Page 48 of Always to Remember
“What the heck’s goin’ on?” Josh asked.
“Lucian’s home. Go on to bed.”
The boys padded across the room to the bathtub. “Why the heck are you bathin'?” Josh asked. “It ain’t Saturday.”
“I felt dirty after working with stone all day.”
“We feel dirty all the time. That ain’t no reason to bathe. People bathe when they want to look nice for somebody. You sweet on Miz Warner?”
“Did you say you were feeling dirty?” Clay asked.
The boys exchanged glances.
“Because if you are, I’ll put you in this water as soon as I get out.”
“Nah, we ain’t feelin’ dirty. Not tonight.”
“You feeling sleepy? Because if you’re not, I’m gonna put you in this water anyway.”
Both boys opened their mouths wide and yawned.
“Get on to bed,” Clay said.
The boys trudged back to their room and closed the door.
Clay grabbed the lye soap and scrubbed briskly. Leaning to the side, he reached for the towel. The front door opened, and Clay slid back into the water.
“I came home to sleep in my bed,” Lucian growled. “By God, I’m gonna sleep there.”
He slammed the front door, then slammed the door to the bedroom he shared with the twins.
Clay waited until silence filled the house, the water turned cold, and the fire died in the hearth before he ventured from the tub.
Celebrating was a risky undertaking in this house.
Nine
IT WAS TORTURE TO SIT IN SILENCE ASCLAY WORKED.
A thousand questions surfaced within Meg’s mind as she watched him chip away the stone, piece by piece. She held her curiosity and tongue in check because she knew if she interrupted his concentration, he could turn the chisel at an incorrect angle, hit it harder than he should, or slam the hammer where he shouldn’t.
But it was torment to sit perfectly still while he moved with that steady, fluid rhythm that never faltered. His lean body emanated a controlled strength as he repeatedly swung the hammer and adjusted the angle of the chisel.
He’d rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. Meg watched in fascination as his muscles tightened until his arms looked as hard as the stone into which he cut. His large hands held the chisel and hammer with a death grip.
Only his brown eyes were visible above the red bandanna. His gaze never strayed from the chisel. His thick, dark brows met above the bridge of his nose to form a deep furrow in his brow.
He ignored the sweat trickling along his temple. His attention was focused solely on the stone and the tools he wielded with the expertise of a marksman.
Just as early morning dew gathered on clover, beads of moisture coated the back of his neck. She imagined that it covered his throat as well, but the bandanna prevented her from seeing if it pooled within the hollow at the base of his throat. She watched as wet streaks appeared on his shirt.
Heat permeated the shed. Even with the windows open and a slight breeze blowing through, the air was still hot. Meg pressed her bandanna against her upper lip to blot the moisture that tickled her face.
Every day she sat in the sweltering warmth watching him work. Every day she expected him to remove his shirt and give his body some release from the baking heat. She had on occasion thought of suggesting it to him. She didn’t want him to collapse.
But more, she wanted to see his entire body tense and carry the strength that was so evident in his hands and forearms. She had the impression that his craft had carefully molded his entire body over the years until it was as finely tempered as his tools.
His shirt hung loosely off his shoulders, his trousers were a shade too short. He’d grown taller and thinner since the day he’d stood on the outskirts of town watching his friends ride away. Yet his clothes could not conceal the intensity with which he worked. From the white hair at his temples to the worn soles on his boots, he gave himself up to what he was doing: he was merely an extension of his tools, using his mind, his imagination, and every muscle he possessed to take Nature’s work of art and turn it into his own.
