He knew what the woman wanted: trouble. Shoving away from the beam, he walked toward the shed. If he didn't look in her eyes, maybe he could avoid giving her what she wanted.

He'd had enough trouble to last a lifetime. All he wanted now was to live alone. He hadn't gone to church since the night of the attack, and he didn't plan to go any time in the future. He'd abandoned the hope of proving he wasn't a coward. Meg saw a coward when she looked at him, and if she did, so would the rest of the world.

He no longer cared about the rest of the world, and he was fighting the toughest battle of his life trying not to care about her. He sauntered into the shed. She was tapping her foot with a vengeance and had planted her hand on her hips. He lifted his gaze to hers so he wouldn't be tempted to place his hands on her hips.

Blue fire greeted him.

"It doesn't look any different from when I was last here," she said curtly.

"Reckon because it's not"

"And why not?"

Laughing, he took his hand out of his pocket. "Because, Mrs. Warner, I can't hold tools."

Meg winced at the angry red scar that appeared to be a reflection of the enraged man standing before

her. "Does it still hurt?"

He shifted his stance. "It's a little tender."

"Have you tried to hold the chisel since the bandages came off?"

"I try every morning." He curled his hand and held the air. "That's as much as it'll close. Even if I should close it all the way, I've got no grip. I can't hammer at a chisel when I don't have the strength to hold it in place."

"I could hold the chisel."

He looked as though she'd just slapped him. "What?"

"I could hold the chisel. You have one good hand, and it's the hand you use to hold the hammer. I'll be

your left hand."

"Have you gone insane?"

Taking a deep breath, she walked to the table and studied his tools. He'd used the largest chisel when he

began. They'd have to go slower, more carefully. She picked up a smaller chisel. "You can position the

chisel, and I'll hold it in place."

He plowed his good hand through his hair. "Do you have any idea how hard I have to hit that chisel to crack the stone?"

"If the sound the hammer makes when it strikes the chisel is any indication, then I'd say you have to hit it fairly hard."

He look a menacing step toward her. "I have to hit it damn hard."

"I know I'm not as strong as you are, but if I held the chisel with both hands, and we chipped off smaller bits of stone-"

He picked up a hammer and slammed it against the table. Meg flinched.

"That's how hard I'm gonna hit the chisel. That's how hard I'm gonna hit your hand if I miss the chisel."

She took a shaky breath. "Then don't miss the chisel."

"Didn't you learn anything when Robert hit your hand with the hammer?"

"That it hurts."

"And I'll leave a hell of a lot more than a bruise." He hit the (able again, and Meg heard the wood split.

"I'll break your bones! I'll crush your hand!"

She tilted her chin. "I'm willing to risk it."

He slung the hammer to a distant comer. "Well, I'm not"

He started to stalk away.

"I read Kirk's letter last night."

He came to an abrupt halt.

"You told me he gave you the pouch of letters a few months before he died."

"That's right."

"He dated his letter June 30-the eve of the Battle of Gettysburg."

He bowed his head. "I searched his pockets before I buried him. That was all I took."

Hesitantly, she walked across the shed and placed her palm on his back. She felt him stiffen. "The letter

isn't very long." She withdrew the letter from her pocket and extended it toward him. "I'd like for you to read it."

He shook his head. "It's not mine to read."

"I'm giving you permission to read his thoughts before he was taken from us."

His jaw tensed, and she watched him swallow. She removed the letter from the envelope and unfolded it

"Please," she said quietly.

Slowly, he took the letter from her. Breathing deeply, he lowered his gaze to the letter. Meg didn't have to see the words to know what he read. She'd memorized the letter during the night.

June 30, 1863

My dearest Meg,

I should be sleeping, but the night sky beckons to me. I look at it and think of you as you were the day I rode away. How proud I was, Meg, to know the beautiful woman waving me bravely on was my love.

I spoke with Clay recently. I told him if he should ever carve again, to carve my beloved as she looked

when last I gazed upon her.

I will take you with me now into my dreams. Sleep well, my love, and know that the happiness you have brought me knows no bounds.

Affectionately yours.

Kirk

Dropping his hand to his side. Clay squeezed his eyes shut. She watched his throat work and knew he was fighting the same emotions she'd fought during the night.

She'd expected the letter to be different, written as though Kirk knew it was the last time he'd have an opportunity to write her, but he'd written it as though he would write another letter, as though he would again gaze upon the night sky and carry memories of her into his dreams.

"You chose to capture the moment he left because he asked you to carve me. You're not making a monument to honor those who rode away. You're making a monument to honor those who watched them go."

"Courage is shown in different ways. That's what I was hoping to show."

"And it's what you are showing. The monument will be in memory of those who died, and it'll honor so many more. You have to finish it."

He spun around and glared at her, holding up his hand as though it were a claw. "I can't!"

"We had an agreement, an understanding. You gave me your word that you'd make the monument if I purchased the stone. I purchased the stone. Now, you're going back on your word when you told me you'd die First."

"I've got no choice," he ground out through clenched teeth.

"Yes, you do." She walked to the table and picked up the smaller chisel. "I've been thinking about the monument. I take it this portion you haven't touched yet is going to be my backside when you're done."

He furrowed his brow and took a step nearer. "Yeah," he admitted cautiously.

"Well, I figure it'll take us a while to get used to working together so this is where we'd begin. The worst

thing that can happen is that we'll chip away too much, and I'll have a smaller backside. I wouldn't mind that."

"There's nothing wrong with your backside."

"You don't think it's too wide?" she asked, her voice lighter.

Averting his gaze, he blushed. "No, I don't think it's too wide," he growled. "But you're wrong about the

worse thing that can happen. I could smash your hand to hell."

She wrapped her hand around his. "If you break my hand, we'll stop... until it heals."

He dropped his chin to his chest and slowly shook his head. "Meg, I don't want to give you hands as ugly

as mine."