Chapter 2 #2
Now he turned to face her fully. “I did.”
No apology. No elaboration. Nothing to suggest embarrassment or irritation. If anything, he seemed more settled than before, as though refusal placed his feet on familiar ground.
Mercy held his gaze. The question pressed against the bounds of politeness, and she knew it. But she could think of no explanation for his refusal, and she needed one.
“May I ask why?”
Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable so much as deliberate.
“That’s a private matter,” he said.
She felt the answer like a door closing—not abruptly, but firmly enough to make its intention clear.
“Mr. Porter,” she said carefully, “the purpose of the Roll is to ensure that service of all kinds is properly acknowledged. It’s not simply a matter of ceremony, but of record. Of history.”
His expression didn't change. “Add it to your record if you must. Just don't look to me for more.”
The answer didn't sit right with her. “That’s not the same as participation.”
“It’s enough.”
The quiet certainty in his voice gave her pause. Not because it convinced her—but because it didn't sound like a man dismissing the matter lightly.
“You may feel that way,” she said, choosing her words with care, “but there are others who’d look to that example, young men especially. It gives them something to measure themselves against. Something to aspire to.”
“There will be others they can look to.”
The answer came without hesitation, and Mercy felt the first true flicker of uncertainty. He didn't sound like a man who failed to understand honor. He sounded like a man who had placed himself outside it.
“But not you?”
His gaze held hers, steady and unreadable. “No, ma’am.”
There was nothing in his tone to push against—no temper, no defensiveness. Only a refusal that did not seem to require her agreement.
Mercy felt a flicker of frustration, quickly checked. Pressing harder would serve no purpose—not here, not now. She'd come prepared to reason with a man who had made an oversight. Instead, she'd found a man who had made a decision.
“Very well,” she said after a moment. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Porter. And your help with the transport.”
He inclined his head once. “I’ll be ready when you arrive.”
It was a dismissal of sorts. Or perhaps simply a return to the work that had never fully paused.
Mercy stepped back toward the doorway, the heavier air of the livery giving way once more to the brightness of the street beyond.
She paused just outside.
He hadn’t dismissed her.
But he hadn’t given an inch, either.
And that troubled her more than a simple refusal would have. A careless man could be corrected. A proud one might be persuaded. But Mr. Porter had been neither careless nor proud.
Mercy drew a slow breath.
This wasn’t finished.
The open doorway held the daylight where she’d just passed through, the sounds of the street drifting in and settling again.
Wilson stood where he was, rag in his hand, wiping down a tool he’d already cleaned. He set it with the others, then picked it up again as if there might be something he’d missed.
There wasn’t.
He laid it with the others again, lined true, the way he always did.
For a breath or two, he did nothing.
Then he turned back to the bench and reached for the next piece. Same as always. Same order. Same work.
The motion didn’t settle the way it should.
He pressed a touch harder than needed, the rag catching on the edge before sliding free. The tool shifted in his grip, and a thin splinter bit into his palm.
He stilled, more from the interruption than the pain, then turned his hand slightly to catch the light. A small bead of blood surfaced where the wood had caught him.
He rubbed it away with his thumb, more irritation than injury, and went on.
There’s one other matter.
The words came back to him as if spoken again. He could still see her standing there, hands clasped and chin raised.
He’d had a fair idea what was coming the moment she said it. The schoolteacher didn’t have much of a poker face.
Not the sort to bluster, either. She’d held her ground quiet and steady, as if she expected to be heard.
And sure enough, she'd brought up his participation. And she hadn’t let it go—not even when he’d told her it was private. Stood there and held to it, stubborn as you please.
He hadn’t taken her for the sort to push past a line once it was drawn.
But she had.
Something to aspire to.
His jaw tightened.
Plenty of other men for folks to look to. Plenty who’d earned it clean and straight and left nothing behind to answer for. Let them stand up and be counted. Let them take their place in the parade.
The rag stilled in his hand.
For an instant another image closed in uninvited.
Low light over rough ground. A decision made quick because it had to be. A man’s voice—sharp, not quite anger and nowhere near understanding.
He slapped the tool down harder than he'd meant to.
The sound cracked through the quiet. Ash shifted in his stall, the scuff of hoof against packed dirt. The animal could always pick up on his moods.
Wilson unclenched his jaw, crossed to Ash’s stall, and laid his hand along the animal’s neck, stroking the velvety gray coat until the horse stilled. The warmth under his palm was steady, certain. It answered the way it ought to.
He took a deep breath. There. That was better.
He finished with the tools, wiping them clean and setting them in their places. One by one. Order restored. Nothing left undone.
He picked up the bucket by the door and carried it out into the yard, tipping the water and setting it back where it belonged. The sun had climbed a little higher, the light sharper now, flattening the edges of things.
He’d see her in the morning. And several more mornings to come.
All so she could work on that Roll of Honor.
Bootsteps sounded in the yard, followed by a familiar voice.
“Morning, Porter. You got a team free?”
Livery business—good. Wilson turned, the motion easy, practiced. “Morning Lester. What’re you needing?”
“I'm looking to haul a load out past the creek. Thought I’d take your sorrel pair if they’re not already spoken for.”
“That’ll work,” Wilson said. “You planning to use your own wagon?"
At Lester's nod, he straightened. "Give me a minute.”
He stepped past the man into the livery and turned toward the team stalls. The sorrel pair lifted their heads as he approached, ears forward.
“Easy,” he said, steadying the nearer horse with a hand along its jaw as he brought the halter up in one smooth motion. He slipped the lead on, then reached for the harness, settling the collar and gear with practiced ease.
From the next stall over, Ash shifted and gave a low nicker. Wilson didn’t look, but he reached out and brushed a hand along the rail, a brief acknowledgment before returning to the team.
The work found its rhythm again—collar, traces, lines—each piece falling where it belonged. No wasted motion. No thought needed.
Same as it had always been.
He tightened the last strap, checked the lines once, and stepped back.
Eight-thirty.
His thumb brushed again over the small slice in his palm, testing it without looking.
He’d use Duke for tomorrow's trip to the Miller place. The gelding was steady, sure-footed, and ready for work.
He glanced toward the vehicle shed. No need for the heavier buggy—the light one would suit.
He flexed his hand once, then let it rest at his side.
Eight-thirty.
She’d let it drop before she left—but he didn’t reckon she’d given up. That lack of a poker face gave her away.
Best to try to keep her to the work tomorrow.
If he could.
Mercy paid scant attention to her surroundings as she made her way through town.
She'd set herself a brisk pace. It was nearly noon, and she'd hoped to be home in time to help her mother get their lunch on the table.
The dust lay fine beneath her steps, the air already warming toward the heavier heat of the day.
There was a long list of things to be considered—families yet to visit, records to verify, artifacts to catalog and organize.
But instead of focusing on that, her mind circled back to the livery.
He hadn’t argued.
Hadn’t deflected.
Hadn’t even seemed troubled by her question.
Only… refused.
She pressed her lips together slightly.
It wasn’t the refusal itself that troubled her. Men declined participation for all manner of reasons—misunderstanding, modesty, even simple inconvenience. Those could be addressed in time.
What bothered her was that she couldn't see what lay behind his refusal.
As a schoolteacher, it was important that she understand what lay beneath a person's words and demeanor, and she prided herself on being good at it.
With her students, of course—she'd learned to interpret every hesitation, every glance, every too-quick answer.
It was much the same with their parents.
Even the committee members followed patterns she'd learned to recognize.
She used that understanding to adjust her approach and respond appropriately.
Mr. Porter, however, had offered her nothing to read.
No shifting expression. No evasion. No irritation. No opening at all.
As if the answer he'd given her was the only one there was—and no explanation had been owed.
The image of Mr. Porter at the workbench—steady, unhurried, as though her question had made no difference to him at all—rose again.
That, more than anything, stayed with her.
But when she reached her front gate, she forcibly pushed those thoughts away. No point letting his guardedness spoil the rest of her day. She pushed the gate open and crossed the yard, circling toward the kitchen door at the side of the house. It stood ajar to catch what little breeze there was.