cinnamon, and sugar. It smelled of Mama Warner even though she'd probably not entered the room in a good long while. He thought she'd spent so many years in this room that it would always carry a part of her with it Just like his life. She'd always be there, in his heart, even after she left this world.

Meg walked to the table. Clay walked to the door and stopped, turning his hat in his hands. "I won't be

staying."

She turned her head quickly, the knife she'd picked up hovering over the pie. "But Mama Warner wanted you to have some pie."

"You can tell her I did. Tell her I enjoyed it." He settled his hat on his head and reached for the door.

"But she wanted you to stay for a while."

He studied the glass doorknob, remembering the day that several such knobs had arrived. He and Kirk

had helped Mr. Warner put them on the doors. They'd given one to Clay, and he'd taken it to his mother -something fancy for her house. She'd put it on her front door so it could greet her guests. He wrapped his hand around the knob. "I'm not up to dealing with your hatred this evening, Meg."

"Please stay," she whispered, a slight tremor in her voice. "It's pecan."

He glanced over his shoulder. She looked vulnerable and so damned tired. She'd been honest in the beginning about her feelings and how she would treat him in town. It was unreasonable to think a couple of kisses could

destroy a wall built on a foundation of hatred. Reluctantly, he nodded. "One piece."

She turned her attention back to her task. "Would you like some coffee?"

Placing his hat on the table, he sat in the chair. "Buttermilk, if you got it."

She set the plate and glass before him.

"You gonna join roe?" he asked.

"I'd rather just watch."

"I don't like being watched. I get enough of that in town." Ignoring the fork she'd set before him, he

picked up the piece of pie and took a healthy bite. While he chewed, she pressed her finger to the plate, picked up a crumb, and carried it to her mouth. With great difficulty, he swallowed. He was jealous of a damn crumb because it had touched her lips.

He cleared his throat. "I, uh, I was concerned when you didn't come to watch me work. I thought... I don't know... I just thought..."

"What did you think?" she asked softly, holding his gaze.

He returned the pie to his plate before the sweat on his fingers made it any soggier. "I thought maybe the kiss upset you."

He brought the glass to his lips, drinking deeply, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Briefly, she placed her finger against the comer of his mouth. "You missed some."

In awe, he watched as the white liquid on her finger disappeared into her mouth, and he wondered if she

had any notion what her actions did to his insides.

Smiling softly, she placed her hand over his. "I never much liked buttermilk before."

He turned his palm up and laced his fingers through hers. "Actually, I did miss having you watch me work

this week." He touched his other hand to her cheek. "I thought about you a lot, about that kiss. I wish to God you'd slapped me."

"I wish I'd slapped you, too."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know."

"You wouldn't even look at me today."

"I was afraid if I did, people would see how glad I was that you walked over."

"Would that have been so bad?"

She squeezed his fingers. "I'm not up to explaining to the people of this town or to my family what I feel for you. I can't even explain it to myself."

The kitchen door burst open, and Meg jumped to her feet "Robert."

"What the hell's going on here, Meg?"

Clay shoved away from the table and stood.

"Mama Warner wanted to see him about a marker."

"She seen him?"

She angled her chin. "Yes. She wanted him to have a piece of pie for his trouble."

Clay felt as though he were a damn dog sitting under the table waiting for a morsel of conversation to be

tossed his way. He placed his hat on his head and brought the brim down low. "I'll be leaving now." He walked to the door. "It's good to see you, Robert."

Robert stepped aside. "My uncle would rather not sec your shadow crossing this threshold."

"I'm sure that's true, but if your grandmother asks to see me again, only a bullet will stop me from coming into this house."

Maybe it was crazy for a lonely man to want to be alone, but Clay hadn't wanted the company of his

brothers after visiting with Mama Warner.

He stared at the swimming hole. No ripple disturbed the dark water, which resembled a mirror reflecting the pale light of the moon. During moments like this. Clay wished he were a painter.

Stone captured a strength that wasn't always there. Stone contained no softness. Over the years, it had roughened his hands. He wished it had roughened his heart.

"I thought I'd find you here," a voice as soft as silk whispered through the night Clay turned from the water and leaned against the boulder. Pressing his boot heel against a worn spot in the rock, making his knee jut out, he fought to appear calm.

Meg walked to the boulder and gazed at the pond. "It occurred to me that you lied to me," she said softly. "When?"

"When I asked you what Kirk looked like the last time you saw him."

"That's not the question I answered. You changed the question and asked what he looked like when he brought me the letters. I told you."

She placed her hand over his where it rested on the boulder. "What did he look like the last time you saw

him?" Turning his palm up, he squeezed her hand. "Don't do this."

She tilted her face toward him, her eyes filled with tears that made them seem as deep as the water on the other side of the boulder. "Ah, Meg."

Moving around his knee until she was nestled between his thighs, she placed her cheek against his chest.

"What did he look like?"

Clay brought his arms around her. She was so small. He didn't think he'd ever realized how small she was. "He looked..."-closing his eyes, he swallowed, swallowed the truth-"he just looked as though he'd fallen asleep."

She lifted her gaze to his, the moonlight reflected in her tears. "I kept hoping someone had made a mistake, that somehow he'd been spared, and one morning I'd look out the window and see him walking home. But he's not going to come home, is he?"

Clay shook his head. "I'm sorry I didn't bring Kirk home. I should have at least brought him home, even if

it meant carrying him on my back."

"They were his friends, his men. He organized them and had them all enlist together so they could fight together. He was their leader. They fought and died at his side. He wouldn't have wanted to leave them. Why didn't you tell us you'd buried them?"

"I didn't figure anyone around here would appreciate the fact that I'd touched their honored sons. You can't take a man off a battlefield without touching him. You can't bury him without touching him. I did what I did because those men had been my friends, and they deserved more than a mass grave. I didn't do it to please their fathers. The day you came to see me about making the monument, you didn't even want me to say Kirk's name. How would you have felt then if you'd known I'd held him in my arms and wept over him?"

"I would have hated you more." Touching her fingers to the white hair at his temples, Meg wondered if his quest at Gettysburg had aged him. She tried to imagine the horror he'd faced, wading through a field littered with bodies, searching for those he knew, smelling the stench that must have risen higher and higher with each passing day, and carrying mangled bodies to a place where they might rest in peace. Despite Clay's words that Kirk looked as though he'd fallen asleep, Meg could not imagine that death ever came silently during war. Kirk would have fought death as diligently as he'd fought the Union soldiers. Pressing her face against Clay's chest, she released the agony of her grief, no longer certain if the tears she shed were for Kirk... or for Clay.

Clay felt the small tremor travel along Meg's back. He tightened his hold on her. "Meg?"

Her trembling increased in intensity. Where were the twins when he needed them? What had they said to her? What could he say to her to ease her hurt?