Chapter 3
By the time Mercy reached Main Street, Hawthorn was already fully awake.
A wagon loaded with feed sacks creaked toward the mercantile while Mrs. Talley swept dust from the boardwalk outside the dress shop.
Somewhere farther down the street came the steady ring of a blacksmith’s hammer.
The warm scent of yeast bread drifted from an open kitchen window nearby, mingling with horseflesh, dust, and sun-warmed wood.
Mercy adjusted her grip on the satchel at her side and glanced briefly toward the regulator clock hanging in the mercantile window as she passed.
Precisely on time.
Good. Punctuality was a discipline she prided herself on.
She’d already conducted dozens of these interviews for the centennial committee, so the Miller visit was hardly unusual in itself. The only difference was that the others had taken place here in town, where she could walk from one household to another, and keep control of her own schedule.
Having uninterrupted time with Mr. Porter would also provide an added benefit. It might help her better understand him and his motives. Because nothing about the man fit neatly together.
His neighbors respected him, yet he remained determined to stand apart from them.
Only by understanding the root of his resistance could she persuade him to reconsider.
He might think the matter settled. Mercy didn't.
The memory of his refusal to discuss the matter still pricked faintly at her pride. Not because he’d been rude. Oddly enough, it might have been easier if he had.
But Mr. Porter possessed a calm sort of reserve that left her with nothing solid to push against. He never argued. Never raised his voice. Never offered enough explanation for her to untangle.
He simply… refused.
Which only strengthened her conviction that there was something important beneath the refusal.
As the livery came into view, her pace slowed slightly. Mr. Porter stood near the hitching rail checking a buckle strap with the same efficient steadiness she remembered from yesterday.
A chestnut gelding waited quietly beside him, fully harnessed to the buggy, ears flicking lazily at the morning flies.
For reasons she could not entirely explain, the sight settled something in her.
Reliable.
The word arrived unbidden. Not merely because he was ready on time, though she appreciated punctuality. But because nothing about him suggested carelessness. The buggy was clean, the harness properly fitted, the horse calm and well-handled.
Mr. Porter didn’t strike her as a man who neglected duty lightly—which only made his refusal to stand with the other veterans more difficult to understand.
He looked up as she entered the yard. “Morning, Ma'am.”
“Good morning.”
His gaze dropped briefly toward the satchel in her hand. “That all you’re bringing?”
“It is.” Had he expected something more?
He took it easily from her and stowed it beneath the buggy seat.
Mercy opened her mouth to protest, then let it go. Yes, he should have asked first, but there'd been nothing overbearing in the gesture. Merely practicality.
He turned toward the stableboy sweeping near the doors. “Davey, make sure the horses get watered again before noon. Heat’s building early.”
“Yes sir.”
Mercy climbed into the buggy while Mr. Porter climbed up from the other side and took up the reins.
As the buggy rolled forward into the morning bustle of town, Mercy settled her hands in her lap and reminded herself she had wanted this opportunity.
For several moments neither of them spoke. She wasn't ordinarily uncomfortable with silence. Schoolrooms, after all, taught a person the value of quiet.
Yet silence with Mr. Porter felt different somehow. Not strained exactly, just difficult to read.
But she had come prepared, knowing it would be delicate work to draw him out. Best to start slow.
Mercy cleared her throat lightly. “Do you know the Millers well?”
“Well enough.”
Not much to work with there. She tried again. “The four older children are students of mine,” she said. "They've been raised right, very respectful and attentive. And Ellie is especially bright. Reads everything she can get her hands on."
That earned her a brief sideways glance. “You like teaching?”
The question surprised her enough that she looked at him fully. “Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “Very much.”
Something flickered briefly across his expression before he looked back toward the road. “Most of the boys would rather be anywhere else.”
Mercy smiled faintly. “Some days I suspect that includes the girls.”
Another silence settled and this time Mercy resisted the urge to fill it too quickly. She had spent years learning how to coax nervous schoolchildren and reluctant townsfolk into conversation. Most people yielded eventually if given patience and encouragement.
Mr. Porter, however, gave the distinct impression that if he didn't wish to speak, no force on earth would hurry him into it.
Just as she began considering another attempt, he spoke instead.
“How long do you expect the visit to take?”
Mercy hid a small flicker of satisfaction at the question. Her strategy was working.
“Difficult to say. That depends somewhat on what the family has to say and what they've kept over the years.”
His forehead creased slightly. “Meaning?”
“Sometimes documents. Bibles, letters, keepsakes.” She paused. “But often the stories they have to tell matter just as much as the records. Memories people haven’t written down anywhere. The trick is to get them talking.”
He gave the reins a little flick. “Folks usually keep such things tucked away.”
“Yes.” Some warmth entered her voice despite herself. “And half the time they don’t realize the value of what they have, how much it could mean to others who see it.”
He glanced toward her briefly, then back to the road.
Mercy hesitated, uncertain whether to continue.
For reasons she couldn't entirely explain, his quiet interest encouraged honesty more than conversation usually did.
“Stories disappear quickly if no one preserves them,” she said.
“A family Bible left forgotten in a trunk. A letter misplaced in a drawer. A name no one bothers to write down.” She looked out across the fields rolling past. “People think history belongs to important men and grand events, but most often it survives because ordinary families decided to keep it.”
He was silent long enough that heat crept faintly into her cheeks. Perhaps she was lecturing. Again.
She could almost hear Abigail Whitaker’s amused voice telling her that not every question required a full lesson.
Mercy clasped her hands more tightly together. “Sorry if that was more explanation than you wanted.”
“It wasn’t."
The answer came so simply that she looked at him again.
His expression remained unreadable, but after a moment he added, “Sounds like you care about it.”
Something about the certainty of the remark unsettled her far more than flattery would have.
Most people treated her committee work politely, as though indulging an eccentric enthusiasm. Mr. Porter sounded as though he considered caring about something reason enough on its own.
Mercy found herself oddly relieved by that.
“The committee focuses heavily on speeches and ceremony,” she said after a moment, “but the records matter too. Future generations ought to know who helped shape this town, what they sacrificed, and how they lived.” She waved a hand.
"The whole country is celebrating the Centennial and we want to recognize Hawthorn's contributions to that history as well as honor our veterans. "
For a moment the only sound was the creak of wheels and harness leather as he kept his gaze focused straight ahead. When he did respond, it was a simple “That so?”
The question held no mockery, no emotion of any sort. If her mention of veterans had made an impact, it wasn't visible.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I believe it is.”
This time, when silence returned, it felt easier somehow.
Somewhere along the way, they'd left the town behind. Open pasture gave way to cultivated fields and scattered pecan trees. For a while, Mercy contented herself with enjoying the scenery and trying to spot wildlife. She didn't venture outside of town very often and enjoyed rides like this one.
A meadowlark suddenly burst from the tall grass beside the road, startling a squeak from Mercy and a toss of the head from the horse.
Mr. Porter steadied the animal with a calm command and the slightest pull on the reins. The horse settled almost immediately.
Then he turned to Mercy. "You all right?"
Mercy, whose pulse had returned to normal, had found herself watching the easy confidence of his control over the horse longer than she ought.
His question brought her gaze back up to his and she felt a warmth in her cheeks. "I'm fine," she answered hastily. "I guess I was daydreaming a bit and it caught me by surprise."
Mercy turned her attention back toward the passing countryside, grateful for the chance to let the warmth in her cheeks fade.
The morning haze had nearly burned away by the time the Miller farm came into view beneath a cluster of broad-limbed trees.
Before the buggy had fully stopped, a small boy came racing across the yard. “Mr. Porter!”
Mercy barely had time to register the blur of motion before the child rushed straight toward the horse.
Mr. Porter vaulted down from the buggy with surprising quickness and caught the boy neatly by the shoulder.
For such a quiet man, he moved remarkably fast.
“You aiming to get yourself trampled, Caleb?”
The boy grinned without an ounce of remorse. “Where’s Rosy?”
“Back at the livery.”
“Aww.”
“You'll survive the disappointment.”
The boy scuffed the ground with his bare foot. “Maybe.”
Mercy hid a smile as she climbed down from the buggy.
Interesting. She wouldn't have expected a childlike Caleb Miller to take so easily to a man who held himself apart as deliberately as Mr. Porter did. Yet the boy clearly admired him.
And that dry humor hadn't appeared once during any of their conversations.