Page 21 of Always to Remember
“Your stomach will settle by morning. I’ll see to it you have something proper to eat then.” He tossed a log on the fire, and orange sparks shot up. “You can sleep in the wagon tonight.”
Using the tree for support, she pushed to her feet. She gripped the bark and forced the hated words past her lips. “Thank you.”
He looked up, and she could see the confusion in his eyes. “For killing the rattler,” she explained.
He nodded slightly and stirred the fire. On wobbly legs, she walked to the wagon and climbed into the back. Clay had spread several blankets across the wagon bed. She placed a wadded blanket beneath her head as she stretched out and brought another blanket over her aching body.
The night sky was so clear, she felt as though she should be able to touch the twinkling gems that graced the heavens and filled them with tranquillity. She wished she could find a measure of that peace within herself.
She wondered if Kirk had hoped to convince Clay to go with the other men that final day in Cedar Grove. Was that why he had joined Clay on the edge of town? If so, disappointment had ridden at his side, not his friend.
She wondered if he regretted all the years he’d spent in friendship with a man who would one day betray him, a man too cowardly to march where honor dictated.
She was certain that pride had caused him to shake Clay’s hand that final morning. He had embraced Clay not to say good-bye to a friend, but to whisper farewell to a friendship.
A soft gentle scratching distracted her from thoughts of retribution. She imagined a small animal scurrying along the ground, foraging for food, stopping to sniff the air, then pouncing on a pecan or moving the dried leaves aside to search out a tasty morsel.
She eased up to her elbows. She could hear the rasping more clearly. Quietly, she sat up and peered over the side of the wagon. She couldn’t see any creature, but the scratching grew louder. She looked toward the fire.
Sitting with his back against the tree, one knee raised, one leg stretched out before him, Clay scraped a piece of wood with a small knife. The wind toyed gently with the brown locks covering his bowed head. The rifle rested by his side.
“What are you making?” she asked.
“Damn!” Poking his finger between his lips, Clay glared at her. He removed his finger from his mouth and pressed it against his thigh. “Don’t ever do that when I’ve got tools in my hands.”
“Don’t ever do what?” she asked innocently. “Scare me like that.”
“I’m sorry. I’d forgotten you scare easily.”
“And I’d forgotten you have such a sharp tongue.” He plowed his other hand through his hair. “I don’t know why the hell I agreed to this.”
“I didn’t give you a choice.”
“A man always has a choice, Mrs. Warner.”
“And you chose to be a coward.”
“I chose to follow my conscience.”
“Same difference.”
“I don’t think so. Neither did your husband.”
“It’s not fair to besmirch his character when he’s not here to defend himself. Don’t you think he would have told me if he didn’t think you were a coward?”
“The way the winds of war whipped through Texas, I don’t imagine he spent what little time he had left with you talking.”
She knew her face flamed red with embarrassment as images from the past rose into her mind. “How we spent our final moments together is no concern of yours, but I’ll tell you this. You are goddamned right! We didn’t spend a single breath talking about you. We both knew he might not come back, and we crammed a lifetime into what little time we had left. He sacrificed everything for the Confederacy, while you, his friend, sacrificed nothing. Don’t you dare speak to me about him again. You lost that right when you watched him ride away.”
She dropped onto the wagon bed and curled into a tight ball, fighting back the tears that were suddenly stinging her eyes. Surely, Kirk would have told her if he thought Clay wasn’t a coward.
Then again, he had avoided discussing the war or his enlistment because he knew it worried her to think of his leaving.
She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the tears trail down her cheeks. Even in his letters, he had never written about the war. He had described the scenery, or the weather, or the food. He had told her how much he loved her and how much he missed her.
But he had never shared with her his thoughts as a soldier.
Reaching into the waistband of her trousers, she pulled out Kirk’s crumpled letter. She had yet to read it. She knew his final farewell resided in the letter. Until she read it, her own final farewell remained in her heart.
