holding up her blouse? Maybe she was using her mouth-

"How docs that feel?" she asked.

Nope. She wasn't using her mouth. "Feels fine, but you're not using the salve."

"I don't like the way it tastes."

Was the woman daft? "Tastes?"

"Tastes," she said in a throaty voice before she placed her mouth between his shoulders.

She trailed her mouth and tongue along his spine, and he wished his spine were three times longer than it

was. Her mouth traveled back toward his neck. Again, he wondered how she was holding her blouse in

place.

Then she pressed her bare breasts against his back, and he forgot all about her damn blouse. Her nipples felt as though they were tiny pebbles buried in soft clay. He smiled inwardly at the thought He wouldn't mind burying them in his mouth. She nibbled on his neck, then nibbled on his ear.

"I'm not wearing anything beneath my skirt," she whispered.

"Dear Lord," he said hoarsely.

She cased her hands around his waist and nimbly undid the first button on his trousers. "Are you wearing

anything beneath your trousers?"

"No-"

She undid another button.

"I didn't know-"

She gave another button its freedom.

"How urgent your need-"

"Very urgent," she assured him as she wrapped her fingers around him.

He bowed his head. "Damn."

She stilled her fingers. "What is it?"

"I was wrong," he said in a strangled voice. "I can't stand up to any torture that's handed out." He twisted around. "Damn you, Meg." He lowered her to the quilt and covered her body with his own. Cradling her face with his good palm, he caressed her cheek with the fingers of his injured hand. "Damn you. Even knowing that hell lies on the other side, I can't resist touching heaven."

He kissed her long and drank deeply as though he'd crossed a desert she was the well that contained all the things he'd dreamed about as he traveled alone. She was the water, the succulent fruit, the warmth on a cold night, the shade that protected him from the harsh sun.

He worked his hand around her back and fought the buttons on her skirt as she struggled to get him out of his trousers. The solution was simple. Take a moment and stop kissing, but she didn't seem to want to release his mouth any more than he wanted to release hers.

Then they were warmth against warmth, flesh against flesh from their toes to their mouths. Pulling back. Clay leaned over and increased the flame in the lantern.

"I didn't think you liked the light," she said.

"I don't like to be in the light, but I made love to you in the dark and didn't know what I was missing. I wish I could make love to you in the sunshine." Reverently, he skimmed his hand along every curve she possessed. "You're so beautiful. Every line is perfect."

She pressed her hand to the center of his chest. Tears welled in her eyes. "I'm so sorry they hurt you. I'm so sorry I hurt you."

Shaking his head, he placed his hand over hers and brought it to his lips. "No past, Meg. No future. All I have is now."

"Then let's make the most of it. My shoulders don't hurt anymore-" She took his hand and laid it at the heavenly juncture of her thighs. "But other places long for your touch."

He didn't have to tell her he longed for her touch as well. Having a woman with experience had definite advantages. She knew when to touch him, where to touch him, how to touch him in ways he hadn't dared imagine. She taught him how to touch her. Her moans, sighs, and small spasms pleased him as much as her hands and mouth traveling over his body.

"Come to me. Clay," she whispered, and he plunged into her warm depths.

All the touching they'd done before had shaped the shadows of desire. Now, they moved in a rhythm that revealed the details and carved out an exquisite fulfillment that left them breathless and melded within each other's embrace.

She sighed his name like the soughing of the wind as she trembled in his arms. He kissed the dew from her throat. "How are your shoulders now?" he asked in a low voice.

Laughing quietly, she said, "Better, much better. How are you feeling?"

He lifted his head, gazed into her blue eyes, and smiled tenderly. "I've never felt so good in my whole life."

With an appreciation he hadn't felt in a long time, Clay watched dawn ease over the horizon. The sky had

never looked so blue, the fields so green.

Only a few hours of night had remained after he walked Meg home, but he had slept soundly. He thought if it had stormed while he slept, the nightmares would have stayed away.

He heard the rumble of wagon wheels and glanced over his shoulder. The beautiful dawn gave way to the

dark clouds of reality. With a deep breath, he stepped off the porch to greet Kirk's father.

The man drew the wagon to a halt and climbed down like a man of younger years. He removed his hat.

His hair had turned pale blond since Clay had last seen him. He supposed losing a son could do that to a man. Mr. Warner studied the hat he was turning in his hands before he met Clay's eyes. "My mother passed away in her sleep last night."

Clay wished the man had just punched him in the gut. It would have hurt less than hearing the words thrown at him as though he wouldn't give a damn. "I'm sorry."

"I gave her my word that I'd mark her place with the headstone you made for her."

"I can't..."-Clay winced as he shoved his injured hand into his pocket-"I can't carve the date, but everything else is done the way she wanted. It's in the shed. I'll get it for you."

He strode past the man who'd once welcomed him into his home as he might welcome his son. Entering the shed, he walked to the table where he'd carved Mama Warner's headstone. He trailed his fingers over the lettering that he'd

cut as deeply as he could. People would still be able to read her words long after Clay was gone.

He bowed his head. Grieving was unbearable when one did it alone.

"Dear Lord," a deep voice whispered in awe behind him.

Spinning around, Clay stared at Kirk's father as he slowly approached the granite.

"That's my son," he said in a raw voice.

"Yes, sir. Mrs. Warner asked me to make a memorial in honor of those who gave their lives-"

"My wife?" His face showed disbelief.

"No, sir. Meg."

With reverence, he stepped up onto the stool and touched his son's face, carved in stone. "Don't tell me

this is what you were talking to her about in church."

"No, sir. I'd misunderstood something. She was setting me straight."

Kirk's father slowly nodded his head. "My son and I fought the morning he left. Did you know that?"

"No, sir."

"Well, we did. We, fathers, were so damn proud of our boys enlisting the way they did. You were a blight on our honor. We'd planned to lynch you that evening if you didn't leave with them. Kirk found out. Told me if he heard you'd been hanged, he'd desert. I told him if he deserted, I'd hunt him down and shoot him for being a coward."

He dropped his chin to his chest. "He told me I wouldn't have to hunt him because he'd come straight to my door. My boy was going off to face death, and my final words to him were spoken in anger. I didn't tell him I loved him, didn't tell him how proud I was of him. All the words a father should say to his son, I let pass. Now, I can't tell him anything."

Wiping his eyes, he stepped down from the stool. "I talked them out of lynching you because I couldn't bear the thought of shooting my own son."

The man stood with slumped shoulders and a bowed head. Clay didn't know if Kirk's father expected him to drop to his knees and thank him for sparing his life. He didn't know what to say, couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. "Here's the marker."

Kirk's father hefted it off the table. "I appreciate it" He headed for the door and stopped. "I was here that night."

Most of his life, Clay had paid a great deal of attention to silhouettes and shapes. The flour sacks had hidden their faces the night of the attack, but the midnight shadows had revealed their identities. "Yes, sir, I know."

"Kirk told me you weren't a coward, and I called him a damn fool. I was wrong. It'd mean a lot to my ma if you'd come to her funeral tomorrow."

The steady rain began at sunset. The thick branches laden with their autumn leaves shielded Clay from the force of the storm. All he felt was an occasional raindrop as it traveled along a leaf and fell to the earth.

His arms shielded Meg as she pressed her back against his chest. She hadn't come to see him today, but then he hadn't expected her to. He knew she'd be helping the Warners deal with their loss, would be grieving herself. She'd been as close to Mama Warner as he'd been.

But he'd also known he'd find her here this evening, waiting on him. They had shared their deepest emotions at the swimming hole. In spite of the rain, they had felt a need to come here to grieve. They'd wept, held each other close, and now they watched the rain fall.

"Did she go peacefully?" he asked quietly.

"Yes. It was as though she just went to sleep."

"I'm glad, but I sure do feel her loss."