Chapter 3 #4
But with more farm visits ahead and Mr. Porter now agreeing to help with repairs for the Centennial display, this wouldn’t be her last chance to confront him on the matter.
And next time, she intended to be better prepared to ask the right kind of questions.
The buggy wheels rattled over the uneven stretch of road leading back into town while Wilson kept his attention fixed firmly ahead.
At least, that was where he told himself his attention belonged. In truth, his thoughts had been wandering ever since they left the Miller place.
Caleb’s boyish admiration, Miz Scruggs’s stories, Miss Owens sitting at that crowded table listening as though every faded scrap of ribbon and pressed flower carried the weight of scripture, and Clara’s quiet voice describing the moment she saw Nathan riding home from the war.
Wilson tightened his grip slightly on the reins.
He had no business dwelling on any of it.
Beside him, the schoolteacher adjusted the shawl wrapped around Miz Scruggs’s keepsake box. The movement pulled his attention despite himself.
She handled the box carefully. Not possessively exactly. More like someone entrusted with something fragile.
Which, he supposed, she had been.
Wilson adjusted the reins slightly. “I suppose we should talk about whose place you want to visit next.”
She looked faintly surprised by his question. "The Nortons.”
The Nortons were nearly an hour's ride from town. Tomorrow was Wednesday, which meant feed delivery and he'd prefer to stay close for that. “Thursday morning should be manageable.”
Her expression softened slightly. “Thursday will work well. I can continue formalizing my notes and organizing the displays the rest of today and tomorrow.”
As they turned onto Main Street, Miss Owens glanced toward him. “Would you mind dropping me at the schoolhouse?” She patted the box. "I want to put this away before I head home."
He nodded. “That’ll give me a chance to see the extent of the repair work I’ve committed to.”
She cut him a sideways glance that he couldn't quite read. "Of course."
As soon as he parked the buggy near the school steps, he hopped down and moved around to her side before she could step down herself.
He reached up toward the box. “I can take that.”
He saw her fingers tighten around the box before she relaxed and surrendered it to him. “Thank you.”
She climbed down and retrieved her satchel from beneath the seat.
The schoolhouse stood quiet in the midday heat, most of the town occupied elsewhere. Wilson followed her up the steps and waited while she unlocked the door and then preceded him inside.
She quickly headed for a door near the front of the schoolroom. He reached it first and opened it, again allowing her to precede him inside. The moment he crossed into the threshold, he paused.
He had expected clutter.
What he found instead looked like half the town had emptied their attics into one crowded room.
Tables lined the walls and also formed an island in the center of the room, all of them occupied.
Stacked boxes. Folded quilts. Framed portraits.
Crocks, books, military keepsakes, handwritten records, tools, bundles of letters tied carefully with ribbon and other things he couldn't identify from where he stood.
There were even boxes and crates under some of the tables.
But as he looked closer, an order of sorts began to emerge. Small handwritten tags sat beside every item. Some rested in careful rows while others had clearly overflowed into temporary arrangements wherever space could still be found.
She crossed immediately toward one of the crowded tables. “I know it looks somewhat chaotic just now, but I do have a system.”
Wilson doubted many people would have noticed the apology threaded beneath the words.
He noticed.
“The records are grouped by family first,” she continued, setting several notebooks aside to clear a small patch of space. “And then by category. Military service, founding families, early businesses, churches, schools?—”
She broke off abruptly, perhaps realizing she’d launched into another lecture.
Wilson found himself remembering the way her face had animated at the Miller table while she talked about preserving stories.
Strange how different she looked when she forgot herself. Less composed, warmer.
“It makes sense,” he said.
She blinked as though the answer surprised her. Then she smiled—not the polite smile she gave half the town, but a real one.
The sight unsettled him more than it ought.
As she moved farther into the room, Miss Owens gestured toward several objects stacked carefully near the far wall.
“Some of the older pieces are in worse shape than I expected. I’ve been trying to determine which can safely be displayed and which ought to remain stored away until they can be restored. ”
Wilson set Miz Scruggs’s box carefully onto the cleared section of table before slowly turning in place. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of her work.
Notes written in neat precise lines. Inventory lists. Bundles tied and labeled. Objects cleaned carefully enough to preserve them but not strip away age.
None of this looked careless. None of it looked temporary.
Was she trying to carry the entire burden of this undertaking all on her own?
What was the committee thinking?
She followed his gaze and gave a small embarrassed laugh. “It’s become larger than any of us anticipated.”
That seemed an understatement.
Without comment, he stepped toward one of the crowded tables and tested it lightly with his hand.
Too much weight. Not enough support and nowhere near enough room.
“These tables won’t hold much more.”
“I know.” She sighed softly. “We’ve already started running out of space.
I spoke to the committee about it, but their answer was to tell me to display what I can and store the remainder in the church attic.
” She waved a hand around the room. "As if I could decide which of these artifacts and records are more important than the others. "
That didn’t surprise him. Committees rarely improved matters through excessive discussion. He gestured to the stacks surrounding them. “Reckon all this represents a town full of stories and mementoes like the Millers’. Be a difficult job deciding which matter more.”
“Not difficult,” Mercy said quietly. “Impossible.”
The conviction in her voice left little doubt she meant every word.
Wilson glanced at the crowded tables and stacks of crates with fresh eyes.
He studied the walls, the window placement, the available height. The measurements began arranging themselves in his head before he consciously realized he was solving the problem.
“What you need is shelving.”
She nodded. “I thought of that. But the committee doesn't have the funds for materials or to hire someone. They reminded me they'd already funded the addition itself.” She gave a self-deprecating grimace. “Apparently the rest is up to me.”
The committee again.
Wilson studied the walls once more. “Shelving is definitely the answer. Along that wall for certain. Probably the back one too.” He pointed briefly. “Deep enough for larger items on the bottom. Narrow shelves higher up for smaller pieces.”
“That would help tremendously,” she admitted. “Unfortunately, as I said, the committee just doesn't have the budget for it right now.”
It seemed such a small thing—shelving wasn't difficult to build, not if you kept it simple.
“If someone can come up with materials,” he heard himself say, “I can build it.”
The words came out before he fully considered them, and silence settled between them while she stared at him another heartbeat.
Wilson cleared his throat and looked back toward the wall instead. “Course it wouldn't be anything fancy.”
“That’s still an incredibly generous offer, especially given you've already volunteered to help repair some of the damaged artifacts.”
He shrugged. “It’s only shelves.”
Her expression softened a little. “Well, if you're truly serious about the offer, I can at least start looking into other options for materials.”
Wilson raised a brow. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t serious.”
Something in his tone seemed to catch her off guard. “Of course,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean?—”
“I know what you meant.”
A brief silence settled between them before Wilson nodded toward the crowded tables. “How much of this needs repair?”
She glanced around the room. “More than I’d like to admit. Though some of it may simply be beyond repair.”
She stepped toward one of the nearby tables and lifted a small brass lantern missing part of its handle. “For example, this is one of the pieces I have my doubts about.”
Wilson took the lantern from her to examine it more closely. Their fingers brushed briefly in the exchange, the soft warmth of her hand unexpectedly heating his own.
She drew in a quick breath, but a moment later simply asked, “So?”
Perhaps he'd imagined her reaction. Wilson focused his attention back toward the lantern. “Handle can probably be soldered. Depends how much strain the metal’s taken.”
Miss Owens glanced around the crowded room. “There are several other pieces I hoped might be salvageable as well.”
Wilson set the lantern carefully back onto the table. “Might be easier if I take a few things back to the livery workshop.”
Her expression shifted immediately. “I’d really rather the artifacts remain here.”
Wilson looked up.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “The townsfolk entrusted these items to the committee. I feel they should remain in the committee's care.”
He couldn't exactly argue with that. “Then I’ll work here an hour or two a day.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Are you certain you can spare the time?”
He noticed she seemed determined not to impose on anyone. “Davey can take care of things on his own for a few hours a day. And he can always fetch me if something comes up he can’t handle.”
Her expression softened. “Thank you.”
Wilson shrugged lightly. “I said I’d help, and I’m a man of my word.”