Chapter 6 #5
Earlier in the week he would have described Miss Owens as a schoolteacher with a fondness for old stories and an alarming inability to leave well enough alone.
That description no longer seemed sufficient.
Today she had hauled lumber, pulled nails, worked through pain she should have mentioned hours sooner, and somehow managed to remain determined, cheerful, and entirely herself throughout all of it.
Wilson carefully worked more salve into her palm. At some point he became aware that she had gone very still. He glanced up.
She was watching him.
Not the salve. Not her hands. Him.
Something shifted unexpectedly inside his chest.
For a moment neither looked away. The flecks in her brown eyes looked like embers. Which was appropriate since the awareness settling between them felt strangely like standing too close to a fire. Not enough to burn. More than enough to notice, perhaps even to singe.
She lowered her gaze first, though the red in her cheeks remained.
Wilson found himself releasing a slow breath.
Clearly the long day was affecting his judgment.
It was the only explanation that made any sense.
Pulling his scattered thoughts together, he reached for her other hand and this time she surrendered it without protest.
The left hand didn’t appear to be as bad as the right, though several blisters had already begun forming beneath the reddened skin.
Wilson worked in silence, not attempting to meet her gaze, not ready to analyze why.
Several minutes later he set the tin aside. "There."
Miss Owens examined her hands.
Before she could say anything, Wilson reached for a clean strip of cloth.
Her eyes lifted to his. “Is that necessary?"
He nodded. "it’ll protect your skin and help keep the salve from rubbing off."
He wrapped the first palm carefully, securing the cloth loosely enough to avoid further irritation. Then he did the same with the second.
His fingers brushed hers more than once during the process.
Wilson told himself to concentrate on the task. Unfortunately, concentration proved more difficult than it should have.
When he finished securing the final knot, he realized he was in no particular hurry to let go.
The realization hit with enough force to make him pause.
Miss Owens looked up.
Their gazes locked. For one suspended moment neither moved.
Then Wilson released her hand. The sudden absence of contact felt far more noticeable than it ought to have.
He stood abruptly. This was foolishness. And dangerous to his peace of mind.
"Try not to use your hands more than absolutely necessary tonight." The words came out harsher than he’d intended.
But her lips twitched. “So, no chopping firewood or scrubbing floors.”
Wilson almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, he put the lid back on the tin of salve and passed it to her. “Put a little more of this on at bedtime tonight. And then again for the next few nights. It’ll help it heal faster.”
Her expression softened. “Thank you. For the salve and for this.” She lifted her bandaged hands.
Uncomfortable with her gratitude, he merely nodded and then stood. "Come on, I'll take you home."
And all the while he found himself wondering when exactly a schoolteacher had become capable of unsettling him this thoroughly.
“Thursday would work nicely,” Mercy said. “Once you pick up your supplies, just come on by the schoolhouse and we can chat. I promise I won’t take up any more of your time than you’re willing to give.”
She’d stopped to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Johnston as soon as she stepped in the churchyard this morning. They owned a farm west of town that was probably the farthest out.
She unobtrusively adjusted the fit of her lightweight gloves to ease the pressure on the worse of her blisters. Her palms were considerably improved from yesterday, but not yet healed enough to endure all the well-meaning inquiries from friends and neighbors who would inevitably notice the damage.
Mrs. Johnston shifted the toddler on her hip. “I’m just not sure there’s much we have to say that you’d find interesting.”
“Oh, but you’re very much mistaken. Everyone’s story is different and I find them all interesting.”
The farmer’s wife still looked uncertain so she explained further.
“My goal is to have a report on each family in Hawthorn. I’d like to at least document when and how their family arrived and why they decided to settle here.
Any other family stories and traditions are just going to make the story richer. ”
“I suppose we can give you that much. My ma used to tell me stories about how they traveled here from Ohio.”
“Wonderful, I can’t wait to hear about it.” She gave the woman a smile. “And if you have any mementos or heirlooms, you’d like to show off we can add them to your part of the display as well.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Johnston sounded a bit skeptical.
“Some people are loaning us their family bibles and photographs. Some are loaning or outright giving things like military items, pieces of jewelry, carved figures, letters—really anything that helps tell the story of their family.”
Mrs. Johnston glanced toward her husband. “Might have a thing or two. I’ll look around.” Then she looked past Mercy's shoulder. “Willie Joe, you stop teasing Penny right this minute.”
Mercy followed the woman’s gaze to see the little boy had adopted the expression of a child who’d been doing exactly what he'd been told not to do.
Mr. Johnston sighed. “I'd better go rescue my daughter before her brother talks himself into trouble.”
Mercy laughed. “Of course. I'll look forward to seeing you both Thursday.”
After exchanging farewells, she stepped aside to let the family continue toward the church while she remained where she was for a moment, watching the familiar flow of neighbors and friends arriving for service.
Around her, the churchyard hummed with the familiar activity that always preceded Sunday worship.
Wagons lined the road beneath the shade trees.
Children darted between groups of adults before being called back by watchful parents.
Neighbors exchanged greetings, discussed crops and weather, and shared the small bits of news accumulated over the past week.
Mercy always enjoyed these few minutes before service, the chance to listen to the everyday stories of her neighbors’ lives, the opportunity to visit with folks she only ever saw here, even if just for a few moments.
As she lifted her gaze, she saw a familiar figure approaching the churchyard—Wilson.
Not that she’d been watching for him. Still, the sight of him brought yesterday back with surprising clarity. She could almost feel the sting in her palms again and smell the faint medicinal scent of the salve he'd insisted on applying before she left the livery.
The memory had lingered longer than it ought last night.
His concern she understood well enough. The blisters had been obvious. Any decent person would have offered assistance. And she’d learned that Wilson was definitely that.
But the warm awareness that had settled between them afterward remained far more difficult to account for.
She had felt something similar earlier when she’d been the one tending to his hand but she hadn’t seen any signs that he’d been similarly affected.
That moment in the livery had been different though.
More personal somehow. And she’d seen the way his eyes darkened, how his gaze grew more intense.
But now she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps she’d imagined it, she’d been tired and in a bit of pain after all. Maybe she’d read more into it than was really there.
She watched as he exchanged a greeting with a passing rancher, then started toward the church.
For a brief moment she considered crossing the yard to speak with him. The impulse surprised her. What exactly would she say?
Thank you again for the salve? Ask how his hand was this morning?
Neither seemed particularly necessary.
Before she could decide, the church bell rang. The familiar sound rolled across the yard, drawing conversations toward a natural close.
As people began moving toward the entrance, Wilson looked in her direction. Their eyes met briefly across the crowd. He glanced down at her gloved hands, his lips tightening for a moment. Then he met her gaze again and tipped his head in greeting.
Mercy returned the gesture.
Then someone passed between them and the moment passed.
A few seconds later he disappeared through the church doors with the rest of the congregation.
Mercy found herself standing still for a moment longer than necessary. Only when her mother touched her arm lightly did she realize nearly everyone else had already begun making their way inside.