Page 113 of Always to Remember
He stepped away from the granite, and she loosened her grip on the chisel. As fast as a streak of lightning, he dropped the hammer, plucked the chisel from her grasp, and threw it down. He grabbed her hand before she could react.
“Damn it, Meg, why didn’t you tell me about your hands?”
“They’re not that bad, and we don’t get much time to work as it is. We can’t stop every time I’m having a little discomfort.”
“A little discomfort? Your hands are raw.”
“Doesn’t your hand hurt?” she asked.
“Sit in that chair and don’t move until I get back.”
He stalked from the shed, and she dropped into the chair. He was as distant as the storm that rolled over the hills. She could hear the thunder; she could see the lightning; but she could touch neither. She couldn’t reach the essence of the storm.
Clay never smiled. He never teased. He seldom looked at her. He no longer went to church. The masked night riders had reduced his life to the house, the shed, and an occasional walk through the fields. She was here with him every morning, and she’d never felt farther away from him.
He walked in and knelt before her. He set ajar within the crook of his elbow and turned the lid with his good hand.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Some salve my ma made up. It’ll make your hands feel better. We won’t work tomorrow.” He set the jar on the ground and dug his fingers into the thick ointment. “Place your hands on your lap so the palms are up. Tell me if I hurt you.”
Gently, he smoothed the salve over her palm and rubbed it into the raw padding of her hand, then worked his thumb and fingers over her hand, blending the salve into her flesh. “Does that feel better?” he asked.
“Much.”
“I’ll do the other hand now.” He dipped his fingers into the jar, retrieved more balm, and massaged it into her other hand.
“Do you hate me?” she asked quietly.
He stilled his fingers, but didn’t lift his gaze. “No,” he said in a low voice. He began massaging her hand again.
“Do you know who put the knife through your hand?”
His fingers faltered, then he rubbed her palm with more intensity.
“It was Daniel, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“I can’t be sure.”
Turning her hand, she managed to nestle his between both of hers before he could pull away. She kneaded her fingers over his palm. “Has anyone ever put this salve on your hands?”
“I’ve used it a time or two.”
“Did you put it on yourself?”
“Sure. Just put it on, rub it in. There’s no secret to it.”
Reaching into the jar between them, she coated her fingers with the ointment, then trailed them down the center of his palm. “The secret is having someone else put it on for you,” she said as she worked her thumb between his fingers. “Your hands are so strong. Even when they aren’t working, they feel so strong.”
“They’re so damn big.”
“The better to hold me with.”
He slid his hand out of hers. “They’re not gonna be holding you.”
“What about your injured hand? Don’t you think the salve would make it feel better?”
He hesitated, and she knew he was fighting with his conscience. Everything for this man was a battle.
