Chapter 5
Friday morning proved busy enough that Wilson scarcely thought about the trunk at all.
Which was fortunate.
A shipment of feed had arrived late the previous afternoon while he'd been away with Mercy.
Two horses needed new shoes. One of the rented teams had come back with a loose trace that required mending.
By the time the morning rush tapered off, he'd already put in several hours of honest work and still had a list of tasks waiting.
Only when he found himself reorganizing a shelf of harness oil and saddle soap did he finally admit he was avoiding something.
Wilson stepped back and studied the neatly arranged bottles.
The shelf hadn't needed organizing before he'd started.
His gaze drifted toward the staircase.
The trunk wasn't going to carry itself to the schoolhouse. And there was no point putting it off, it wouldn't be any easier to do next week or the week after.
With a resigned sigh, he headed upstairs.
The room above the livery was modest but comfortable enough. A narrow bed occupied one wall. A washstand stood opposite. Near the window sat a chair and small table scarred by years of use. A handful of books filled the shelf beside them.
The trunk occupied the corner beneath the window. Or rather, it had disappeared into that corner over the years.
A quilt draped over it, hanging nearly to the floor on all sides. His spare boots rested beside it. A pie tin containing the contents of his pockets—coins, pocketknife, a few odds and ends—sat atop the quilt. Two books rested beside the tin.
Wilson paused. Funny how easily a man could bury something without ever moving it.
He crossed the room and picked up the pie tin first, carrying it to the washstand. The books followed. Then he folded back the quilt.
Dust motes drifted through the sunlight.
There it was. The same trunk that had sat in that corner since his mother's passing. The leather showed its age now. The brass corners had dulled. One strap bore a repaired tear he vaguely remembered his father fixing years ago.
For a long moment he simply stood there.
Yesterday, mentioning the trunk had seemed like a reasonable enough thing to do. Today it felt considerably less so.
Wilson crouched and brushed a hand across the lid. His fingers paused on the latch. Opening it would be easy enough. Just a quick look. A chance to remind himself what was inside. A chance to decide what ought to stay and what ought to go.
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
And therein lay the problem. If he opened it now, he'd start sorting. If he started sorting, he'd begin deciding which things Mercy ought to see and which things she didn't need to bother with.
A photograph here. A keepsake there. Perhaps a letter or two. Before long he'd convince himself he was improving the collection. And the trunk would still be sitting in the corner tomorrow.
Wilson let out a quiet grunt. No. He'd made the offer. Best see it through.
With considerably more effort than he'd anticipated, he lifted the trunk and maneuvered it toward the door. The thing was heavier than he remembered. Apparently keepsakes gained weight with the years.
Getting it down the stairs proved awkward enough that Davey looked up from currying one of the rental horses. "Need a hand, Mr. Porter?"
"Nope." The answer came automatically. Wilson immediately regretted it.
Davey glanced from the trunk to Wilson's face. "You sure?"
Wilson shifted his grip as the trunk threatened to slide sideways. "On second thought..."
The boy grinned.
Together they wrestled the trunk down the remainder of the staircase and loaded it into the back of the wagon.
Once Davey returned to his chores, Wilson stood beside the wagon for a moment. In the corner of his room the trunk had blended into the background. Sitting alone in the wagon, it felt different somehow.
Shaking off that absurd notion, he climbed onto the seat and drove toward the schoolhouse. The trip across town didn't take long. When he arrived, the yard stood empty.
Wilson climbed down and walked to the back of the wagon.
The trunk sat where he'd secured it, looking every bit as ordinary as any other piece of luggage.
Yet he knew better. A lifetime of memories rested beneath that worn lid.
His family's history. His mother's keepsakes.
Things no one besides him had seen in years.
For a moment he considered carrying it inside immediately. Instead, he rested a hand on the wagon rail and looked toward the schoolhouse door. He wasn't entirely certain what story Mercy would find in that trunk. That uncertainty left him feeling oddly exposed.
A moment later Wilson heard someone approaching and turned to see Mercy walking toward him carrying her notebook, her expression thoughtful. Seemed she was getting a late start this morning.
"Good morning, Mr. Porter."
"Morning." She appeared to be in a good mood.
She smiled. "I just came from speaking with Daniel.
I told him we took a look at the structure yesterday and decided to go ahead and salvage the lumber but that we would most likely need additional nails to build the shelves.
He said he'd donate them from his personal stores, though he'd appreciate it if we harvested as many as possible from the old boards first."
Wilson nodded. She definitely didn't let any moss grow under her feet. "Sounds like Daniel."
Then her gaze shifted past him to the wagon. The words died on her lips and her expression changed to one of hopeful excitement.
And Wilson knew she'd spotted the trunk.
Mercy's attention remained fixed on the trunk as Mr. Porter carried it into the schoolroom.
“Where should I set this?” he asked, looking around the room.
“On my desk,” she said, hurrying forward to clear a place for it.
A few days ago she would have been thinking only of the historical treasures that trunk might contain.
Today she found herself thinking instead about the man carrying it.
Whatever rested beneath that worn lid had belonged to his family.
More importantly, he had chosen to share it with her.
She had spent months listening to townsfolk eagerly recount family histories and produce treasured keepsakes for her records.
This was something else entirely. Mr. Porter wasn't handing over family heirlooms for a display. He was allowing her a glimpse into a part of his life he rarely spoke about.
He set the trunk on the spot she’d cleared and straightened. "There we are."
Mercy smiled. "Thank you for bringing it."
He shrugged, though there was a slight stiffness to the gesture. "You were right."
She tilted her head. "About what?"
"My parents deserved to be remembered."
The simple admission touched her more than she expected. "Yes, they do."
A brief silence settled between them before Mr. Porter bent and lifted the latch. The scent of cedar drifted upward as the lid opened.
Mercy stepped closer. The contents were a bit jumbled, no doubt due to the recent handling to get them here.
Near the top lay a photograph. She reached for it than hesitated and glanced his way. “May I?”
He gave a quick nod. “That’s why I brought it here, for you to look through.”
That was an interesting way for him to put it.
He did understand that she meant to do more than look through the trunk, didn’t he?
She shook off that thought and carefully lifted the photograph.
Three people stared back at her. A younger Mr. Porter stood between his parents, looking awkward and uncomfortable in a dark coat that appeared slightly too large for him.
Mercy's smile widened. "You look positively miserable."
Mr. Porter leaned over for a look. "I remember that coat."
"In the photograph you don't look especially fond of it."
"I wasn't. It belonged to my cousin. Ma thought I needed something respectable for the picture."
Mercy glanced between the young man in the photograph and the man standing beside her now. "You can't have been more than seventeen."
"About that."
There was a story behind this photograph, she was sure of it. "Was there a special occasion you were marking?"
Mr. Porter’s jaw tightened as he nodded. "Ma decided we needed a family photograph when she found out I was going to enlist."
Her mood shifted from amusement to sympathy.
His gaze lingered on the photograph for a moment before he looked away. “Ma always said she wanted a family picture, but Pa kept putting it off. This time she put her foot down.”
Mercy looked down at the photograph again. What had first seemed an ordinary family portrait now felt like a mother's attempt to hold on to a moment before everything changed.
But Mr. Porter probably wouldn't appreciate so personal an observation, so instead she smiled.
"Your mother sounds like she knew her own mind."
One corner of Mr. Porter's mouth lifted. "That she did."
Mercy set it carefully on the desk beside the trunk.
Her fingers itched to reach for the satchel she’d set on the desk chair.
Ordinarily she would already be grabbing her notebook.
The story behind the borrowed coat, the timing of the photograph, the glimpse of Mr. Porter as a gangly young man preparing to leave home—all of it was exactly the sort of detail she loved preserving.
Yet she hesitated.
The conversation had already drifted beyond the sort of formal interview she normally conducted. If she stopped now to begin scribbling notes, she suspected the easy flow of memories might vanish as quickly as it had appeared.
Reluctantly, she left the notebook where it was and reached for the next item. It was a round tin about the size of a small plate. The contents rattled softly when she moved it. "What's in here?"
Mr. Porter's expression lightened immediately. "Buttons."
Mercy grinned. "That's a great many buttons." Opening the tin revealed dozens of them. Bone buttons. Brass buttons. Wooden buttons. A few covered in faded fabric. Several looked considerably older than the others. There was even a lovely mother of pearl button.