some ideas tonight."

"I'll want to look at them, of course. To put it bluntly- while you're working on this project, I'll belooking over your shoulder. I want it done to my specifications.""On one condition."In disbelief, she stared at him as though he'd suddenly donned a blue uniform. "I beg your pardon?""I have one condition-""Impossible. I'm providing the materials-""I'm providing the labor."She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, her foot packing the recently loosened dirt back into the earth. "What's your condition?"

"The base will be a block with four sides. Three sides will carry the names of those who fell in battle- seven names on each side, eight on the front. On the fourth side, I'll carve whatever I want."

"No, that's impossible, completely out of the question. You might put something entirely unsuitable."

"Then I won't do it It was a pleasure visiting with you, Mrs. Warner, but now if you'll excuse me, I need

to get back to my field."

Meg watched in dismay as he dropped his hat onto his head, spun, and began walking toward his plow.

"Wait! You can't refuse!"

"Last I heard this was a free country!" he yelled, not bothering to glance back at her.

She rushed after him, unable to catch up to his long strides. "Stop!"

He quickened his pace.

"Stop! Please!" she called out Halting abruptly, he turned slowly to face her. Short of breath, she was angry by the time she reached

him, but he had skills possessed by no other man in this area. "What did you want to put on the fourth side?"

"I don't know yet"

"Can I at least have a say in what you put there?"

"No, ma'am."

She stomped the ground. "Damn you! You owe-"

"I don't owe anything. They made their choice, and I made mine. They paid their price, but I'm still paying mine and getting mighty damn tired of it If you want the memorial, I'll make it, but I'm not going to pour

my sweat, my heart, and my soul into it and not claim a corner of it as mine." A deep sadness filled his eyes. "I give you my word that when I'm done, nothing engraved on the memorial will detract from its meaning."

"And what do you perceive as its meaning?"

"To honor those who fought and died for their convictions."

She met his gaze, studying him, surprised by his words. How could he understand what he'd never

experienced? She fought the tears glistening within her eyes. "This is important to me," she whispered hoarsely.

"I realize that." She turned away, working to regain her emotions. She needed something more than wooden markers casting shadows over empty graves to keep the memory of those she loved from fading. She wanted Clay to make the memorial so he would be constantly reminded of his own cowardice. Before dawn, it had seemed the perfect punishment for him, more lasting than any beating her brother could give him.

Yet nothing had gone as she'd expected since she'd dismounted. Every sentence she'd practiced had been altered by his response. She spun around-balling her hands at her sides, thrusting her chin upward -and met his gaze. "All right. You can have your side of the base to do with as you wish, but I have two conditions of my own."

"And they are?"

"You're to tell no one what you're working on. It's to remain a secret until it's displayed."

"And the other condition?"

"Under no circumstances are you to ever think that this forced partnership makes us friends. If our paths

cross in town, I will ignore your presence, and I would appreciate it greatly if you would ignore mine."

"In other words, you don't want anyone to know you have any association with the likes of me."

"Precisely. Are we agreed?"

"Agreed." He gave her a sad crooked grin. "I don't guess you want to shake on it."

She gazed at his hands, dirty from toiling in the fields, but it wasn't the soil beneath his fingernails that

caused her to wrinkle her nose. "No, I have no desire to shake your hand."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "When do you want to see those sketches?"

"I'll come by late tomorrow afternoon. The sooner we get started, the sooner we'll finish."

He nodded as silence wove around them. She wouldn't thank him for doing what she considered his

duty. He wouldn't thank her for fear she'd rescind the offer.

"I'll have Lucian help you mount," he said after several long moments.

Nodding, she turned and tromped to the mare, not nearly as confident with this plan as she had been

earlier. Perhaps everything had seemed to fall into place at dawn because she wasn't completely awake.

She glanced over her shoulder. Lucian was walking toward her while Clay stood in the middle of the

field, his back to her, his hat clutched in one hand, his dark head bowed.

Sitting at the table. Clay worked diligently to capture the statue on paper. He wanted Meg to see the monument as he saw it.

Meg.

His hands stilled as thoughts of her filled his mind. Dear Lord, but he'd forgotten how pretty her eyes were. How pretty any woman's eyes were. It had been so long since he'd looked closely into a woman's eyes. He wondered what made a woman's eyes seem so much prettier than a man's when they were the same color.

Meg Warner's eyes were a cornflower blue corridor that led to her tortured soul. Had he ever seen so much suffering in anyone's eyes? He had, but none of the suffering he had seen in the army hospital touched him as hers had today.

How many years younger was she-two or three? He couldn't remember. Not that it mattered. Her youth had died on the battlefield with her husband. She'd buried her smiles and her laughter with Kirk. That was one of the greater tragedies of war that he hadn't recognized until he returned home.

The not knowing experienced by those who sat by the home fires was worse than anything the soldiers felt. Soldiers knew if they were alive or dead, but those away from the battle could do little more than worry, and it took a toll on them.

He didn't think the memorial would give Meg back her youth, but he hoped it would help put the war behind her. She was too young and beautiful to spend her life in mourning. She needed to loosen the tight bun that held her hair captive so her glorious ebony strands could blow freely in the wind. He imagined a woman's hair felt softer than a man's. He couldn't remember ever touching his mother's hair, but he remembered tights when she came to tuck him and his brothers into bed, and her hair wasn't braided. On those nights, his father stood in their bedroom doorway waiting for her. As a boy, he hadn't thought much about it As a man, he thought about it a great deal, wondering how it would feel to wait for a woman, seeing her hair flowing around her and knowing she sought to please him.

Just before he'd gone to fetch Lucian, the breeze had touched Meg, then moved on to touch him, bringing her scent with it.

Honeysuckle. She smelled of honeysuckle. He thought about her pert little nose. He'd wanted to smile every time she tilted it to demonstrate her disdain toward him. If her obvious hatred for him hadn't been so great, hadn't hurt so badly, he might have smiled.

The lantern on the table cast a yellow glow over his work. The house was quiet except for an occasional board creaking as it settled and an infrequent hiss of the lantern.

He didn't mind the quiet. What he found difficult was hearing people talk and knowing that none of the words would be directed his way. This afternoon, having someone talk to him had been pure heaven. The anger in her voice, the curtness of her tone hadn't bothered him nearly as much as it would have if he hadn't been starved for conversation.

Tomorrow he'd receive a little more conversation when she returned. To prolong her stay, maybe he could explain the sketches. He never drew sketches as finely as his father had. Clay saw the images in his mind, and his hands could carve what his mind saw, but they were too big and clumsy to draw what he saw.

He studied the drawing as be envisioned the statue from the front. The lines gave him all the information he needed, and he hoped Meg would understand what the monument would reflect when he was finished. He moved the lop sheet of paper aside and bent over the unmarred white paper that remained. Two sides of the memorial would be equally important. He set to work sketching what he was certain would be his favorite portion of the monument.

Hearing the door to his brothers' bedroom open, he lifted his gaze. Scratching his backside, Lucian stood in the doorway as naked as the day he was bom.

"You still up?" Lucian asked through an open-mouthed yawn. "It's gotta be after midnight."

"I wanted to finish these sketches."

Lucian shook his head. "You think she's bestowing upon you some honor?" He snorted. "God, you're so damn gullible. She was tempting you today. She's not gonna have you make a monument. Why would she ask the town's coward to make a tribute to its fallen heroes?"

Clay slipped his fingers between the buttons on his shirt and rubbed his chest "I don't know why she asked. I haven't figured it out yet. I'm not even sure I care. I'll be carving again, and this time, I'll create something that's not going into a graveyard."

Lucian ambled to the sideboard, dunked the dipper into the bucket of water, lifted it, and poured the water over his dark head. The water fell to his shoulders, then slid down his body to create a small pool on the puncheon floor. "It's so damned hot tonight I don't know how you can sit there with all your clothes on."

He sauntered to the bedroom door, halted, and glanced over his shoulder. "You're wasting your time. She won't come tomorrow."

She didn't come.

With his fingers wrapped around the paper that he'd rolled into a scroll, Clay sat on the porch. The sun had long since disappeared over the horizon. The stars dotted the blackened sky like minuscule diamonds thrown haphazardly onto velvet. The heat of day faded into the warmth of night.

She wasn't going to come.

He unfolded his body and tapped the paper against his thigh. He inhaled deeply, wanting to smell honeysuckle. He listened to the crickets, wishing their cadence resembled a woman's voice.

He walked into the silent house. His brothers had gone to bed earlier, leaving a lone lantern on the table beside the meal Clay hadn't eaten. He picked up the lantern and went to the room that had once belonged to his parents, the room where Lucian had slept until Clay returned.

Closing the door, he tossed the scroll onto the bed, then ALWAYS TO REMEMBER.

knelt before the oak dresser and set the lantern on the floor. He pulled out the bottom drawer. The scent of gunpowder from long ago wafted out through the opening. He removed a worn and frayed canvas knapsack and carried it to the bed.

Sitting on the bed, he carefully untied the braids of thin rope that held the flaps closed. Lifting the bag, he dumped the envelopes onto the red-and-white quilt his mother had made. Reverently, he picked up an envelope, held it beneath his nose, and inhaled.

Honeysuckle.

Slowly he trailed his fingers over the delicate script. During the time the army had held him as a prisoner, when the loneliness had consumed him until he felt it as a gnawing hunger in his gut, these envelopes had sustained him. He pulled them out, smelted them, and touched them.

He pretended the woman who sent them had written his name instead of another's across the envelope. Although he never read (he letters housed in the envelopes, he knew they contained words of love and longing, perhaps a little loneliness, and a great deal of pride. A wife's letter to her husband would reflect all those things... and more.

One by one, he placed the envelopes back into the bag. Reaching across the bed, he picked up the rolled sketches and slid them into the bag before lacing the braided ropes.

Stretching out on the bed, he stared at the ceiling and wondered if Meg Warner had drifted off to sleep with memories of her husband.

The bench swing squeaked as Meg pressed her bare Iocs against the porch and gave a lazy push. Drawing comfort from the gentle swaying, she tucked her foot beneath her.

Late in the afternoon. Reverend Baxter had stopped by unexpectedly, hinting at and receiving an invitation to supper. She tried to convince herself that it was his presence alone that had prevented her from returning to the Hollands' farm as she'd promised. But if that were the sole reason she hadn't gone, she'd go to the farm tomorrow to look at the sketches.

And she already knew in her heart that she wouldn't go tomorrow either. It wasn't Reverend Baxter that stopped her. It was Clayton Holland. She couldn't fathom the difference between the man Clay was before the war and the man he was now.

The wind whispered a lover's rhapsody through the trees, carrying her back to a time when love and joy filled her heart... a time when laughter and smiles were wrapped around confidence.

Her wedding day.

Everyone came to share her joy-even Clay. He stood by Kirk's side as Kirk pledged himself to Meg until death. She paid scant attention to Clay or anyone else that day. She only had eyes for Kirk, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile that promised a lifetime of happiness.

After the ceremony. Kirk teased Clay and told him he had to dance with the bride. Clay shook his head, his face burning a bright red, until finally he relented and asked her for a dance. They waltzed, but Meg could recall nothing else. Distracted, she searched over Clay's shoulder for Kirk among the guests, wanting to be back in his arms.

She slipped her foot from beneath her now and pushed against the porch again. As lazily as the swaying of the swing, her mind wandered to the day Kirk left He had talked with Clay at the edge of town. She thought it odd because everyone knew Clay had not enlisted. They shook hands, then Kirk embraced him. A manly embrace. Two men. One leaving, surrounded by family and friends. The other standing alone on the edge of town.

She hadn't understood how Kirk tolerated being so close to Clay, but no lime had remained to ask inconsequential questions. Their final moments came too swiftly, filled with pledges of undying love and remembrance, the promise to write, and the promise to return home soon. She kept her promise to write. He was unable to keep his promise to return home.

Along with her neighbors, she rejoiced when the army came for Clay, glad that at last he would serve the Confederacy. Rumors that he had still refused to join his company on the battlefield were whispered on the wind and chilled Meg's heart. Clay and Kirk had been friends. Clay had not only betrayed the Confederacy, he'd betrayed Kirk.