"I don't love Robert."

He stood. "Your hands need some time to heal. You should probably stay away for a week or so." He walked to the door.

She rose from the chair and clasped her hands before her. "I love you, Clay."

With a sad smile, he glanced at her over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Meg, but I'm tired of fighting."

Her protest fell on deaf ears as he strode away.

Lying in bed, he studied his hands in the midnight shadows. They didn't look any different, but they sure felt different.

A man could get spoiled having a woman in his life, smiling with the dawn, humming while she cooked breakfast, furrowing her brow while she held the chisel, rubbing salve over his hands. Every day he hated to see the sun rise above the windows on the shed. Late morning would give way to noon, and it would

be time for her to leave.

She cooked them another meal and always left a pecan pie sitting on the table before she went to Mama Warner's.

Then Clay would go and watch the com grow in the afternoon and count the minutes until dawn. He knew the time would come when he'd begin counting the years since he last saw her. He dreaded (lie coming of that first day when he knew the next day wouldn't bring her back.

She might not love Robert, but loneliness wouldn't agree with her. She seemed to like Robert well enough, and Clay figured the day would come when she'd settle for companionship over love.

He hoped he was long gone by then.

He heard a tapping on the window shutter. He eased out of bed and crept across the room.

"Clay?"

Groaning at the sweet voice on the other side, he opened the shutter slightly. "What?"

"Meet me in the shed."

Before he could respond, she darted away. Cursing under his breath, then cursing aloud, he jerked on his clothes and headed as quietly as he could toward the shed.

The shutters were down and the door closed when he arrived. He pushed the door open and peered into the building. A solitary lantern rested on his table.

He stepped into the shed and closed the door. "Meg?"

She emerged from behind the granite, wearing her skirl and clutching her blouse to her chest The pale light reflected off her bare shoulders.

Clay forgot how to breathe, forgot how to move, forgot how to think. "What-" He swallowed. "What

do you think you're doing?"

"My shoulders hurt. You got so angry this morning when you found out my hands were hurting that I thought I should tell you about my shoulders and let you rub some salve over them."

His gaze darted over to the table. The jar was sitting there with the lid already removed. He shoved his

hands into his pockets, shook his head, took a step back, and bumped against the door. "I can't."

She moved a hand away from her blouse so she could rub her neck. The blouse slipped a little to reveal a fraction of a curve. He hadn't seen any curves that night by the swimming hole. He'd felt them, but he hadn't seen them. The sight of them could probably bring a man to his knees.

"I thought about asking my father to rub my shoulders, but he doesn't know I come here so I didn't know how to explain why I was hurting." She shrugged slightly, and a little more curve came into view. "Robert knows. I guess I could ask him-"

"No!"

She lowered her hand and clutched her blouse. The curve disappeared.

"I mean-" He plowed his hand through his hair. "How badly do you hurt?"

"I can't sleep."

If he touched her, he didn't think he'd be able to sleep, but then he hadn't been sleeping anyway. "All

right."

In her excitement, she rose onto her toes. Lord, her feet were bare.

"Will you spread the quilt?" she asked.

"The quilt?"

She nodded quickly. "I set it on the chair."

He stalked to the chair in the corner, grabbed the quilt, and spread it out on the floor. The sooner he got

this over with, the better. He stomped to the table and picked up the jar of salve. "All right Let's get this

done so you can head on home."

She turned a rosy shade of pink that traveled from her cheeks to the valley hidden by her blouse.

Demurely, she presented her back to him and knelt on the quilt

He could have sworn he heard the jar crack in his hand.

She draped her braid over one shoulder. Lord, she had more curves than he imagined: the curve of her side, the curve of her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the nape of her neck. And everything came

together so beautifully, it took his breath away. He'd never be able to carve anything that looked as beautiful as she was now.

He dropped to his knees and set the jar beside him on the quilt. "Where exactly do you hurt?"

"Everywhere. My neck, my shoulders, my back. That's why I took off my blouse. I thought it would be

easier for you if you didn't have to fight the cloth."

Fight the cloth? Right now he was fighting a raging battle with his own flesh.

Digging into the jar, he coated his fingers, hoping if he used enough salve, he could shield his hand from

the silky smoothness of her skin. She tilted her head, and the curve of her nape lengthened. He was

grateful he couldn't use his other hand. He took a deep breath. 'Tell me if I hurt you."

Tentatively, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She sighed, and he jerked his hand back. "Did I hurt you?"

"Of course not." He returned his hand to her shoulder and discovered the salve didn't serve as a buffer against the warmth of her flesh. Slowly, he worked his fingers over her shoulders and neck. He carved her curves into his memory as he rubbed the salve into her skin. He had made a mistake. He shouldn't have made love to her in the darkness of midnight. He should have waited until noon when he could have basked in the sunlight, and he could have appreciated all her beauty.

Her narrow back tapered down to her tiny waist He thought he'd know all there was to carving if he'd

been able to study her lines over the years.

He wiped his hand on his trousers. "There. That should take care of your pain," he said more gruffly than

he'd intended.

She peered over her shoulder. "Are you in pain?"

He was, but it wasn't any place he could invite her to rub. "No, I'm fine."

She twisted around slightly. "Take off your shirt, and I'll rub your back anyway. I don't imagine anyone

has ever rubbed your back for you."

He shook his head vigorously. "I don't like to take my shirt off in the light."

To his astonishment, she rose, retrieved the lantern from the table, set it beside the quilt, and dimmed its flame until it cast more shadows than light.

"There. Now you're not in the light," she said quietly.

But he felt as though he were sitting in the middle of the sun. He spun around and jerked his shirt over his

head. He didn't think his back carried any scars above his waist His hips and upper thighs were another

matter. With his back to her, she wouldn't have to stare at the D they'd burned into his chest. It was the scar he hated most. "If you're gonna do it, do it," he barked.

"I'm sorry. I was just admiring your back. Even in the shadows I like the way it looks."

She began kneading his shoulders. He stopped breathing. She was using both hands. How was she