Page 126 of Always to Remember
Epilogue
SUMMER, 1870
SITTING ON THE BENCH, CLAY STUDIED THE MONUMENT.
The dappled moonlight filtered through the abundant leaves and danced along the stone.
He’d regained full use of his hand by the time he was ready to carve the finishing details. Sometimes, his hand ached, and it still cramped if he worked too long, but the pain was worth the accomplishment.
He’d given Kirk what he’d asked for: Meg as she was the last time he gazed upon her … for eternity.
He heard the scattering of leaves and the snap of twigs as someone neared.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Meg said softly as she sat beside him.
He draped his arm around her and drew her into the nook of his shoulder. “I like it best at night. I can’t see all the mistakes.”
“You’re the only one who sees the mistakes. The people around here think it’s perfect. That’s why they wanted the monument in a special place where they could come and reflect on the past and remember their sons.”
“So you suggested the land surrounding our swimming hole.”
“It seemed appropriate, since their sons came here to discuss ‘men’ things. Besides, we won’t be using it anymore.”
He kissed her cheek. “We might if we come back.”
“Will we come back?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know, Meg. I got into the habit a few years back of not thinking past today, but I’ll need a place to work once I’ve learned all I can at the university in Germany. Besides, I like Texas granite.”
She nuzzled his neck. “I’ve grown rather fond of it myself.”
“And fond of me?” he asked.
“Especially fond of you.” She kissed him slow and leisurely to prove her words. Then she nibbled on his ear. “Why don’t we finish this at home? My shoulders are beginning to ache.”
He laughed. “I have an ache myself.”
“I’ll be happy to rub it.”
Giving him a smile that promised heaven when they got home, she rose from the bench and walked to the monument. “Come along, Kirk. It’s time to go home now.”
The little boy hunkered down before the monument shook his head vigorously and ran his hand over the carved letters. He was only two years old, but already his hands were becoming as rough as his father’s. He loved the feel of stone and carried broken pieces in his pockets.
“Weed,” he said.
“Didn’t your father read it to you when he brought you here?”
He shook his head, and Meg looked at Clay. He shrugged. “We knew you’d be along eventually, and he likes your voice better than mine.”
She held out her hand. “All right, then. Let’s start at the beginning.”
She led their son to the front of the monument, and Clay heard his small voice ring out, “My name.”
“That’s right. Kirk. Kirk Warner is the man on the horse.”
Clay listened as she filled the night with the names of those with whom he’d played as a boy. They’d leapt into manhood with courage. War had denied them the sweet rewards of a long life.
Clay stood and walked to the monument as Meg and Kirk walked around the corner. He knelt beside his son and together they trailed their fingers over the letters. Clay cleared his throat as he did every night before he read these words to his son. “Within the shadows of honor, courage often walks in silence.”
