Chapter 4
Thursday morning dawned cooler than the previous trip, though Mercy suspected the reprieve wouldn't last long once the sun climbed higher.
By the time she reached the livery, Davey Nelson was already helping Wilson hitch the team.
The boy stood on tiptoe fastening a strap while Wilson checked the harness on the opposite horse.
"Too loose," Wilson said.
Davey frowned down at the buckle. "I tightened it."
"You tightened the wrong one."
The boy muttered something beneath his breath before readjusting the strap.
Mercy hid a smile as she approached.
Davey spotted her first. "Morning, Miss Owens."
Wilson glanced up from the harness. "Morning," he said.
Something about the simple greeting felt easier than it had a few days ago. Or perhaps his reserved manner no longer seemed quite so standoffish.
Mercy immediately pushed that thought aside.
"Good morning." She lifted the covered basket slightly. "I brought a light lunch since we'll be making an extra stop before heading back into town today."
Wilson's gaze dropped briefly toward the basket before returning to her face. "Good thinking."
No hesitation. No sign he found the assumption improper.
Relief flickered unexpectedly through her.
Davey finished with the strap and stepped back to inspect his work.
Wilson gave the harness a quick testing tug before nodding once. "Better."
The boy straightened slightly beneath the quiet approval.
Mercy found herself absurdly pleased for him.
Wilson reached for her satchel before she could set it beneath the buggy seat herself, then took the lunch basket from her other hand as well.
"I can manage that," she protested automatically.
"I know you can."
The words carried no criticism. Merely calm certainty.
Before Mercy could think of a response, Wilson slid both the satchel and lunch basket carefully beneath the seat.
A few minutes later they were heading west out of town.
The morning roads remained relatively smooth despite the recent dry spell. Wagon wheels rattled softly over packed dirt while the steady rhythm of hoofbeats settled into familiar cadence.
For a while they rode in surprisingly comfortable silence. Mercy found herself studying the countryside rolling past instead of searching for conversation.
Perhaps what surprised her most was that she no longer felt responsible for filling every silence between them.
After a moment Mercy bent to retrieve her notebook from the satchel beneath the seat, then balanced it across her lap.
Wilson glanced her way. "Must be hard keeping track of it all while you're interviewing folks."
"Some days more than others." Mercy smiled faintly. "Especially when people disagree with one another. I may be scratching out and rewriting about the same incident several times."
One corner of his mouth shifted slightly. "That happen often?"
"More often than you might think." Mercy settled back a little against the seat. "The Abernathys argued nearly twenty minutes over whether an old tintype belonged to Mr. Abernathy's uncle or his cousin."
"And who won?"
"No one." She laughed softly. "I finally noted in my records that ownership remained disputed."
To her surprise, Wilson gave a short huff of amusement.
Even more surprising was the faint trace of humor near his mouth as he said, "Sounds like you're a diplomat as well as a historian."
Mercy smiled despite herself.
The conversation came easier after that.
She found herself telling him about other interviews she'd already completed around town.
One family had produced a cracked china cup they insisted dated back to the Revolution despite the maker's mark clearly being much newer. Another had nearly forgotten an entire stack of letters tucked into the bottom of a cedar chest until Mercy asked whether they had any wartime correspondence.
"You really go through all of it?" Wilson asked after a while.
"With the family's permission and as carefully as I can." Mercy glanced down at her hands folded atop her notebook. "Sometimes the smallest things end up telling the most interesting stories."
Wilson was quiet a moment. "Folks seem willing enough to trust you with their heirlooms."
Mercy looked up. "Much of it is only temporary," she said quickly. "Everything loaned or donated to the archive gets carefully labeled and documented. And I keep careful records so I can readily identify what is on loan."
"Still." Wilson adjusted the reins slightly. "Some of those things have probably been sitting in family homes for years."
"Generations, sometimes." Mercy couldn't quite keep the warmth from her voice. "I think most people simply like knowing those stories won't be forgotten."
She paused a moment and repressed a sigh.
"Though sometimes I have to work harder to pull stories out of folks. Some people don't think they've anything important worth remembering." She traced one finger absently along the edge of her notebook. "I don't believe that myself. Everyone's story matters."
Wilson adjusted the reins slightly, though his gaze remained fixed on the road ahead.
She was surprised he didn't offer some sort of response.
As the silence stretched out, Mercy realized she'd been talking almost continuously for several minutes.
Normally that realization would've embarrassed her. Yet Wilson didn't appear impatient or bored. In fact, he seemed genuinely interested in what she'd been saying.
The thought sent a curious little flutter through her stomach.
Mercy promptly ignored it, shifting her attention back to the countryside rolling past. She'd shared more than enough of herself for one morning.
By the time the Nortons' farmhouse came into view, the morning sun had climbed high enough to burn away the last traces of coolness.
A lanky hound barked once from beneath the porch as Wilson pulled the team to a stop.
An older man stepped out onto the porch, one hand lifting in greeting.
"Looks like they were expecting you," Wilson observed.
Mercy gathered up her notebook. “I'd told Mrs. Norton after church last Sunday I'd try to make it out this week.”
Wilson climbed down, then moved to her side of the buggy and held out a hand to help her down.
The small gesture unsettled her momentarily, but she hesitated only a fraction before placing her free hand lightly against his and stepping onto the packed earth.
Before her thoughts could wander anywhere unwise, Mercy turned her attention toward the waiting Nortons and tightened her hold on her notebook.
Whatever distracting thoughts the morning had stirred, the interviews remained the true purpose of the day's journey. These families were trusting her with pieces of their history.
That work deserved her full attention.
Even if her thoughts seemed less orderly than usual this morning.
By the time they left the Halpern place, Wilson had decided Miss Owens had a gift for making people talk.
Not in a nosy way or the way some folks pried at loose boards until something gave. She simply listened like whatever a person said might matter, and that made them want to keep talking.
The wagon bounced over an uneven spot in the road, and beside him, Miss Owens paused long enough to steady her notebook before bending over to add another line to her notes.
The scratch of pencil against paper carried softly beneath the rattle of wheels and harness.
There was something almost single-minded about the way she worked once she fixed herself on a task. Quiet. Unassuming. Yet somehow she slipped past a person's guard before they quite realized she'd accomplished it.
For instance, the Halpern boys hadn't looked much impressed when she first stepped into their yard with her notebook tucked against her middle. Three lanky young men, all elbows and boot heels and restless glances, had stood near the barn as if unsure whether to greet her or disappear inside it.
Their father had done better, though not by much. Joseph Halpern was a lean, tired-looking man with dust ground into the creases of his hands and a manner that said he had work waiting and no great habit of sitting down in the middle of the day to discuss old memories.
Wilson had recognized that sort of man easily enough.
Miss Owens had too, apparently.
She hadn't pressed. Hadn't filled the quiet with nervous chatter. She'd asked about the farm first. The crops. The boys' work. Whether the youngest had truly broken the mule to harness himself or whether his brothers were claiming more credit than they deserved.
That had done it.
One of the boys had muttered a correction. Another had laughed. Before long, all three were talking over one another while their father stood watching with something that might have been weariness or pride or both.
Somewhere along the way Miss Owens had gotten Joseph Halpern talking too.
Wilson still wasn't entirely certain how she'd managed it.
A question about when the family first settled near Hawthorn had led to another about army service, then another about rebuilding after the war. Halpern had answered in short pieces at first, like a man unused to offering more than necessary.
Yet somehow Miss Owens had him speaking by the end of it. Not freely exactly. But enough to tell her where his people had first homesteaded and how long he'd been farming the same stretch of land.
Then Miss Owens had asked about Mrs. Halpern.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Not as if she meant to stir grief for the sake of her records, but as if a woman's life deserved its place in the account of that household same as the crops and livestock and war service did.
Joseph Halpern had gone still at first.
Wilson had half expected him to shut the whole interview down. Plenty of men didn't take kindly to strangers brushing against tender places, even gentle-like.
But Miss Owens waited him out.
After a while, Halpern had cleared his throat and told her that before Hawthorn had a permanent doctor, folks often rode out to ask Mary Alice's help when sickness swept through the area.
She knew which herbs eased fever, how to settle a cough before it worsened, and what teas helped restless children sleep through the night.