Chapter 9 #5
She laid it beside the stitching irons and reached for the packet tied with faded blue ribbon. "These are letters from men who received some of the saddles Papa donated during the war. A few wrote afterward to thank him. He truly cherished these."
Wilson's expression remained unchanged, but she noticed his eyes linger on the packet a moment longer before she set it aside.
Beside the letters lay several certificates recognizing Papa's contributions to the war effort and a faded family photograph taken a year or two before his death.
But her hand moved to a delicate silver chain. “Mama loaned this for the display.”
“It was my grandmother’s,” Mama said with a faraway look. “A wedding gift to her from my grandfather. She gave it to me on her deathbed.”
As Mercy moved on to the family Bible she noticed her mother slip quietly from the room. Had the talk about her grandmother’s chain brought up some emotional memories for her?
She rested a hand on the Bible. "This was passed down through Mama's family. My understanding is Papa’s ended up with his older brother."
Wilson looked over the assortment once more.
"You've given quite a bit of thought to each piece."
"I've probably given it too much thought." Mercy smiled sheepishly. "Every time I settle on something, I remember another story."
"I don't suppose that's a bad problem for a town historian to have."
"I suppose not."
His gaze moved slowly across the table. "Do you feel anything’s still missing?"
“Yes.” Mama had reentered the room carrying a familiar framed piece, which she promptly placed amongst the other items. “We were missing Mercy.”
Mercy blinked. "Mama..."
"What?" Her mother adjusted the frame a fraction of an inch. "You need representing, too."
Heat crept into Mercy's cheeks. "This isn't about me."
"No," Mama agreed. "It's about our family." She looked at Wilson. "Mercy stitched this sampler when she was nine."
Mercy gave a soft groan. "It was one of my first attempts."
Her mother nodded calmly. "And a very respectable one."
"The border wanders. The letters aren't evenly spaced." Mercy threw up her hands.
Mama's smile widened. "But you stuck with it until you finished."
Wilson looked down at the sampler with the same quiet attention he'd given every other item on the table. "I'd say it belongs."
Mercy glanced from the sampler to the other articles on the table.
Until that moment she'd been thinking of the display as the story of the generations that had come before.
She hadn't stopped to consider that, whether she intended it or not, the story continued with her.
"I'm still not certain that’s the right piece. "
Mama rested a hand lightly on her arm. "I am."
Deciding this was a battle she wouldn’t win, Mercy turned back to Wilson. "There is one other thing I want to include—Papa's saddle. We keep it in his workshop out back—it was too big for me to carry in here."
Wilson slipped his notebook into his coat pocket. "Would you mind showing it to me?"
"Of course not."
The three rose from the table, and Mama led them through the back door.
The workshop stood only a short distance from the house beneath the shade of two sprawling pecan trees.
Papa had built it before she was born, and except for the quieter years since his passing, she could scarcely remember a time when it hadn't smelled faintly of leather, oil, and freshly worked wood.
Mama opened the door.
The familiar scent greeted Mercy at once. For just a moment she was a little girl again, content to sit on the stool beside the workbench while Papa worked, listening as he talked about whatever happened to be on his mind.
Wilson stepped inside and slowly turned, taking in the room.
"It looks much as he left it," Mercy said. She crossed to the stand where Papa's saddle still rested, just where she'd placed it after the funeral.
Before she reached it, Wilson stepped beside her.
Mercy rested one hand against the worn leather as the two of them looked it over.
"It's held up remarkably well," Wilson observed.
"He always said a saddle ought to outlast the man who uses it."
Wilson ran an appreciative eye over the stitching, the seat, and the neatly finished edges. "Fine workmanship."
A quiet warmth settled over Mercy. Praise for Papa's work from someone who spent his own days repairing harness and tack somehow meant more than it would from other quarters.
“Do you mind if I look around a bit?” he asked as his gaze wandered around the workshop.
“Not at all.” Was his interest from a professional perspective or something else.
She watched as he wandered over to Papa’s workbench, studying the neatly arranged tools, the paper patterns and other items hanging from pegs, and the nearby shelves crowded with jars of buckles, rivets, and hardware.
His gaze moved from one peg to the next before finally stopping. "What's the story behind this?"
Mercy's gaze followed his to the object hanging from the peg.
The old stirrup.
It had hung there for as long as she could remember, as much a part of the workshop as the workbench itself. Yet she couldn't recall ever giving it much thought. Now she wondered why.
Mama stepped closer. "That?" A wistful smile touched her face as she lifted it carefully from its peg. "This is something Josiah insisted on keeping where he could see it."
Mercy straightened, her focus changing from mild curiosity to full attention.
Her mother turned it over in her hands for a long moment, her thumb brushing the twisted metal. "He kept it as a reminder."
"A reminder of what?" Mercy was trying to be patient. She knew it was best to let someone tell a story in their own time. But she was learning it was difficult when it was personal.
Mama looked from the stirrup to Wilson before settling her gaze on Mercy. "The day everything changed."
Mercy frowned. "I don't understand."
"No, I suppose you wouldn't." Mama smiled faintly.
"It happened years before you were born.
" She stared down at the mangled bit of metal and leather in her hands.
"Your father had just finished running an errand to a ranch several miles from town.
On the ride home his horse threw a shoe.
Before Josiah realized something was wrong, the animal stumbled on a stretch of rocky ground and went down. "
Why had she never heard this story before? "He was thrown?"
Mama nodded. "The horse rolled before Josiah could free himself. It crushed the stirrup against the rocks and broke your father's leg in several places."
Mercy looked at the battered piece of iron in her mother's hands, her stomach tightening at the thought of Papa lying injured and alone until someone found him.
"By the time someone found him,” Mama continued, “the damage had already been done."
Mercy had known it was a riding accident, but never asked for any of the details. She’d assumed it wasn’t something he’d want to talk about. “Did Grandfather treat him?”
"Yes." Mama smiled softly, though sadness lingered in her eyes.
"Your grandfather did everything he could for Josiah, but he wasn't certain Josiah would ever walk again.
" Then her expression lightened. “But your father was never one to give up.
It took months before he was able to put much weight on that leg, but he did eventually walk.
Though of course he limped for the rest of his life. "
Her mother absently drew the stirrup to her bodice. "I helped my father care for him. At first because there was simply too much work for one person. But before long..." She smiled at the memory. "Well, we discovered we rather enjoyed one another's company."
"Is that how you two met?"
"We'd known of each other from school." Mama laughed quietly. "But sitting on opposite sides of the classroom wasn't the same as spending hours talking while he recovered."
She paused, seeming lost in thought. Then she looked up. "By the time Josiah was well enough to return to his home, we both knew we'd found something worth holding on to."
Mercy's gaze drifted from her mother's face to the bent stirrup. "And Papa kept this all those years."
"He said every time he looked at it, he was reminded that the Good Lord could bring unexpected blessings out of life's darkest moments."
The workshop fell quiet.
Mercy looked at the battered stirrup in an entirely different light than she had just moments ago. All these years it had simply been another object hanging on the wall. Now she saw in it the beginning of her parents' story.
She met her mother's gaze. "This belongs in the display too."
Mama held the bent stirrup out to her. "I believe you're right."
Mercy accepted it as the gift it was. Surely it hadn't been easy for Mama to hand it over.
Together they returned to the house.
While Wilson waited near the front door with Papa's saddle, Mama disappeared into the bedroom and returned carrying one of her hat boxes.
"This should make it easier to carry everything together."
"It will." Mercy lined the bottom with a folded towel, then carefully arranged the display pieces inside.
The family Bible went in first, followed by the photograph, certificates, letters, stitching irons, maker's stamp, and the smaller keepsakes.
She settled the sampler across the top before wrapping the bent stirrup along with the silver chain in a clean tea towel and laying it gently beside it.
As she lowered the lid, she found herself replaying the afternoon in her mind.