Lorraine Heath (33 page)

“Why are your hands shaking?” Clay asked.

“I didn’t realize they were.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Let me see your palms.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my palms.”

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.

“I’ll be gentle,” she promised.

He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned low in his throat. Gingerly, she lifted his hand off his thigh and placed it in her lap. Lightly, she trailed her fingers over the scar on his palm. “Is it still tender?”

Cautiously, he peered at her. “Not as much.”

Creating small circles, she rubbed the balm over his palm. “I go to the swimming hole every night,” she said softly. She felt his hand tense and met his gaze. “I keep hoping I’ll see you there.”

“It’s best if I don’t go.”

“Why? Because I wouldn’t walk out of church with you? I was wrong—”

“No!” He worked his hand free of her grasp. “You were right. We have no future. I was wrong to think otherwise. I was planning to move on because I didn’t like the hatred touching my brothers. I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t touch you.”

“I know you’re not a coward—”

“It doesn’t matter any more. The twins were right. You should marry Robert.”

“I don’t love Robert.”

He stood. “Your hands need some time to heal. You should probably stay away for a week or so.” He walked to the door.

She rose from the chair and clasped her hands before her. “I love you, Clay.”

With a sad smile, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Meg, but I’m tired of fighting.”

Her protest fell on deaf ears as he strode away.

Lying in bed, he studied his hands in the midnight shadows. They didn’t look any different, but they sure felt different.

A man could get spoiled having a woman in his life, smiling with the dawn, humming while she cooked breakfast, furrowing her brow while she held the chisel, rubbing salve over his hands. Every day he hated to see the sun rise above the windows on the shed. Late morning would give way to noon, and it would be time for her to leave.

She cooked them another meal and always left a pecan pie sitting on the table before she went to Mama Warner’s.

Then Clay would go and watch the corn grow in the afternoon and count the minutes until dawn. He knew the time would come when he’d begin counting the years since he last saw her. He dreaded the coming of that first day when he knew the next day wouldn’t bring her back.

She might not love Robert, but loneliness wouldn’t agree with her. She seemed to like Robert well enough, and Clay figured the day would come when she’d settle for companionship over love.

He hoped he was long gone by then.

He heard a tapping on the window shutter. He eased out of bed and crept across the room.

“Clay?”

Groaning at the sweet voice on the other side, he opened the shutter slightly. “What?”

“Meet me in the shed.”

Before he could respond, she darted away. Cursing under his breath, then cursing aloud, he jerked on his clothes and headed as quietly as he could toward the shed.

The shutters were down and the door closed when he arrived. He pushed the door open and peered into the building. A solitary lantern rested on his table.

He stepped into the shed and closed the door. “Meg?”

She emerged from behind the granite, wearing her skirt and clutching her blouse to her chest. The pale light reflected off her bare shoulders.

Clay forgot how to breathe, forgot how to move, forgot how to think. “What—” He swallowed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“My shoulders hurt. You got so angry this morning when you found out my hands were hurting that I thought I should tell you about my shoulders and let you rub some salve over them.”

His gaze darted over to the table. The jar was sitting there with the lid already removed. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shook his head, took a step back, and bumped against the door. “I can’t.”

She moved a hand away from her blouse so she could rub her neck. The blouse slipped a little to reveal a fraction of a curve. He hadn’t seen any curves that night by the swimming hole. He’d felt them, but he hadn’t seen them. The sight of them could probably bring a man to his knees.

“I thought about asking my father to rub my shoulders, but he doesn’t know I come here so I didn’t know how to explain why I was hurting.” She shrugged slightly, and a little more curve came into view. “Robert knows. I guess I could ask him—”

“No!”

She lowered her hand and clutched her blouse. The curve disappeared.

“I mean—” He plowed his hand through his hair. “How badly do you hurt?”

“I can’t sleep.”

If he touched her, he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, but then he hadn’t been sleeping anyway. “All right.”

In her excitement, she rose onto her toes. Lord, her feet were bare.

“Will you spread the quilt?” she asked.

“The quilt?”

She nodded quickly. “I set it on the chair.”

He stalked to the chair in the corner, grabbed the quilt, and spread it out on the floor. The sooner he got this over with, the better. He stomped to the table and picked up the jar of salve. “All right. Let’s get this done so you can head on home.”

She turned a rosy shade of pink that traveled from her cheeks to the valley hidden by her blouse. Demurely, she presented her back to him and knelt on the quilt.

He could have sworn he heard the jar crack in his hand.

She draped her braid over one shoulder. Lord, she had more curves than he imagined: the curve of her side, the curve of her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the nape of her neck. And everything came together so beautifully, it took his breath away. He’d never be able to carve anything that looked as beautiful as she was now.

He dropped to his knees and set the jar beside him on the quilt. “Where exactly do you hurt?”

“Everywhere. My neck, my shoulders, my back. That’s why I took off my blouse. I thought it would be easier for you if you didn’t have to fight the cloth.”

Fight the cloth? Right now he was fighting a raging battle with his own flesh.

Digging into the jar, he coated his fingers, hoping if he used enough salve, he could shield his hand from the silky smoothness of her skin. She tilted her head, and the curve of her nape lengthened. He was grateful he couldn’t use his other hand. He took a deep breath. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

Tentatively, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She sighed, and he jerked his hand back. “Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not.”

He returned his hand to her shoulder and discovered the salve didn’t serve as a buffer against the warmth of her flesh. Slowly, he worked his fingers over her shoulders and neck. He carved her curves into his memory as he rubbed the salve into her skin. He had made a mistake. He shouldn’t have made love to her in the darkness of midnight. He should have waited until noon when she could have basked in the sunlight, and he could have appreciated all her beauty.

Her narrow back tapered down to her tiny waist. He thought he’d know all there was to carving if he’d been able to study her lines over the years.

He wiped his hand on his trousers. “There. That should take care of your pain,” he said more gruffly than he’d intended.

She peered over her shoulder. “Are you in pain?”

He was, but it wasn’t any place he could invite her to rub. “No, I’m fine.”

She twisted around slightly. “Take off your shirt, and I’ll rub your back anyway. I don’t imagine anyone has ever rubbed your back for you.”

He shook his head vigorously. “I don’t like to take my shirt off in the light.”

To his astonishment, she rose, retrieved the lantern from the table, set it beside the quilt, and dimmed its flame until it cast more shadows than light.

“There. Now you’re not in the light,” she said quietly.

But he felt as though he were sitting in the middle of the sun. He spun around and jerked his shirt over his head. He didn’t think his back carried any scars above his waist. His hips and upper thighs were another matter. With his back to her, she wouldn’t have to stare at the
D
they’d burned into his chest. It was the scar he hated most. “If you’re gonna do it, do it,” he barked.

“I’m sorry. I was just admiring your back. Even in the shadows I like the way it looks.”

She began kneading his shoulders. He stopped breathing. She was using both hands. How was she holding up her blouse? Maybe she was using her mouth—

“How does that feel?” she asked.

Nope. She wasn’t using her mouth. “Feels fine, but you’re not using the salve.”

“I don’t like the way it tastes.”

Was the woman daft? “Tastes?”

“Tastes,” she said in a throaty voice before she placed her mouth between his shoulders.

She trailed her mouth and tongue along his spine, and he wished his spine were three times longer than it was. Her mouth traveled back toward his neck. Again, he wondered how she was holding her blouse in place.

Then she pressed her bare breasts against his back, and he forgot all about her damn blouse. Her nipples felt as though they were tiny pebbles buried in soft clay. He smiled inwardly at the thought. He wouldn’t mind burying them in his mouth. She nibbled on his neck, then nibbled on his ear.

“I’m not wearing anything beneath my skirt,” she whispered.

“Dear Lord,” he said hoarsely.

She eased her hands around his waist and nimbly undid the first button on his trousers. “Are you wearing anything beneath your trousers?”

“No—”

She undid another button.

“I didn’t know—”

She gave another button its freedom.

“How urgent your need—”

“Very urgent,” she assured him as she wrapped her fingers around him.

He bowed his head. “Damn.”

She stilled her fingers. “What is it?”

“I was wrong,” he said in a strangled voice. “I can’t stand up to any torture that’s handed out.” He twisted around. “Damn you, Meg.” He lowered her to the quilt and covered her body with his own. Cradling her face with his good palm, he caressed her cheek with the fingers of his injured hand. “Damn you. Even knowing that hell lies on the other side, I can’t resist touching heaven.”

He kissed her long and drank deeply as though he’d crossed a desert: she was the well that contained all the things he’d dreamed about as he traveled alone. She was the water, the succulent fruit, the warmth on a cold night, the shade that protected him from the harsh sun.

He worked his hand around her back and fought the buttons on her skirt as she struggled to get him out of his trousers. The solution was simple. Take a moment and stop kissing, but she didn’t seem to want to release his mouth any more than he wanted to release hers.

Then they were warmth against warmth, flesh against flesh from their toes to their mouths. Pulling back, Clay leaned over and increased the flame in the lantern.

“I didn’t think you liked the light,” she said.

“I don’t like to be in the light, but I made love to you in the dark and didn’t know what I was missing. I wish I could make love to you in the sunshine.” Reverently, he skimmed his hand along every curve she possessed. “You’re so beautiful. Every line is perfect.”