, but I wasn't interested in leaving."

"What he'd say when you told him that?"

"Most of what he said I can't repeat to a lady. Basically, he called me a fool and said I'd end up dying for my beliefs. I asked him if he was willing to give less than

his life for what he believed."

"He wasn't," she whispered.

Within the shadows created by the moon, he held her gaze. "The only difference between us was that

your husband was willing to kill for what he believed in. I wasn't."

The flowers slept, their petals folded in slumber, yet their scent lingered on the air. Meg hadn't noticed it as she walked to the swimming hole, but she noticed it now as she walked home.

Over her shoulder, the full moon lent its light, creating soft shadows in the night Her shadow reached out and dared to touch what she would not: the man walking beside her. Their shadows joined until she could no longer tell where each began.

Just as she could no longer distinguish her feelings for Clay. In the beginning, they'd been as the rock he now carved-clearly defined, hard, unforgiving. Somehow, in the passing days he'd chipped away her hatred as easily as he seemed to chip away the granite. In rare moments, she felt as though he were shaping her into someone different. She wondered if anyone in Cedar Grove would look upon the monument Clayton Holland created... and remain the same.

When they reached the edge of her family's land, where the furrowed fields began, he stopped. Her house was visible in the distance, a lone lantern hung on the porch to guide weary travelers to a place of rest.

"I'll wait here till I see you open the door."