Page 1 of Always to Remember
Prologue
AUTUMN, 1862
BEYOND THE STONE WALLS, THE DAYS MELTED INTO TWILIGHT.
But within the dark void that the walls created, Clayton Holland knew only the inky blackness of a starless night. Days contained neither dawn nor dusk but were filled instead with the monotonous slow passage of time as he waited, his conscience his sole companion.
Kneeling beside his cot, he pressed his forehead against his clasped hands and rested his elbows on the thin mattress. The foul odor of the men who’d come before him wafted around him. In a raw voice, he prayed for his trembling to cease, for courage and, most of all, for the strength to stand firmly by his convictions in these final hours.
After so many repetitions, the prayers should have come easily, but each prayer was different from the one that came before it. With each passing moment, the lingering doubts surfaced, taking on different shapes: the love in his mother’s eyes turning to ravaged grief; his father’s guiding hands drifting away and leaving him to journey along his own path.
His latest prayer went unfinished, his body involuntarily jerking as someone jammed a key into the lock of his cell door. As the door squeaked open, a sliver of light spilled into the blackened abyss.
Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the pale glow, Clayton struggled to his feet. The door closed, a key grated, but the light remained. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, he lowered his hand, and a stout man carrying a lantern came into focus. “Dr. Martin?” he rasped.
The man cleared his throat, the harsh sound filling the dismal silence. “Yes, it’s me, Clay.”
“Is it time?”
“No, not yet. I just thought you could use a little company for a spell.”
Clutching the waistband of his threadbare woolen trousers with one hand, Clay extended the other toward the man who had brought him and most of the boys of Cedar Grove, Texas, into the world. He almost wept as the doctor’s hand warmed his. “Thank you for coming, sir. Do you want to sit? It’s not fancy.” He released what he hoped was a laugh and not a sob. “I’m not even sure it’s clean.”
“It’ll do fine,” Dr. Martin said as he sat on the wobbly cot and set the lantern on the floor.
Clay eased onto the cot, leaned against the wall, and studied his visitor. Even in the obscurity of the shadows Clay could see the wrinkles that the doctor’s kindly smiles had carved into his face over the years.
As a boy, whenever Clay had been ill, he’d always felt better once he heard Dr. Martin was on his way. He found comfort in the man’s presence now even though he knew the doctor could do nothing for him. “Do you think it’ll be a clear morning?”
“Appears it will be.”
“Do you know if I’ll be facing east? I sure would like to see the sunrise before I—” “I don’t know.”
“Why do you think they execute people at dawn anyway?”
Dr. Martin’s shrug was lost in the shadows. “I truly don’t know.”
A strangled laugh escaped Clay’s lips and wandered around the cold cell. “Hell of a way to begin the day.” He scratched his bearded chin. “Sir, do you know what became of Will Herkimer?”
“He …” Dr. Martin released a harsh breath. “He died. Pneumonia set in shortly after they brought you here. I’m sorry.”
Clay nodded, unable to speak for the emotions clogging his throat. He bowed his head in a silent moment of remembrance. “He had a wife,” he said quietly. “And two boys. I always wanted a son.” A sad smile crept over his face. “And a daughter.” He searched the gloom for anything to take his mind off the dreams that would never come to pass. “Dr. Martin, how come you never married?”
“Never could find a woman willing to put up with the life I had to offer, gallivanting around the countryside in the middle of the night to tend sick folks. That’s hard on a woman.”
“Have you … have you ever been with a woman … through the night?”
Self-consciously, Dr. Martin cleared his throat. He never disclosed personal information about his patients’ lives that he unwittingly discovered in the course of their treatment. Until now he’d always applied the practice to himself as well. “Yes, yes, I’ve been with a woman.”
“What’d she smell like?”
Dr. Martin heard the deep longing mirrored in a voice that should have reflected the vibrancy of youth. “Lavender,” he replied.
“Lavender. I don’t recall ever smelling lavender.” A keen sense of loss whispered across the small expanse separating the old man from the young one. Dr. Martin felt the loss as though he’d experienced it himself. He wanted to ask Clay what the hell he had smelled so he could lie and tell him the woman smelled of it. “Honeysuckle,” he said after a time. “Once I slept with a woman who smelled like honeysuckle.”
“Honeysuckle,” Clay repeated in reverence, relief coursing through his voice. “I can imagine a woman smelling like honeysuckle. Was she soft?”
“Very.”
