He nodded, and the sadness momentarily lifted from his eyes. She threw back the flap on the pouch and spilled the letters and scroll into her lap. She dropped the pouch by her side and sifted through the envelopes until she spotted one that didn't have her handwriting on it. She snatched it up, tears filling her eyes as she touched the scrawled words- her name, sharing his name. Even unread, Kirk's final letter was a bittersweet reminder of all she'd once possessed, all she'd lost.

"I don't know if I can read it. Not now. Not after all this time. I don't understand why you didn't bring it to me sooner, before I came to you."

"I tried. The day I got home I went to your farm. Your brother-Daniel, isn't it?"

She nodded.

"He swore he'd kill me if I didn't leave. From the look in his eyes, I figured he meant it. I didn't dare send

it with one of my brothers because I didn't know how deep his hatred ran. I didn't want one of them to

take a bullet that should have gone to me."

Slowly, Meg put all the letters into the pouch. If she read Kirk's letter, it would be when she was alone.

She couldn't bring herself to thank C!ay, although she knew she owed him for bringing Kirk's letter to her. She picked up the rolled paper. "I want to talk to you about the memorial."

"That was just the first thing that popped into my head. It doesn't have to look like that I can sketch out some other ideas."

She gave him a guilty grimace. 'To be honest, I haven't looked at it I was too upset over the letters."

"You should probably look at it before you make a decision. It's rough. I don't have much talent for sketching."

Unrolling the paper, she laid it on the rock, anchoring one end beneath her ankle so one hand was free to touch the charcoaled drawing. She had expected to see men charging into battle, but not this. She'd never expected this.

The drawing contained only one man. Within the shades of gray that comprised his face, she could see a fierce pride. He sat confidently upon his horse, which had its forelegs raised as it reared back on its haunches. One hand held the reins and (he other reached out to a young woman holding a flag that was blowing in the wind.

She brought her trembling fingers to her lips. "It's Kirk," she whispered.

"It will be when I'm done."

ALWAYS TO REMEMBER.

With tears brimming in her eyes, she looked at him. "And the woman?"

Careful not to touch her, he pulled the first sheet of paper away to reveal the statue as it would be viewed

from a different angle.

The woman's face reflected the pride, mingled with anguish, that women had felt for generations when

they sent their men off to war. Her face mirrored love, courage, and knowledge. Eloquently, in silence, the woman knew she was gazing upon the man she loved for the last time.

Meg didn't realize she was openly weeping until she saw the paper wither where her teardrops splashed

upon it.

"The woman," he said quietly, "will be you."

Chapter Four.

Cursing, Clay removed ins hat and wiped the sweat beading his brow. Meg had promised to meet him on the road leading away from town, on the road leading to Austin.

Shifting his backside on the wagon seat, he wondered how many times he was going to let the woman make a fool of him. She'd said dawn. He'd arrived an hour before the sun peered over the horizon. Well, the sun glared at him now.

He jammed his battered hat onto his head, released the brake, and lifted the reins. Hell, he'd go without her. He wasn't certain if Schultz would have anything available at the stone quarry he mined near Austin, but Clay wanted to look. Then when Meg Warner showed her face in a week, or a month, or a year, he could tell her what he'd seen.

Flicking the reins, he knew the prospect of judging the quality of stone hadn't kept him awake most of the night. His inability to sleep had resided in the scented promise of honeysuckle surrounding him as he journeyed to Austin.

He was damn insane to anticipate something as simple as a woman's scent. Maybe he had lost his mind while he was a prisoner. After the execution that never came, they'd sentenced him to hard labor. On days when they couldn't find anything useful for him to do, they made him pound rocks for no good reason except that it caused his back to ache and his hands to blister. He was certain his jailers never realized how difficult it had been for him to see the potential within a rock just before he had to smash it into white powder.

Now Meg was giving him the opportunity to shape a hunk of rock into something of value.

And it scared the hell out of him.

He'd been cutting into wood, stone, and his own fingers since he was a boy. He'd gathered his informal education at his father's knee whenever his father found time to show him the craft that he had learned from his father before him. But his father's tutelage had never satisfied Clay's hunger. It always left him craving more knowledge, yearning to create the images that filled his mind.

He'd discovered his own technique through trial and error, nurturing his innate skill, learning from his failures, reveling in his few successes. He knew he'd drawn something on paper that he probably couldn't create with his hands, but, damn, he wanted to create it for all the reasons Meg had stated... and more.

He heard the galloping hooves and glanced over his shoulder to see the dirt rise and swirl around the horse and rider as they barreled down the road.

Without an apology or explanation, Meg slowed her horse until it was walking beside the wagon. She was wearing Kirk's faded flannel shirt, woolen trousers, and crumpled brown hat. Beneath the hat's wide brim, Meg's pert little nose strained to touch a cloud. He wondered if he'd imagined the gentleness of her tears the day before as she'd studied his sketches, wondered why he'd thought the tears were strong enough to melt away her hatred. With his thumb, he tilted his hat off his brow. "Morning."

She slid her gaze over to him as though she'd just seen a snake slither under a rock. Her nose went up a fraction higher, and this time he couldn't help himself. He smiled.

Her eyes widened just before she averted her gaze and fidgeted with something on the other side of her saddle. "I am not here to provide you with company. I simply want to make certain you make the best choice."

"Know a lot about rocks, do you?"

She swung her gaze back to his. "I know what I like."

He eased the smile off his face. "And what you don't like."

She gave a brusque nod. "Especially what I don't like." Heaving a sigh, he stared ahead at the dirt road

he'd traveled a dozen times with his father. He had a sinking feeling this trip would be the longest he'd ever taken, and he sure as hell couldn't smell any honeysuckle. "Did you bring the money?"

"Certainly." Against his will, he found his gaze returning to Meg's slender form. She sat on a horse with a measure of grace and confidence that came from weathering life's storms and bending so naturally with the force of the wind that it could never conquer her. Maybe he should have sketched her and not Kirk, sitting astride the horse.

Only he wanted to capture her as she was before the war had destroyed her innocence and hope. He wanted to capture her resilient spirit, a spirit that had survived even when the war snatched away the dreams she shared with another. "Is it the money your husband was saving to purchase his farm with?"

Her blue eyes widened until he thought they rivaled the sky in beauty. "He told you about the farm he wanted?" "We were friends. He told me a lot of things." She wiggled her backside in the saddle, and Clay was tempted to toss a blanket over her lap. They were probably safer with her traveling dressed in her husband's clothes, but she looked decidedly different in trousers than Kirk had looked. Without a doubt, however, she'd made alterations to the clothing so that it fit. Kirk had been straight as a board from his shoulders to his toes; he'd never possessed those curves. But the clothes didn't seem to mind one bit. As a matter of fact, the trousers were hugging her as though they cared for her deeply.

"What did he tell you7" she asked.

He wrenched his eyes up to her face where they should have been all along. He had no business letting

his gaze wander to her hips. Since she hadn't slapped him, he figured his hat was shading his face so she couldn't see exactly where he'd been looking. "What?"

"What exactly did Kirk tell you?"

"Lots of things."

"Like what?"

He shrugged. "He told me if I dug a hole when the moon was full I'd have enough dirt to fill it back in."

"Why would you dig a hole at night?"

"I wouldn't."

"Then why did he tell you that?"

"For some reason, when you dig a hole you never seem to have enough dirt to fill it back in. He said

digging during a full moon would make a difference."

"I don't see why it would."

He rubbed the side of his nose. "It doesn't."

She leaned over slightly. "Did you dig a hole when the moon was full?"

Her eyes carried a spark of interest, and he was glad he could give her the answer he was certain she

wanted. "Yes, ma'am. He always seemed to know everything so I gave it a try."

"And discovered he'd pulled one over on you," she said smugly.

He nodded, astonished that she still took enormous pride in her husband's pranks.

"So he just told you silly things," she said.

Tipping his hat farther off his brow, he smiled lazily. "Mostly."

Looking away, she again fiddled with something on the other side of her saddle. He couldn't see what

was happening within the loose shirt she wore, but small waves rippled across her chest with her agitated

movements. One day, he'd carve those ripples, but at the moment all he wanted was to look into those

blue eyes. "But sometimes we discussed things of a personal nature."

She jerked her head around, her finely arched eyebrows knitting together in consternation. "Like what?"

A corner of his mouth tilted higher as he looked up at the blue sky. The sky should have taken its shading from her eyes. "Things."

"What sort of things?"

He squinted as though thinking hard. "All sorts of things."

She yanked the hat from her head, and the thick braid she'd stuffed beneath it fell along her narrow back.

He wondered what it would feel like to unravel that braid and comb his fingers through those ebony