Then he held out his hand to her.

She slipped her hand into his and felt his strong fingers close around it as he helped her climb on the stool. When he started to release her hand, she stopped him, clinging to his fingers. Slowly, she trailed the fingers of her

other hand over the edge of a triangle that would one day be Kirk's nose.

"I still have a lot of work left to do," Clay said.

"I know. I didn't think I'd ever see him again."

"I'm hoping in another week or so I'll have his face as it should be."

Nodding, she squeezed his hand and stepped down from the stool. "Robert went to see his uncle. Mama

Warner would like to see you while he's gone."

"I'll go clean up."

Silently, Clay stood in Mama Warner's bedroom and studied the withering body. Mama Warner's request to see him had not come as a surprise. He had known that as death approached, she would want to discuss her marker with him. She wasn't one to let others handle her affairs.

Meg eased onto the bed and took Mama Warner's hand. "Mama Warner?" Gently, she shook the older

woman's shoulder. "Mama Warner? I brought him. Remember, you asked to see him?"

"Him. Him. Him." She opened her eyes. "Before I pass to the next world, I want you to say his name."

She waved her hand. "Let Clayton sit here."

Rising from the bed, Meg smiled uncertainly at Clay before moving into the shadows. Clay sat on the bed and took the frail hand within his larger coarser one. He wished he had worn gloves.

The aged woman smiled and patted his hand. "You didn't come to see me when you got home."

"I thought it best."

"You never was a smart one." She touched his hair. "You've grown older... older than you are. I remember

the last time I saw you. You were with the army. They'd stopped here for some water. Remember?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I asked that nice young lieutenant if you could come into my house and hang a picture over my

fireplace." She chuckled. "I didn't have a picture for you to hang. I brought you inside and took you to my kitchen door. You and Kirk used to play in the woods behind my house. No one would have been able to find you if you'd hidden in the woods, but you told me you wouldn't run. A coward would have run. Ever wish you'd run, Clayton?"

"No, ma'am."

"They treated you kindly, did they?"

He didn't want to talk about his past, especially with Meg standing in the room. She seemed on the verge

of forgetting the past. He didn't want the fires of hatred rekindled. "That's all in the past. Can't dwell on

it."

"You can't because you're young. I'm old. I've earned the right to dwell on whatever I want. My grandson, Robert, told me about Gettysburg. Told me the Union army dug a few big holes and dropped our boys into them."

Meg gasped from the shadows, and Clay wondered if the war would ever leave these people in peace.

"A mass grave for our men who fought with honor. Do you know if that's true?" Mama Warner whispered hoarsely, tears welling in her eyes.

Clay enfolded his hands around hers. "Mostly."

"There's no such thing as mostly. It's either true or it ain't."

He sighed heavily. "A mass grave was dug, but the men from Cedar Grove weren't buried there." He

closed his eyes against the memory. Meg's hatred would grow. The people in town would probably hang him at dawn, and this dear old woman would wish she'd never welcomed him into her

house. Opening his eyes, he cleared his throat. "Because I wouldn't fight, I spent some time as a prisoner at a fort. When they released me, I went to find Kirk, to see if he wanted me to bring any messages back. I got there too late. They'd fought the battle. Bodies littered the ground." He shook his head. "So many bodies."

"My grandson died there."

He squeezed her hands. "Yes, ma'am, but I found this little clearing away from the battlefield. It was so green. It looked as though it had never been touched by war, as though it never would be. I dug the

graves and made markers. I buried Kirk and the others beneath the shade of the trees." He didn't see any reason to mention that he was unable to locate everyone. He'd given them markers and a place anyway.

"So my grandson has a proper resting place?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She closed her eyes as though too weary to keep them open.

"I'm sorry," he croaked.

She opened her eyes. "Sorry?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry I didn't bring them home. I didn't have a wagon. I didn't have a horse. I didn't

know how I was gonna get myself home. I know I should have found a way to bring them home. I shouldn't have left Kirk there. He wouldn't have left me."

"Do you know that, Clayton? Do any of us know what we'll do when the time comes?"

"I should have brought them home."

"You dug them a grave. You made them a marker. Did you say a prayer for them?"

"Yes, ma'am. Twenty-two prayers."

"We all pay a price when war comes to call. You've paid more than your share. As have I. My dear husband died at

the Alamo so we would be free to join the Union. His grandson died so we could be separate from the Union. Which one died in vain?"

"Neither," he said without hesitation. "They both died fighting for what they believed in."

She gave him a warm knowing smile. "Maybe you're a smart one after all." She patted his cheek. "I have a favor to ask."

"I'd do anything for you."

"I know. Meg, bring me my Bible."

As Meg leaned over the bed, the flame from the lamp cast a yellow glow over her face, and Clay saw the

trail of her tears. Without looking at him, she gently placed the worn book in Mama Warner's hands.

"I want a marker made of stone," Mama Warner said. "I want the words cut deep so the rain and wind can't take them away any time soon." She folded back the cover on the Bible, and a small piece of paper slipped onto the quilt. "Those are the words I want."

Clay picked up the paper and read the words inscribed in unsteady script. "I lived a life filled with Texas tears and sunshine and never regretted a moment of either."

"Will you do it for me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She placed her hand over his, and Clay thought she meant to squeeze it, but her touch felt more like a shadow passing in the night. "You make my son pay you for it."

Clay felt the tears sting his eyes and burn down his throat. "No, ma'am. You always treated me like one of your own. I consider it an honor..." He squeezed his eyes shut to stay the tears. "I won't do it for money."

Her fingers slipped from his hand. "I'm tired now. Meg, give this boy some pie before he goes."

"Yes, ma'am."

Clay picked the Bible off the bed and set it on the table beside her bed. He stood, leaned over, and

placed a kiss on the wrinkled brow. "I love you. Mama Warner."

"Love you, too, Clayton," she whispered without opening her eyes.

Straightening, he watched her drift into sleep.

Meg lifted the lamp off the table. "Come on," she said in a low voice.

Clay followed her to the kitchen, a kitchen he'd visited many times in his youth. It smelled of flour,