The Heart of Honor (Petticoats and Patriots #9)

Chapter 1

Hawthorne, Texas

Mercy Owens shifted slightly in her chair.

Her discomfort wasn’t just the unfamiliar vantage of sitting at a student desk instead of standing at the front of the room.

It had more to do with the committee’s current debate that had once again circled back to its starting point.

No new information was being presented. And yet Mayor Caldwell made no move to interrupt it, allowing the discussion to circle the same ground without resolution.

“The veterans should lead the procession.” Colonel Briggs’s tone was firm and unyielding. “They’re not representing some ancestor—we’re speaking of men who served with their own lives.”

Mrs. Whitaker’s fan snapped open with a soft, decisive flick.

“And I have already said, Colonel, that the founding families represent the very beginning of this town. It would be a poor sort of celebration that did not place them in proper precedence.” She inclined her head slightly.

“We are, first and foremost, marking the golden anniversary of Hawthorn’s founding—as well as the centennial of our nation.

Recognition of our brave soldiers is certainly appropriate, but it is not the central purpose of the occasion. ”

Mercy lowered her gaze to the paper before her and let her pencil drift into a small, absent pattern along the margin, more to steady her thoughts than for decorative purposes.

Beside her, Reverend Fields’s pen scratched steadily across the page, the sound even and unhurried despite the rising tension–though she had no idea what he could be making note of. Still, Mercy found herself listening to it for a moment, grateful for something in the room that kept a steady pace.

Reverend Fields paused in his writing. “If we are to mark the centennial with proper reverence, then those with Revolutionary lineage ought to be given their due. That, after all, is the foundation upon which the day itself rests.”

Daniel Carter exhaled and leaned forward, all business. “We’re not arranging a history lecture—we’re organizing a parade. I asked for details so I can do my part. I need numbers and mode—how many mounted, how many in wagons. We can sort the rest once we know what we’re working with.”

Mercy glanced toward him at that, her attention catching on the certainty in his tone.

Practical. Direct. Necessary. And not wrong. He was well-suited to being head of logistics.

But his point was falling on deaf ears.

They weren’t listening to one another, only waiting their turn to press the same point again.

Her pencil tapped once—light, thoughtful—before she caught herself and stilled it again.

If the order was to mean anything—if it was to reflect more than convenience—it could not be based solely on what was easiest to arrange. But that was a point to make another time.

Then it came—a brief lull. Not agreement, only the absence of someone speaking. Mercy drew a breath and stepped into the void before it closed again.

“As I noted in my report earlier,” she said, lifting her head, “there are still several families whose records remain incomplete. Particularly those living outside of town. Until those are verified, we don’t yet have a reliable count.”

A few heads turned—some in acknowledgment, others in mild impatience—and Mercy felt the familiar weight of both.

Daniel frowned slightly. “How many are we missing?”

“A small number,” Mercy said. “But not an insignificant one. Some of the outlying farms have been here since the early days of the settlement. Their contributions simply haven’t been recorded.”

Mrs. Whitaker tilted her head. “And you intend to gather all of this information yourself?”

The question lingered just a fraction longer than it ought to have.

Mercy held her expression steady, though a quiet thought pressed forward—no one had shown this much interest when she’d presented her report earlier, when the gaps had first been laid out plain as day.

Then, it had been little more than a note to be acknowledged and set aside.

“If I’m to vouch for the accuracy of the Roll of Honor, yes.”

There was a brief pause.

Not disagreement, exactly.

But not full support, either.

It was a familiar space to occupy, that narrow ground between being heard and being set aside. Her reports were accepted readily enough—but their full weight rarely seemed to land all at once.

Mayor Caldwell gave a measured nod. “See to it, Miss Owens. We will need your findings before we can finalize the procession order.”

Mercy inclined her head. “I’ll begin calls on the outlying properties tomorrow.”

“Good,” Daniel said, already turning back to his notes. “The sooner we have a complete list, the sooner we can get this settled.”

A faint smile tugged at one corner of Mercy’s mouth—gone almost as soon as it formed, before it could be mistaken for agreement.

If completeness alone could settle the matter, they would have been done long before now.

Voices rose again—quicker this time, words overlapping where before they had waited their turn. Mercy felt the shift more than she heard it, a tightening in the room as patience wore thin.

A remark landed—quiet, but weighted—and the room seemed to tilt with it, not in direction, but in tone.

“…ought to be reserved for those who bore the real burden of it,” Colonel Briggs remarked, not loudly, but with enough weight to be heard.

Mercy’s gaze dropped to her hands.

Her father’s tools had left their marks there once—small scars along her fingers from helping in his saddlery shop as a girl. He had not worn a military uniform. Yet men had ridden with his work beneath them, trusted it, depended on it.

No one in this room would argue for his place.

Because there was no place for it to be argued.

At the front of the room, Mayor Caldwell straightened. “We’ll table the question of parade order for now,” he said, tapping the desk lightly to draw their attention. “Until Miss Owens completes her records and we can review the full list, we’ve no grounds for a final decision.”

A few reluctant nods followed. Colonel Briggs didn’t look satisfied, but he didn’t object.

Mercy wasn’t certain how a count would address everyone’s concerns but she held her peace—the discussion had already gone on longer than it should.

“One final report,” the mayor continued. “Colonel?”

Briggs shifted his stance. “I’ve spoken with each of the veterans. They were honored to be asked. One man—David Mulligan—can’t ride on account of paralysis, but I told him we’d see him included in a wagon.”

“Do I need to work on that or will you?” Daniel had his pencil poised, ready to make a note.

“I’ll take him up in my own buggy. We’ll lead the veterans.”

“Sounds good.” Daniel jotted down a note. “How many will be riding?”

“An even dozen.” The colonel glanced her way. “That includes the outlying farms and ranches, so I don’t expect that number to change.”

Mercy nodded.

Mayor Caldwell glanced around the room. “Is that everything?”

“Just one other matter you should be aware of.” Colonel Briggs paused as if weighing his words. “One of the veterans, while expressing his thanks for the invitation, has declined the honor.”

The room quieted—not entirely, but enough.

“Declined?” Daniel repeated.

Mrs. Whitaker’s brows lifted. “I cannot imagine why anyone would do such a thing.”

“He gave no reason,” Briggs said. “And I didn’t feel I should push for one.”

“Then we’ll account for it when we finalize the numbers,” the mayor said, already moving on to old business.

Voices shifted again, turning—almost too easily—to the proposed fireworks display. Mercy listened only in part, aware instead of how quickly the earlier moment was slipping away, thinning between one topic and the next before it could take hold.

But it didn’t sit easily with her.

A man who had served refused to be recognized, honored.

Something in that niggled at her—quiet but insistent—refusing to be shrugged off.

The meeting finally ended. Chairs scraped. Papers were gathered. Conversations broke into smaller threads as people rose to leave, the earlier tension thinning into practical motion.

Mercy closed her notebook slowly, her thoughts circling to her upcoming tasks.

Outlying families.

Unfinished histories.

And below it all, this reluctant hero.

She waited until Colonel Briggs stepped away from the others before crossing the room.

“Colonel,” she said quietly, “for my records—may I have the name of the gentleman who declined?”

He looked at her for a moment, as though weighing the necessity of the question, then gave a short nod.

“Porter,” he said. “Wilson Porter.”

Mercy repeated the name silently.

Porter.

Yes… she knew of him.

Not in any personal way—but enough.

Enough to give her an idea of just how to approach him.