"How can they be ugly if you give them the chance to create something that will mean so much to so many people?"

She retrieved his hammer from the corner and handed it to him. "We'll go slowly and chip off a little bit at

a time. Just show me how you want the chisel positioned against the stone."

He gave her a weak smile. "You're crazy. It'll take us years to finish."

"I have nothing else I'd rather do."

"All right." Stand over here," he said as though resigned to her determination.

He set the hammer on the floor and with his good hand, he helped her position the chisel. She wrapped

both hands around the chisel.

"Think you can hold it steady?" he asked.

She nodded, although she wasn't at all certain. She didn't want to let Kirk down, but more than that, she

didn't want to disappoint Clay now that she'd placed his dream back within reach.

He hefted the hammer and placed his wounded hand over hers. "I can't grip the chisel, but I can at least protect your hands. This is gonna be awkward as hell."

He tapped the hammer against the chisel a couple of times as though trying to get his bearings. He took a

deep breath and swung his arm. Meg closed her eyes.

She heard the echo and felt the vibration travel down her arm as the hammer hit the chisel. She opened her eyes

and reveled in the sweet victory. "It worked! We can do it!"

Clay walked to the table. He dropped the hammer on the wooden surface and stared out the window.

"We'll start tomorrow."

Chapter Eighteen.

Although Mama Warner was not aware of her surroundings, Robert, bless his heart, told the townspeople that it was too much for her to have visitors traipsing in and out all day, and he restricted their visits to the afternoon. His thoughtfulness left Meg free to spend the mornings working with Clay. Their progress was slow because Clay took long moments to study the rock after (hey chipped off each small piece.

He told her it was because he found it strange not to hold the chisel himself, and he didn't feel as close to the stone, but she suspected that the real reason was his anxiety about her hands.

And he had reason for that.

Meg hadn't lived a soft life, but her hands had never worked so hard. She wasn't accustomed to gripping a heavy piece of metal and holding onto it when harder metal slammed against it. Sometimes, she thought her teeth would rattle loose from the impact Then she'd glance at Clay's hand covering hers, and she'd keep her complaints to herself. The wound was still puckered and red as it mended and scarred. She had a strong urge to place a kiss on the scar, which ran across his palm and traveled along the back of his hand.

She imagined that his agonized cry that night had come not so much from the pain, but from the realization that they had killed his dream.

But there were moments when she felt his hand close a little more over hers, when he'd hit the hammer against the chisel and the hand covering hers would react from instinct and tighten its hold.

She relished those moments, held them deep inside her, and longed for the day when her hands could slip away from the chisel and return his to the place where it belonged.

"Why are your hands shaking?" Clay asked.

"I didn't realize they were."

He narrowed his eyes. "Let me see your palms."

"There's nothing wrong with my palms."

He stepped away from the granite, and she loosened her grip on the chisel. As fast as a streak of lightning, he dropped the hammer, plucked the chisel from her grasp, and threw it down. He grabbed her hand before she could react.

"Damn it, Meg, why didn't you tell me about your hands?"

"They're not that bad, and we don't get much time to work as it is. We can't stop every time I'm having a little discomfort."

"A little discomfort? Your hands are raw."

"Doesn't your hand hurt?" she asked.

"Sit in that chair and don't move until I get back."

He stalked from the shed, and she dropped into the chair. He was as distant as the storm that rolled over the hills. She could hear the thunder, she could see the lightning; but she could touch neither. She couldn't reach the essence of the storm.

Clay never smiled. He never teased. He seldom looked at her. He no longer went to church. The masked night riders had reduced his life to the house, the shed, and an occasional walk through the fields. She was here with him every morning, and she'd never felt farther away from him.

He walked in and knelt before her. He set a jar within the crook of his elbow and turned the lid with his good hand.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Some salve my ma made up. It'll make your hands feel better. We won't work tomorrow." He set the jar on the ground and dug his fingers into the thick ointment "Place your hands on your lap so the palms arc up. Tell me if I hurt you."

Gently, he smoothed the salve over her palm and rubbed it into the raw padding of her hand, then worked his thumb and fingers over her hand, blending the salve into her flesh. "Does that feel better?" he asked.

"Much."

"I'll do the other hand now." He dipped his fingers into the jar, retrieved more balm, and massaged it into her other hand.

"Do you hate me?" she asked quietly.

He stilled his fingers, but didn't lift his gaze. "No," he said in a low voice. He began massaging her hand

again.

"Do you know who put the knife through your hand?"

His fingers faltered, then he rubbed her palm with more intensity.

"It was Daniel, wasn't it?" she asked.

"I can't be sure."

Turning her hand, she managed to nestle his between both of hers before he could pull away. She

kneaded her fingers over his palm. "Has anyone ever put this salve on your hands?"

"I've used it a time or two."

"Did you put it on yourself?"

"Sure. Just put it on, rub it in. There's no secret to it."

Reaching into the jar between them, she coated her fingers with the ointment, then trailed them down the center of his palm. "The secret is having someone else put it on for you," she said as she worked her

thumb between his fingers. "Your hands are so strong. Even when they aren't working, they feel so strong."

"They're so damn big."

"The better to hold me with."

He slid his hand out of hers. "They're not gonna be holding you."

"What about your injured hand? Don't you think the salve would make it feel better?"

He hesitated, and she knew he was fighting with his conscience. Everything for this man was a battle.

"I'll be gentle," she promised.

He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned low in his throat Gingerly, she lifted his hand off his thigh and

placed it in her lap. Lightly, she trailed her fingers over the scar on his palm. "Is it still tender?"

Cautiously, he peered at her. "Not as much."

Creating small circles, she rubbed the balm over his palm. "I go to the swimming hole every night," she

said softly. She felt his hand tense and met his gaze. "I keep hoping I'll see you there."

"It's best if I don't go."

"Why? Because I wouldn't walk out of church with you? I was wrong-"

"No!" He worked his hand free of her grasp. "You were right. We have no future. I was wrong to think

otherwise. I was planning to move on because I didn't like the hatred touching my brothers. I don't know why I thought it wouldn't touch you."

"I know you're not a coward-"

"It doesn't matter any more. The twins were right. You should marry Robert."