hurried across the room, the lantern swaying and chasing away the shadows.

"I was starting to worry about you," Mama Warner whispered.

Meg pressed her finger to the older woman's lips. "We have to be quiet."

Mama Warner waved her hand as though shooing away an irritating fly. Then she extended her gnarled

fingers toward Clay. His larger hand swallowed hers. "Meg says you're taking me on an adventure."

To Meg's surprise the brilliance of Clay's smile shone through the dimness of the room.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm gonna be as gentle as I can, but you tell me if I hurt you."

Meg forgot about cautioning him to be quiet. She forgot about everything but watching the care with which he wrapped a blanket around Mama Warner before

gingerly lifting her into his arms and cradling her against his chest.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"You know how to hold a woman so she feels precious. Makes me wish I was sixty years younger."

Clay laughed, and Meg thumped his shoulder. "Shh."

He rolled his eyes. "She keeps me on a tight line."

"Not tight enough from what I hear."

"Will you two be quiet!" Meg whispered sharply. "You're gonna wake Robert, and then we'll have all hell

to pay." She nudged Clay. "Get moving."

"It'd help if the person with the lantern led the way," he said in a low voice.

Meg took the lead, and the whispering behind her increased. These two were worse than maiden aunts at

a social. She scurried down the hallway and ducked into the kitchen.

And waited while Clay took his own sweet time following her. She felt as though she were standing on the edge of a deep abyss by the time he finally ambled into the kitchen. She could tell he and the woman

in his arms were fighting to hold back their laughter. She trudged through the door, holding it open an eternity.

"You must have trained your mule," she whispered when Clay finally walked onto the porch. "You move slower than it docs. Try and hurry. I'd like for us to be back before sunup."

"She always harping at you like that?" Mama Warner asked.

"She's usually worse."

Meg doubled back. "How can you walk so slow when your legs are so long? Usually I can't keep up

with you. Tonight when it matters, you're slower than a turtle."

"I don't want to get reckless and drop my precious bundle here."

As they neared the shed, Meg felt her heart flutter. She was afraid Mama Warner wouldn't like the statue; maybe it was a mistake to show it to anyone before it was finished.

They walked into the shed, and Meg increased the flame in the lantern. As Clay walked by, she lifted the lantern higher and saw the same doubts reflected in his face. She didn't know why it hurt to know that he was nervous about sharing his work. He had a rare gift, and she suddenly wished that he had gone to Europe, that he had developed his art and honed his skills.

Meg moved closer to the granite, and the shadows shifted over the stone. Mama Warner gasped. With tears filling her eyes, she covered her mouth with her gnarled fingers. "I want to touch him," she rasped.

Clay shot his gaze over to Meg. She saw in his eyes that he hadn't expected Mama Warner's request She also saw that he wasn't about to disappoint the woman. He glanced at the stool, then looked back at her. "Go get Lucian. He should be in the house."

Meg set the lantern on the table.

"I'm a lot of trouble," she heard Mama Warner say.

She glanced over her shoulder. Cast in faint shadows, Clay sat on the stool, holding Kirk's grandmother in his lap and shaking his head, a tender smile on his face. "No, ma'am. You're no trouble at all."

She patted his cheek. "You should have walked out my backdoor years back when you had a chance. You would have had a lot fewer lines in your face."

"If I'd walked out your backdoor that day, I never would have been able to walk back in through it."

He bowed his head. A lump knotted in Meg's throat as she detected a subtle movement of his arms; she guessed that he was holding Mama Warner tighter. They didn't seem to notice that she hadn't left yet, but she felt as though she was intruding on an intimate moment that belonged only to the two of them.

Creeping out of the shed, she headed to the house. She knocked lightly and waited several moments before slowly pushing the door open. The amber glow of a dying fire in the hearth and the low flame in a lantern on the table threw a pale light over the room. She stepped into the house and picked up the lantern. The wall to her right contained a closed door, as did the wall to her left. She chose the door to her right. She walked across the room and tapped her fingers on the door. "Lucian?"

Carefully, she opened the door and peered into the room. A familiar scent greeted her. Clay.

Entering, she glanced at the bare furnishings. A cheval glass faced the wall, and she wondered why he didn't want to look at his reflection in the mirror. Did he see a coward when he met his gaze?

A smaller mirror did hang on the wall above a washstand. She stood on the tips of her toes. She supposed he looked in this mirror when he shaved, although she didn't think he could see much of his face at one time.

She imagined Clay holding the razor in his large hand, angling his chin, and peering at the mirror as he grazed the sharp edge over his face, removing a night's growth of thick beard. She touched the brush with which he tried to manage his hair. He didn't have the skills with the brush that he had with a chisel and hammer. He could shape stone, but he couldn't make his hair do anything but fall over his brow. He'd tucked the quilts neatly into place on his bed. She wondered how far down he sank into the mattress. She wondered if he found sleeping alone as lonely as she did.

Turning to leave, she noticed an object on the dresser as the light of the lantern swung past it. She walked to the dresser and touched the stone. He had carved a small girl sitting with her elbows on a table and her chin in her hands. The girl looked incredibly sad, as though she'd just lost something precious. One side of the rock was jagged as though whatever Clay had carved had fallen or broken off. She trailed her fingers over the braid along the girl's back. She knew why the girl was sad; she was the girl.

"What are you doing?" a deep voice demanded.

Meg spun around, her hand pressed to her throat "Oh, Lucian. I was looking for you."

"You won't find me in Clay's room."

"I didn't realize it was his room... not at first, anyway. He needs you in the shed."

He ran his hands through his hair. "Let me get a shirt."

He disappeared in the darkness. She walked quickly out of the room and quietly closed the door. Lucian

walked through a door across the room. "I'm ready."

"I'm sorry," she said as she set the lantern on the table and walked to the door. "I didn't know where you

slept."

"I sleep with the twins, and the little rascals snore."

He held the door open for her, and she stepped back into the night. They walked in silence to the shed.

Meg crossed to the other side of the shed, and Clay snapped his head up, his brow furrowed. "Mama

Warner fell asleep while we were waiting on you."

Kneeling, Meg gently shook Mama Warner's shoulder. "Mama Warner, you need to wake up now."

Mama Warner squinted. "I saw Kirk."

"No, ma'am. You saw his face carved in the stone."

"Ah, yes. The monument. It's not gonna be what you wanted, Meg."

"I think it's going to be exactly what I wanted. You wanted to touch Kirk, remember?"

"Of course, I remember. I'm old. I'm not forgetful."

"Lucian, you hold Mama Warner," Clay said. "I'll stand on the stool, and you can hand her up to me."

Standing, Meg moved aside, and Lucian took Mama Warner from Clay. Clay climbed on the stool and braced his legs. He lifted Mama Warner into his arms and held her toward the statue.

Mama Warner ran her gnarled fingers over Kirk's carved features. Then she slumped against Clay's shoulder. "You done good, Clayton. You done good."

Leaning against the boulder, Meg watched as Clay spread the quilt on the ground. They'd taken Mama Warner home and then come to the swimming hole. With so little moon, the darkness hid most of Clay's actions.

She'd tried to maintain a wall of hatred, but he'd chipped away at the wall little by little. He'd begun innocently the day she saw him playing with the naked twins in the river. She could recall each and every unselfish act that had served as his chisel, each kindness as his hammer.

Now she watched his silhouette stretch and pull the comers of the quilt across the grass. He knelt on the quilt and braced his hands on his thighs. "You've been unusually quiet. Would you rather I take you home?"

Meg walked across the small space separating them, dropped to her knees, and wrapped her hand around the back of his neck. "I'm not certain I want you to take me home at all tonight."

She pressed her mouth to his, and he lifted his hands to her face, the only place he ever touched her. She slid her hand around and began to unbutton his shirt. He moved his mouth from hers with lightning speed.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I want to remove your shirt."

"Why?"

She ran her hand along his shirt. "Because I want to touch your chest, your bare back."

Clay looked at his hand touching her cheek. He could see the outline of her face, but he couldn't make out the smooth unmarred surface. He hoped the shadows hid his imperfections as easily as they hid her perfection. He brushed his lips over hers, hoping she'd find the permission she needed.

She did.

She worked the buttons free on his shirt as he groaned and deepened the kiss. Easing his shirt free from his trousers, she lifted the ends.

Clay didn't want to withdraw from the kiss, didn't want to give her a clear view of his chest, but she tugged on the shirt, giving him no choice. He took one last taste of her with him before leaning away and lifting his arms. He felt the warm night air touch every inch of his chest and back as she slowly pulled his shirt over his head. He wondered if she was taking her time because she was considering covering him up again. The shirt had risen up to hide his face so he could no longer see Meg, and she didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse.

He felt her curves brush against his chest as she worked the shirt free of his arms. He'd never realized how damn long his arms were. His hands gained their freedom, and he dropped them to his side. Then she whipped the shirt off his head, and he found himself staring at her face in the darkness. He couldn't tell a damn thing about what she was thinking. He cursed the blessed darkness. He wished he could sec her clearly without her seeing him.

With trembling fingers, she outlined his shoulders. "You feel just as I thought you would," she said softly. "It gets so hot in the shed. I kept hoping you'd take your shirt off so I could watch you work. It's as though when you shape the stone, it shapes you."

She trailed her hands along to his back and pressed her fingers against every muscle and bone he had while he sat like a statue. She had such small hands, such gentle hands. He'd never in his life had someone touch him with such tenderness. He wanted to return the favor, but was afraid she'd stop if he moved, "I never realized how incredibly strong you have to be to chip away at the stone. You move with such grace, showing so little effort, but I can see the strength in your hands, feel it in your shoulders and back. I could easily spend the rest of my life watching you cut into stone."

He could easily have spent the rest of his life watching her watch him, having her sit in that chair, filling the shed with the scent of honeysuckle. If he slowed his pace on the monument, perhaps he could keep her with him for three years, but he knew once he finished the monument, the chair would remain empty, the honeysuckle would fade away, and all he'd have were memories of a woman who'd touched him one night as though she no longer hated him.

She ran her hands back up to his shoulders before slowly moving her splayed fingers toward his chest. He wrapped his hands around hers to stop the exploration. He feared even in the darkness, she'd discover things about him that he'd rather she didn't know. "I like it when you touch my back," he said as he guided her hands around his sides.

Leaning forward, she trailed little kisses long his throat, branding him with the heal from her mouth. "You can touch me, too," she whispered just before she nibbled on his ear.

He flexed his fingers and touched them lightly to her cheeks. He angled her head away from his ear and covered her mouth with his own. She sighed softly, and he held back an answering groan. She'd probably think he was in pain if he continued to sound like an animal every time she touched him.

She shifted her body, and he felt her breasts whisper along his chest. She moved her hands off his flesh, and he felt them working between their bodies. He snapped his head back. "What are you doing?"