Page 28 of Always to Remember
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
Watching as he rubbed his shoulders against the tree before staring vacantly at the fire, she doubted his words. She’d been so thrilled with the stone that she’d paid little attention to anything else.
Shortly after they’d made camp, he went in search of game. She heard his rifle shot fill the air three times, but he returned to camp empty-handed. She dipped into his meager supplies, cooked some biscuits, and warmed a can of beans. Remembering the manner in which he wolfed down the simple, tasteless meal, she had a feeling that sleep wasn’t the only thing he’d done without the night before.
She thought back to the first night they’d made camp. Had he slept then? She remembered that some time had passed after her outburst before she again heard the knife shave the wood. She’d taken the sound into her dreams. Had it been with her all night? “Have you slept at all since we began this journey?”
“I don’t need much sleep.”
Meg gathered the blankets and clambered out of the wagon. She marched across the narrow space separating them and dropped the blankets in his lap. “You sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
Shaking his head, he pushed off the blankets. “You won’t call if you need me.”
For the first time, she noticed the dark shadows beneath eyes that were fighting a losing battle to remain open. “Is that why you stayed in the alley outside the hotel last night?”
Slipping his fingers between the buttons on his shirt, he rubbed his chest. “I reckon you got cause to think the way you do, but I’d die before I’d let any harm come to you.”
Disconcerted by his slightly slurred words, Meg bundled up a blanket. “Here, lie down and go to sleep before you make yourself sick.”
“Careful, Mrs. Warner. You might make me think you care.”
“About you? Not in the least, but I just spent Kirk’s life’s savings on that hunk of rock you wanted so desperately, so you damn well better take care of yourself until you’ve turned it into the monument you promised me. After that, I don’t care if you drop dead.”
“Truth be told, you’d probably prefer for me to drop dead.”
“Absolutely.”
He gave her a tired grin. “I won’t hold it against you if you’re not quite so honest with me.”
She stopped fussing with the blankets. Why did it tug on her heart when he teased her like that? “I never want you to doubt where you stand with me.” She patted the blanket. “Now, get some sleep.”
“I can go four days without sleep.” He stretched out on the ground, and she shoved the folded blanket beneath his head. He yawned. “Went five days once.”
“Why in the world would you want to?” she asked quietly, but she doubted that he heard her question. His face was relaxed, his dark lashes touching his cheeks. His long brown hair had fallen across his brow. He hadn’t shaved recently, and his bearded stubble seemed to cast a shadow over his face.
The facial hair on Kirk’s face had never been that thick, but then Kirk had never been this old, had never reached this phase of manhood. Studying Clay as he slept, she felt as though she’d been married to a boy instead of a man.
The last time she looked upon her husband, he’d been filled with the exuberance of youth. In her mind, the man who had fallen beneath Union guns was the same man who had kissed her soundly and laughed at the prospect of defeat.
In her heart, he would always remain the confident twenty-year-old who loved practical jokes.
But beyond the hills, he had aged … for two years.
Had he changed as much as the man who now slept on the ground?
Like an ancient map, Clay’s face was well-worn and lined with paths traversed by sorrow and pain. And perhaps regret.
Tentatively, Meg brushed the hair away from his eyes. She wondered about the circumstances that had shaped those deep furrows.
Against her will, she was intrigued. If Clay, who had fought no battles, had changed to such a degree in the years he was away from Cedar Grove, how much more Kirk must have changed. His face would have carried more lines, shown his deep conviction to the Cause, reflected his true character.
With a deep sadness, she realized the man to whom she’d handed the silk Confederate flag probably wasn’t the same man who died at Gettysburg.
Slowly, laboriously, Clay opened his eyes. She was sleeping beside him. Well, she wasn’t exactly beside him. If he reached out, he didn’t think he’d be able to touch her, but he was close enough to hear her even breathing and see the fire’s faint glow reflected on her ivory cheeks.
And she snored, just as Kirk had told him. It was a gentle snore that reminded him of the way a contented kitten purred after its belly was filled with warm milk.
