Chapter 6
Mercy tied the faded blue ribbon beneath her collar and stepped back from the mirror.
The dress was perfectly suitable for the day's work. Sturdy cotton. Long sleeves that would help guard against briars and that she wouldn't mind soiling. A hem already bearing evidence of previous hard use.
Most of her dresses were practical, but this one possessed all the charm of a grain sack.
She smoothed a hand over the skirt and immediately felt foolish. She and Mr. Porter were going to salvage lumber, not attend a social gathering. Even so, she found herself wishing she had chosen something a little less severe.
The thought sent a touch of color into her cheeks. Really, Mercy Owens.
She turned away from the mirror and reached for her straw bonnet before she could continue down that particular path.
The scent of fresh biscuits drifted from the kitchen below. Mama was already bustling about when Mercy descended the stairs.
"I added a second jar of preserves," her mother said, nodding to the hamper on the table. "Men working outdoors always seem to think they've not eaten enough."
Mercy smiled. "Mr. Porter will appreciate that."
"Oh, I'm certain he will."
Something in her mother's tone made Mercy narrow her eyes. "Mama."
"What?"
"You have that look."
"I've no idea what you're talking about."
The innocence in her expression was entirely unconvincing.
Mercy set the wrapped loaf into the hamper. "We're simply salvaging lumber."
"Of course you are."
"Mama."
Her mother laughed softly and lifted both hands in surrender.
Before Mercy could formulate a proper response, the sound of wagon wheels reached them from outside and she crossed to the window.
Wilson's wagon rolled to a stop in front of the house. The sight of him climbing down from the driver's seat produced a small flutter somewhere beneath her ribs.
She frowned at the sensation. There was nothing unusual about his arrival. They had agreed upon the time yesterday. Her reaction was no doubt anticipation for the day. Lots of fresh air and sunshine with no notebooks or displays to organize.
Still, she found herself lingering at the window a moment longer than necessary.
And from the soft laugh coming from behind her, Mama had noticed.
Mercy refused to meet her gaze. Instead, she went to the table and lifted the basket. Then she did look at her mother. “From the weight of this you must have added more than a jar of preserves.”
"Mmm." was her mother’s only response.
Rolling her eyes, Mercy turned and headed for the door.
By the time she reached the front porch, Wilson was already approaching the steps. He touched the brim of his hat. "Morning, Miss Owens."
"Good morning, Mr. Porter."
His gaze dropped briefly to the basket in her hands. “’Pears you packed enough for an army."
"I've seen that building we plan to tear down—I know how much work we’re facing."
One corner of his mouth twitched. "I suppose that's fair."
A surprising sense of satisfaction stirred within her.
He relieved her of the basket before she could protest.
"I can carry those."
"I know."
The simple reply left her oddly unsure how to answer.
Wilson carried the items toward the wagon as though the matter had already been settled.
Mercy followed.
Her mother appeared in the doorway behind them. "Don't work too hard in this heat."
"We'll try not to," Mercy called back.
Mama's gaze shifted briefly toward Wilson. The smile that followed was entirely too knowing.
Mercy climbed into the wagon before her mother could say anything further.
A moment later Wilson placed the hamper in the back of the wagon amid the tools and water jugs already there, then joined her on the seat and gathered the reins.
The wagon rolled forward beneath the growing warmth of the morning sun.
For a time they traveled in comfortable silence. The road wound between fields bright with new growth. Meadowlarks called from fence posts while the wagon wheels rumbled steadily over the packed earth.
Mercy found herself unexpectedly content as she watched the countryside drift past. Perhaps because there was no schedule pressing at her. Just a day's work.
That thought brought something else to mind. She turned to Mr. Porter. "We have a long day ahead of us. Are you certain you can spare the time away from your business?"
"Davey's minding things."
"But all day?"
"He knows what to do. And his pa promised to look in on him now and then and pitch in if needed." He flicked the reins. “Besides, the family can use the extra pay.”
Mercy wondered if that was his true motivation, especially when he shifted, looking like he regretted those last few words. The man seemed to possess an unfortunate habit of doing kind things and then pretending they were merely practical.
She changed the subject. "I've been thinking about the Fletchers ever since we found the locket and the notes."
Wilson glanced her way briefly before returning his attention to the road. "Have you?"
She nodded. "I believe I should write a letter to them letting them know we—you—have the locket." Her cheeks warmed at her slip, and she hurried on. “I know after eleven years they may not still be at Fort Kearny but that’s no reason not to at least try.”
"I agree."
The immediate agreement surprised her. "You do?"
One shoulder lifted slightly. "If I'd misplaced something important, I'd hope somebody would make the effort to get it back to me."
She studied his profile for a moment. Perhaps finding the owner mattered to him more than he'd let on. "It can’t hurt to try. And if they’ve moved on, we can still find them, it’ll just take a bit longer."
A faint smile touched his mouth. "You seem mighty sure of yourself."
She drew herself up in mock indignation. "And you, sir, seem to have very little faith in my investigative abilities."
"On the contrary, Miss Owens. I'm beginning to suspect they're downright dangerous."
Mercy laughed softly. There was no point pretending she didn't understand exactly what he meant. "I'll try not to take that as criticism."
He cut her a sideways glance before returning his attention to the road. "I wouldn't dream of criticizing a woman on a mission."
She laughed again. "Then it’s agreed, I'll write the letter."
His nod suggested the matter was settled.
Oddly enough, Mercy liked that.
The conversation drifted to other topics after that—the contents of the lunch hamper, the delay in receiving the festival fireworks, and the bountiful yield of blackberries this year.
By the time the weathered outbuilding came into view beyond a stand of oak trees, the earlier awkwardness had disappeared entirely.
Wilson drew the wagon to a stop and studied the structure.
Mercy followed his gaze. The building looked even more ramshackle and overgrown than she remembered.
One corner sagged noticeably. Portions of the roof had already collapsed inward.
Sunlight showed through gaps in the walls where boards had loosened or fallen away entirely.
Vines climbed the walls and through the cracks haphazardly and in some places seemed to be the only thing holding it together.
"It looks worse than before."
"It is worse."
That wasn’t particularly encouraging.
Wilson climbed down from the wagon. "Fortunately, we don't need a building."
Mercy smiled as she accepted his offered hand. "Only the lumber."
"Exactly." He released her hand and turned toward the structure. "Let's see what can still be saved."
Mr. Porter circled the outbuilding slowly while Mercy followed a few paces behind.
Up close, the structure looked even less trustworthy. Several support posts leaned noticeably. Sections of the roof had collapsed inward, and the weathered boards bore deep cracks from years of sun and rain.
Mr. Porter paused beside one corner and pressed a hand against a post. After a moment he crouched and pushed aside vegetation to inspect the base.
Mercy resisted the urge to ask questions every few seconds.
Mostly.
"Well?" she asked when he finally stepped back.
He rubbed his jaw. "The front wall isn't as bad as it looks."
She blinked. "That's encouraging."
"The back wall is worse."
"So, we're even."
A faint huff escaped him that might have been a laugh.
After a moment he pointed toward the rear corner. "That section's worse than I thought. We won't touch it."
Mercy followed his gaze. The roof there had nearly collapsed completely.
"And the rest?"
"We'll work from this side first." He indicated the longer wall facing them. "Take the boards off from the outside, then move toward the front. Safer that way."
She nodded.
Mr. Porter returned to the wagon and retrieved a pair of hoes and a set of pruning shears. He handed the shears to Mercy.
"We clear the vines first."
For the next half hour, they worked their way around the structure, cutting back years of unchecked growth. Vines had woven themselves through cracks in the walls and across portions of the roof. Briars tugged at Mercy's skirt while weeds brushed against her boots.
By the time they finished, perspiration dampened the ribbon at the back of her neck.
The building looked no healthier than before, but at least they could see what they were dealing with.
Mercy stooped to gather a tangled length of vine and noticed something half-hidden beneath it.
A rusted horseshoe.
She brushed away the dirt and turned it over in her hands. The shoe was badly worn and the tip of one end had broken off. An idea started to take shape. Perhaps she could use this.
There was a stump not far from the structure, so she carried her find over and set it on top, then went back to work.
A little later she discovered a large iron hinge beneath some fallen boards. Then a spike partially buried. Then three links from a chain. Each joined the growing collection.
When she found a small liniment bottle that was amazingly unbroken, she couldn’t help a little crow of delight.
Mr. Porter paused and leaned on his hoe. “Did you find treasure?”
“In a manner of speaking.” She held up the bottle, knowing just what kind of reaction she’d get.