Always to Remember

308 Pages·2016·0.93 MB·English

by  Heath Lorraine

Always to Remember
Lorraine Heath
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
CHapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue Summer, 1870
Titles by Lorraine Heath
SWEET LULLABY
PARTING GIFTS
ALWAYS TO REMEMBER
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that
this book is stolen properly. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed"
to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has
received any payment for this "stripped book."
Reviewers are reminded that changes may be made in this proof copy
before books are printed. If any material from the book is to be
quoted in the review, the quotation should be checked against the
final bound book.
ALWAYS TO REMEMBER
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / February 1996
All rights reserved
Copyright C 1996 by Jan Nowaksy.
This book naty not be reproduced in whole or in part.
by mimeograph or any ctlher means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
ISBN: 0-515-11804-4
A JOVE BOOK*
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue. New York, New York 10016.
JOVE and the "J" design are trademarks belonging to Jove
Publications, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 987654321
To my parents, Lily Elizabeth and Curtis Raybum Heath
Your love gave me the courage to believe in my dreams.
I wish to express my slncerest appreciation to:
Tavla Fortt, writer/editor at The Museum of Modern Art, New York, for
explaining the structural design of stone sculpture. Any flaws in the
design of Clay's statue rest with me.
Laurie Grant, writer and registered nurse, for helping me gather the
medical Information. Any misinterpretation of that information is
mine.
Carmel Thomaston, critique partner and dear friend, for believing in
the story as much as I did.
As always, the librarians and staff of the Piano Public Library system
for sharing a wealth of information.
And the many readers who have taken the time to write me. Your kind
words always brighten my day. I hope my stories will brighten yours.
Lorraine Heath P.O. Box 941673 Piano, TX 75094-1673
Prologue
Autumn, 1862
Beyond the stone walls, the days melted into twilight.
But within the dark void that the walls created, Clayton Holland knew
only the inky blackness of a starless night. Days contained neither
dawn nor dusk but were filled instead with the monotonous slow
passage of time as he waited, his conscience his sole companion.
Kneeling beside his cot, he pressed his forehead against his clasped
hands and rested his elbows on the thin mattress. The foul odor of the
men who'd come before him wafted around him. In a raw voice, he
payed for his trembling to cease, for courage, and, most of all for the
strength to stand firmly by his convictions in these final hours.
After so many repetitions, the prayers should have come easily, but
each prayer was different from the one that came before it. With each
passing moment, the lingering doubts surfaced, taking on different
shapes: the love in his mother's eyes turning to ravaged grief; his
father's guiding hands drifting away and leaving him to journey along
his own path.
His latest prayer went unfinished, his body involuntarily jerking as
someone jammed a key into the lock of his cell door. As the door
squeaked open, a sliver of light spilled into the blackened abyss.
Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the pale glow, Clayton
struggled to his feet. The door closed, a key grated, but the light
remained Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, he lowered his hand, and a
stout man carrying a lantern came into focus. "Dr. Martin?" he rasped.
The man cleared his throat, the harsh sound filling the dismal silence.
"Yes, it's me, Clay."
"Is it time?"
"No, not yet. I just thought you could use a little company for a spell."
Clutching the waistband of his threadbare woolen trousers with one
hand, Clay extended the other toward the man who had brought him
and most of the boys of Cedar Grove, Texas, into the world. He almost
wept as the doctor's hand warmed his. "Thank you for coming, sir. Do
you want to sit? It's not fancy." He released what he hoped was a
laugh and not a sob. "I'm not even sure it's clean."
"It'll do fine," Dr. Martin said as he sat on the wobbly cot and set the
lantern on the floor.
Clay eased onto the cot, leaned against the wall, and studied his
visitor. Even in the obscurity of the shadows Clay could see the
wrinkles that the doctor's kindly smiles had carved into his face over
the years.
As a boy, whenever Clay had been ill, he'd always felt better once he
heard Dr. Martin was on his way. He found comfort in the man's
presence now even though he knew the doctor could do nothing for
him. "Do you think it'll be a clear morning?"
"Appears it will be."
"Do you know if I'll be facing east? I sure would like to see the sunrise
before I"
"I don't know."
"Why do you think they execute people at dawn anyway?"
Dr. Martin's shrug was lost in the shadows, "I truly don't know."
A strangled laugh escaped Clay's lips and wandered around the cold
cell. "Hell of a way to begin the day." He scratched his bearded chin.
"Sir, do you know what become of Will Herkimer?"
"He" Dr. Martin released a harsh breath. "He died. Pneumonia set in
shortly after they brought you here. I'm sorry."
Clay nodded, unable to speak for the emotions clogging his throat. He
bowed his head in a silent moment of remembrance. "He had a wife,"
he said quietly. "And two boys. I always wanted a son.". A sad smile
crept over his face. "And a daughter." He searched the gloom for
anything to take his mind off the dreams that would never come to
pass. "Dr. Martin, how come you never married?"
"Never could find a woman willing to put up with the life
I had to offer, gallivanting around the countryside in the middle of the
night to tend sick folks. That's hard on a woman."
"Have you have you ever been with a woman
through the night?"
Self-consciously, Dr. Martin cleared his throat He never disclosed
personal information about his patients' lives that he unwittingly
discovered in the course of their treatment. Until now he'd always
applied the practice to himself as well. "Yes, yes, I've been with a
woman."
"What'd she smell like?"
Dr. Martin heard the deep longing mirrored in a voice that should
have reflected the vibrancy of youth. "Lavender," he replied.
"Lavender. I don't recall ever smelling lavender." A keen sense of loss
whispered across the small expanse separating the old man from the
young one. Dr. Martin felt the loss as though he'd experienced it
himself. He wanted to ask Clay what the hell he had smelled so he
could lie and tell him the woman smelled of it. "Honeysuckle," he said
after a time. "Once I slept with a woman who smelled like
honeysuckle."
"Honeysuckle," Clay repeated in reverence, relief coursing through his
veins. "I can imagine a woman smelling like honeysuckle. Was she
soft?"
"Very."
"And warm?"
"As warm as a Texas summer."
Silence eased in around them, and Dr. Martin was saddened to think
that in this young man's final moments, he was thinking of a woman
he'd never met and never would meet. He reached into the deep
pocket of his coat, withdrew an apple, and gave it to Clay.
Wrapping both hands around it. Clay relished the fruit's smooth skin
against his unnaturally frigid fingers. Bringing the apple close to his
face, he cupped his hands over his nose and mouth, blocking out the
odors mingling in the cell, as he inhaled deeply. The apple smelled so
sweet, so deliriously sweet. As sweet as life.
He swallowed his sob and ground the heel of his hand into the corner
of his eye. He refused to walk out of this room with tears trailing down
his face.
Leaning forward, Dr. Martin planted his elbows on his thighs. "Clay, all
you have to do is hold the damn rifle. You don't even have to shoot it.
They're gonna fight those damn Yankees any day now. Wouldn't it be
more honorable to die on a battlefield? I could talk to Captain
Roberts, have your sentence revoked"
Slowly, Clay shook his head. For months Captain Roberts had insisted
that he must follow orders and carry a rifle. For months Clay had
steadfastly refused. "I will not lake up arms against my fellow man."
"What am I to tell your father?"
"That I died with honor, fighting for what I believed in."
Dr. Martin sighed heavily. He couldn't deny that the boy had fought.
His body carried the wounds from his battles. "Are you in much pain?
I could give you some laudanum."
"My misery will end soon enough. You'd best save your medicine for
those boys whose misery will just be beginning." He extended the
apple toward the doctor. "Don't think I'd be able to keep this down.
Imagine you'll be able to find someone who could appreciate it a little
longer than I could."
The key grinding in the lock caused Dr. Martin's heart to slam against
his ribs as though he were the one about to be placed before a firing
squad. He took back the apple because he didn't know what else to
do with his hands. His noted bedside manner had deserted him.
The door swung open, and a sergeant, with two privates in his wake,
stepped into the room. The sergeant's deep voice bounced off the
stone walls. "It's time."
Standing, Clay extended his hand toward the doctor. "Thank you, sir,
for coming."
Clasping the young man's hand, taking note of the slight tremor. Dr.
Martin wished he could offer more than a handshake. Clay stepped
toward the open door.
A rope dangling from his hand, a private moved to block his path.
"You need to put your hands behind your back."
Despair flooded Clay's face. "I've lost weight," he stammered. "My
trousers"
The private turned to the sergeant who was already shaking his head.
"He's gotta be bound."
"I'm not gonna run," Clay assured him.
The sergeant appeared on the verge of relenting when he suddenly
barked, "Orders is orders! Bind him."
"Wait a minute," Dr. Martin said as he shrugged off his coat. The
young man had clung tenaciously to his dignity throughout his ordeal,
and now they had the power to strip him of it. They'd fed him nothing
but bread and water for so long that Clay was little more than a
shadow of the robust man who'd once farmed the land in Texas. "He
can use my suspenders."
For the first time in his life, Dr. Martin fought a strong urge to strike
someoneanyonewhen gratitude filled Clay's eyes as he attached the
suspenders.
Clay placed his hands behind his back, fighting off the helplessness
consuming him as the private wound the rope around his wrists. He
wished they'd given him an opportunity to bathe, to make himself
presentable. He reeked to high heaven and no longer remembered
the feel of freshly laundered clothes against his skin.
He followed the sergeant out of the room and along the dim corridor.
Squinting as they stepped into the bright sunlight, he took a deep
breath of outside air. He smelled horses, leather, and gunpowder. The
world had turned brown, orange, and gold. Autumn had come without
his knowing.
The men had gathered at one end of the compound. He could feel
their eyes boring into him. They knew he was a man who refused to
become a soldier, who refused to carry a rifle. They thought he was a
coward. They'd branded him a deserter.
The small procession approached the wall. Clay smiled. It faced east.
He didn't look into the faces of the six men standing before the wall,
but moved into position silently.
Captain Roberts, a West Point graduate who could trace his family's
military history back a hundred years to the
Revolutionary War, stepped forward. "Do you have a final request?"