"I crawl in through the window."

"Ah," he said, taking a long slow nod. "Which window?"

As she pointed, he leaned to the side. "I'll be able to sec you going in." He smiled. "Should be interesting to see."

Studying him as he stood before her, bathed in moonlight, she remembered a time when he would have been welcome on their land, a time when he wouldn't have stopped at the furrowed fields but would have walked to her door. His hair had dried and the dark locks fell over his brow. She resisted the urge to brush them back.

"Are there..."-he rubbed his chest-"are there particular nights you go to the swimming hole? I mean if there are, I'll be sure and not go those nights."

"Actually, tonight's the first time I've gone since Kirk left. How about you? What nights do you go?"

"Tonight was the first time for me, too. Do you want to pick a couple of nights so I don't bother you there anymore?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "I'll take my chances."

He nodded. "Well, then, you'd best go on in. I'll just slay here to make sure you get there safe."

His eyes caught and held hers in the moonlight The last thing she wanted was to crawl into an empty bed alone. Like a moth drawn to a flame, she took a step closer. "I won't slap you if you kiss me again."

"What if I kissed you the way Stick did?"

"I won't bite your tongue."

Lifting his hand, he came within a whisper's breath of touching her cheek before dropping his hand to his side. Reaching out, Meg wrapped her Fingers around his rough hand and pressed it against her cheek. He drew small circles on her cheek with his thumb, then trailed his thumb down to touch the corner of her mouth. She parted her lips in silent invitation.

As though offering her the opportunity to change her mind and run, he moved slowly toward her, his eyes searching hers. She lifted her face to his.

Groaning deep within his throat, he closed his eyes and settled his mouth over hers.

The kiss was tentative, unsure, causing Meg to ache for all the stolen kisses he should have had in his life.

He brushed his tongue over her lower lip. She placed her hand on the back of his neck, threading her

fingers through his hair. Then she touched her tongue to his and drew him in.

Moaning, he clamped his free hand on her waist and drew her against his body while the hand holding her cheek continued to caress her. His tongue moved slowly through her mouth as though savoring the taste.

He explored her mouth as cautiously as he carved stone, bit by bit, touching each nook and cranny, leaving his mark before moving on. She couldn't remember a time when anyone had been so tender, so seemingly appreciative of what she had to offer. Even Kirk, for all his gentleness, had never been this tender.

Ending the kiss, he trailed his thumb over her lower lip. "Did I do it right?" he asked quietly.

Meg moved her hands away from his neck and glided them along his chest. "I have to go now," she said in a hoarse whisper.

She ran to the house, keeping the answer to his question locked inside her heart.

Chapter Fourteen.

Before dawn, Clay was standing in the doorway of the shed, waiting.

She didn't come.

Throughout the day, he chipped on the stone, hit his thumb more often than he hit the chisel, gazed out

the windows, walked to the door, stared in the direction of her farm, and released a sigh stronger than

the wind.

As twilight filtered through the windows, he sat in the chair, his hope that she'd come dwindling to an aching loneliness. Holding the bandanna she usually wore, he inhaled the scent of sweet honeysuckle and studied the granite.

The shadows looked as though they were rising from a sea of stone. If he were generous, he could have

said he'd cut away at least half the stone that he needed to.

What he was contemplating was wrong, and he knew it. He knew it would be a mistake to work on the details of Kirk's face before he completely carved out the silhouettes.

But he wanted Meg to come back to the shed and watch him work.

Kirk was the only one with the power to bring her back.

Sunday morning Clay awoke unable to remember a time in his life when he'd felt more alone. If he'd

known kissing

Meg would mean he'd never see her again except in church, he wasn't certain he would have kissed her.

Hell, he would have kissed her. He just would have kissed her longer and more tenderly until she made those little sounds Kirk had told him about.

He'd kissed her wrong. That's why she hadn't come back. Maybe he'd held her waist too tightly and hurt her. Maybe he'd scratched her face with his rough hand. He should have kept his fingers still instead of touching every inch of her face that his fingers could reach.

And he hadn't shaved before he went to the swimming hole. Maybe a day's growth of beard had chafed her delicate skin.

In retrospect, he could think of a hundred things he'd done wrong when he kissed her.

He couldn't think of a single thing he'd done right.

Sitting at the back of the church, he knew that the days since he'd seen Meg at the swimming hole had been equally long for her. She sat at the organ, staring at the keyboard, her eyes drifting closed from time to time, her shoulders slumped. She didn't even seem to come to life when she played.

Did she regret letting him touch her, letting him kiss her? Did her regrets keep her awake at night? Did his kiss give her nightmares?

He wanted to tell her he'd begun working on Kirk's features. He wanted to tell her he'd never kiss her again or touch her. He wouldn't even talk to her if she'd just come back and watch him work.

The reverend called for a prayer. Usually Clay bowed his head, but today he kept his eyes open and focused on Meg. If he was only going to see her one day a week, he needed to gather as much of her into his memory as he could.

When the prayer ended, Robert stood and addressed the congregation. "As you know. Mama Warner has taken ill. Our dear Meg has been at her side almost constantly. My uncle is with Mama Warner now, but as you go on with your lives, I hope you'll keep my grandmother in your prayers."

Clay bowed his head and prayed. He was the most selfish man he knew. All week he'd only thought about how much he wanted Meg. It had never occurred to him that perhaps someone else needed her more.

She began to play the organ, and he lifted his gaze. He wished she'd look at him, just once, but she didn't. He got up and walked out of the church.

"If you're gonna do it, you'd best get it done."

Clay glared at Lucian as the people wandered out of the church. "That's easy enough for you to say."

Lucian laughed. "Yeah, it is."

Clay turned his attention back to the churchyard. Holding onto Robert's arm, Meg walked toward the

wagon, with people swarming around them like bees to honey.

Clay took a deep breath. She was going to hate him all the more for what he was about to do, but his heart gave him no choice. He settled his gaze on her and started walking.

He ignored the gasps, curses, and stares that pummeled him as people moved aside. He didn't like the

way Robert shielded Meg as Clay neared the wagon, but then there wasn't much that he did like lately.

He swept his hat off his head, and his gaze caressed her face while she stared at a button on his shirt. She

looked so tired that all he wanted to do was carry her home and rock her in his arms until she fell asleep.

"I was sorry to hear Mama Warner has taken ill. I hope you'll tell her that she's in my prayers."

Meg nodded slightly, a tear glistening in her eye. "I will."

It wasn't much. It wasn't enough, but it was all he dared under the circumstances. He nodded toward Robert, returned his hat to his head, and walked away,

cursing himself for the coward he was.

Standing in the shed doorway, Meg couldn't take her eyes off the man who was carefully chipping away

small bits of stone. He looked as tired as she felt, and she wondered if he'd slept as little as she had this week.

She tended to Mama Warner's needs all day. In the evening, when Robert took her home, she was too

exhausted to do anything but fall into bed, but even then she seldom slept. Her body ached, and it felt as

heavy as stone.

In her dreams, Clay chipped the stone away and glided his hands over her body. While she dreamed, she longed for his touch. While she was awake, she longed for the safety of her dreams where she could have what she wanted without suffering through the scorn of her family or neighbors.

Robert had been unusually quiet on the ride back to Mama Warner's, and Meg wondered what her face had revealed when Clay had walked up to her. She'd tried to keep her expression impassive, but all she'd wanted was to fall into his arms.

Clay stopped carving and wiped his brow. Then his gaze fell on her, and he became as still as the stone.

Meg walked to the stool and looked up at him. "I didn't think you were going to work on the details until you'd cut away all the stone."

"I felt a need to carve Kirk's face. Do you want to touch it?"

She nodded, and Clay stepped off the stool. He transferred the chisel to the hand holding the hammer.