Chapter 6 #2
He didn’t disappoint. “What do you plan to do with that?”
“Add it to my collection.” She moved to the stump to add her latest find.
His gaze swept over the assortment of objects she'd gathered. "Why are you collecting all that? None of it is usable any longer."
"I disagree. They do have a use." She picked up the horseshoe and brushed away a bit more dirt. "I plan to build a small display with them."
He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist.
"What sort of display?"
"One to accompany my report on where the lumber used to build our archive shelves came from." She gestured toward the building. "It’s my hope that people will see those shelves for years to come. It seems worthwhile to tell how they came to be there."
Mr. Porter glanced from the horseshoe to the outbuilding itself.
Mercy continued, warming to the idea as she spoke.
"These bits and pieces speak to the life that happened here, that gave rise to what eventually will become our display shelves.
I'm also going to ask around town and see what I can learn about this place.
Someone built it, used it and then abandoned it. There must be a story behind it."
He was silent a moment then shook his head. "Not everything has a story worth telling."
Mercy's fingers stilled on the horseshoe. The words seemed directed at the collection piled beside the picnic basket, yet something in his tone suggested otherwise.
Before she could decide whether to pursue the thought, he picked up his hoe and went back to work.
The conversation ended there.
They settled into a steady rhythm as the morning wore on.
Mr. Porter carefully removed boards, stacking the usable ones and tossing the others to the inside of the structure. Mercy took the stacked boards one at a time and pulled the nails, placing them in a bucket he’d brought for just that purpose.
The work was harder than she'd expected. The nails proved to be stubborn, unwilling to give up their wooden burrows without a fight. She found herself placing a knee on the board for leverage. After the first hour she was glad she’d worn her oldest dress.
By late morning the side wall had largely disappeared and Mr. Porter had moved around to the front.
Mercy stepped back to survey their progress.
"We may actually finish this up today."
Mr. Porter glanced at the neatly stacked lumber. “We will."
The quiet confidence in his voice made the outcome sound inevitable.
A few minutes later a sharp sound drew her attention.
Mr. Porter had jerked his hand back from a board. His ungloved hand.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
The answer came far too quickly.
Mercy set aside the nail puller and straightened. "Mr. Porter."
"It's just a splinter."
As if that settled the matter.
He made the mistake of opening his hand. A long sliver of wood protruded from the side of his palm.
Mercy lifted an eyebrow. "That doesn’t look like nothing. Nor does it look like just a splinter."
He scowled at her. "I’ve had worse."
"No point trying to intimidate me with your glares.” She crossed her arms. “You are going to let me tend to that before you pick up your tools again."
For a moment he simply looked at her. Then, to her surprise, he surrendered the injured hand.
Mercy tried very hard not to feel quite so pleased by that as she did. “Let’s go over to the wagon where we can wash it.” And she turned, not entirely confident he would follow her.
Mercy crossed to the wagon and set the bucket of nails on the ground beside it. After a moment she heard footsteps behind her and allowed herself a small smile.
At least he had followed.
She retrieved one of the tin cups from the hamper and poured a little water into it. “Why weren’t you wearing your glove?” She let a bit of the schoolteacher tone creep into her voice.
“Dropped my hammer into a tight spot.” His tone was a bit too casual and dismissive. “Had to take the glove off to reach it.”
Setting the cup on the back of the wagon, she reached into her pocket, retrieving the small penknife she carried for everyday tasks.
"Give me your hand."
He extended his hand with a long-suffering sigh. “I get splinters all the time. Doesn’t need any fussing over.”
Ignoring his attitude, Mercy took his hand in both of hers and immediately became aware of two things.
First, the dagger-like splinter looked even worse up close than she'd thought.
Second, Mr. Porter's hand was very firm, very warm.
She tried not to notice the latter.
Unfortunately, noticing a thing and pretending not to notice it were two entirely different matters.
His palm was rough beneath her fingers, the skin thickened by years of reins, tools, and hard work. She had seen those hands countless times over the past several days—repairing toys, tending a horse, driving a wagon, sorting through trunks.
Holding one was another matter entirely.
Determined not to dwell on that observation, she bent her attention to the splinter. "This may sting."
"I'll endeavor to survive."
Mercy huffed a laugh at his dry tone.
The corner of his mouth twitched and she tried to ignore that as well.
Carefully, she worked the tip of the penknife beneath the exposed edge and eased the splinter free.
Mr. Porter didn't flinch. Not once.
"You know," she said as she held up the offending sliver, "most sensible people would react at least a little."
"I thought you'd already established I wasn't most sensible people."
The remark caught her off guard and Mercy looked up.
He was watching her. Not the splinter. Not his hand. Her.
For one ridiculous moment she forgot what she was about to say.
The flutter that followed was entirely unwelcome. And entirely impossible to ignore.
Clearing her throat, she reached for the cup and dampened one corner of her handkerchief. "Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"Then hold still more."
A low chuckle escaped him.
Mercy was absurdly pleased to have drawn it from him.
She focused on cleaning the wound, though concentrating proved more difficult than it ought to have been. Partly because Mr. Porter had gone unusually quiet. Partly because his hand remained in hers.
And partly because every time she glanced up, she found him looking at her.
The realization made her pulse misbehave.
She rinsed away the last of the dirt and inspected her work. "There."
Mr. Porter looked down at his palm. "Still alive."
"Barely."
"Your medical skills are impressive."
She grinned. "Years of experience tending scraped knees in the schoolyard."
"I suppose that qualifies you as an expert."
"It certainly qualifies me to know when a schoolboy—or the grown-up equivalent—is being stubborn."
His eyes met hers.
For a moment neither spoke.
The air between them seemed strangely still and she saw something shift in his expression that she couldn’t name.
Then a meadowlark called somewhere beyond the trees and the spell broke. Mercy released his hand and stepped back.
Immediately aware of the loss of contact, she pretended great interest in returning the penknife to her pocket. She drew a slow breath and turned toward the wagon. "It’s near noon. I suppose we ought to see about lunch."
For just a moment she could feel his gaze on the back of her neck.
Then he stepped around to the side of the wagon. "Give me a minute to tend to Jupiter."
He retrieved a canvas water bag and pail from the wagon and moved to the shady patch where the horse was tethered.
Mercy was absurdly relieved he’d walked away. Not because she wanted distance. Quite the opposite.
And that was precisely the problem.
Mercy flexed her hand, sore from the day’s activities.
She watched for a moment as he talked softly to Jupiter and patted the animal's neck before she turned her attention to the lunch hamper. She carried it to the same spot they’d picnicked on Thursday.
But as she busied herself with the lunch things, she couldn’t stop herself from watching Mr. Porter as he tended the horse, loosening the horse's collar and checking the tie line.
The animal nudged his shoulder, earning a brief scratch behind the ear.
Mercy smiled despite herself.
By the time she had everything set out, the fluttering in her stomach had settled into something more manageable.
Mostly.
A few minutes later Mr. Porter joined her carrying the water jug and tin cups.
For an instant their gazes met. The memory of his hand in hers surfaced unexpectedly.
Mercy looked away first.
Then, as though by mutual agreement, they both turned their attention to the far more practical matter of lunch.
They sat several feet apart with biscuits, sliced ham, preserves, and apples arranged between them. Mercy was grateful when the conversation turned to the food. It was considerably easier to discuss biscuits and preserves than whatever had happened beside the wagon a few minutes earlier.
Mr. Porter lifted a biscuit. "You neglected to mention we'd be feeding half the county."
She shrugged. "I figured, given the work we had in front of us, we'd be hungry." Then she grinned. “Besides, Mama packed most of it."
"Then your mother has my thanks. This is delicious."
A mostly comfortable silence settled between them as they ate. Mercy found herself studying the partially dismantled wall beyond the shade tree. "I think I may change my plans for the remaining interviews."
He glanced up. "How so?"
"There are only a handful of outlying families left.
" She broke off a piece of biscuit. "With the reports still to be formalized, the shelving, the displays, and everything else still needing attention, I think it makes more sense to speak with them when they're already coming into town than for us to go out to them. "
"Would take some scheduling."
"I figure I’ll speak to them before or after services tomorrow to arrange a time when they can stop by the schoolhouse later in the week."
He nodded. "That's a good plan. Efficient."
"I thought so. It’ll leave more time to organize everything for the displays." The task seemed more daunting every time she thought about it.