Chapter 11 #4
Wilson studied her for a long moment. There'd been a fierceness in that last bit that he hadn't heard from her before.
It caught him off guard.
Then again, he'd seen that sort of quiet resolve before. His mother had carried it beneath a gentle manner all her life.
His gaze dropped to the envelope still resting in his hand. "I've been thinking about Mother."
Mercy's expression softened.
"For the seven years before her passing she kept that locket safe because she believed someone would eventually come looking for it." He smiled faintly. "She never once spoke of it as though it belonged to us. We merely held it in trust for a time."
His thumb brushed the edge of the envelope before his gaze drifted to his mother's trunk.
It had remained closed for four years after her passing.
Until Mercy.
She was the one who had asked what lay inside. The one who had found the parchment and uncovered the locket's story. The one who had refused to let the search end there.
Without another word, he crossed to the trunk and lifted the lid.
The little black leather case rested where she'd placed it only moments before. He retrieved it, his fingers lingering briefly on the worn leather.
Then he turned back to Mercy. "I believe this belongs with you now." He placed the case gently in her hands.
"I think Mother would've been pleased to know the search finally reached its end." A quiet smile touched his face. "And I think she'd have been even more pleased it ended with someone like you.”
Mercy looked down at the worn leather case resting in her hands. When she lifted her gaze to his again, emotion shimmered in her eyes.
"Thank you."
Mercy headed for the schoolhouse Saturday morning hoping the day would deliver what Thursday and Friday had not.
Time.
She had, in fact, intended to arrive at the schoolhouse nearly an hour early.
Instead, just as breakfast was ending, Mama had caught the sleeve of Mercy's freshly donned dress with the teapot while refilling her cup.
The tea had cooled enough not to burn, but it had left a broad stain that sent Mercy upstairs for another change of clothes.
By the time she reached Main Street, her head start had vanished.
The last two days had been filled with interruptions of an entirely different sort.
On Thursday, her thoughts had been too full of Kate's letter—and the responsibility it had placed in her hands— for her to focus on much else.
About the only productive thing she'd managed was crafting a careful reply, accepting the gift and inquiring about the items they’d found in the locket.
Yesterday had disappeared beneath a steady procession of necessary visitors—Abigail fitting the new stand covers and the many small adjustments that went with that, Daniel delivering the honor boards, generating questions about placement and whether they would hang on the wall or stand freely, committee members stopping in with questions that seemed incapable of waiting until Monday.
By afternoon she'd finally slipped the leather box containing the locket into her satchel.
With so many people coming and going, she didn't want someone mistaking it for another exhibit piece or asking questions she wasn't yet ready to answer.
All the interruptions had been worthwhile. All necessary. And all of it had left Colonel Briggs' collection untouched.
Today, she intended to change that.
Unlocking the schoolhouse, she stepped inside and smiled.
The room no longer resembled a construction project. Most everything had found its place in the annex now and the schoolroom was organized and tidy. Only a couple of worktables remained, one for her and one for Wilson.
She moved to the doorway of the annex. It was beginning to look like an archive now. Not finished—there was still far too much to do for that—but settled somehow. Purposeful.
Her gaze drifted to the worktable where Colonel Briggs' boxes waited.
No one in Hawthorn had devoted more years to preserving the town's military history than the elderly veteran.
Long before the Centennial committee had ever imagined this exhibit, he'd quietly collected newspaper clippings, correspondence, obituaries, military notices—anything that told the story of Hawthorn's soldiers.
It seemed only right that she give his life's work the same careful attention he'd given collecting it.
She removed the lid of the first box. Inside lay exactly what she'd expected.
Newspaper clippings folded with meticulous care. Military circulars. Church notices. Handwritten scraps identifying names and dates that otherwise might have been forgotten.
She spent several minutes sorting everything into orderly piles before studying it to decide where to begin. Her gaze settled on the obituaries and she nodded. Those first.
The honor boards were nearly complete. If Colonel Briggs had preserved notice of a veteran's death that had somehow been left off the board, there was still time to correct the omission before the Centennial.
And since Daniel had delivered the boards yesterday, it would be easy enough to check.
If an obituary belonged to one of the men who'd settled elsewhere after the war, she'd update the notes she'd prepared for that display. If it was for someone who’d stayed, she would carefully add it to the appropriate family display.
Mercy drew the first clipping toward her, smoothed its brittle edges against the tabletop, and reached for her pencil.
The work quickly settled into a familiar rhythm.
Read.
Compare to veteran honor board.
If veteran settled elsewhere, update appropriate summary card.
If Hawthorn family, place with display.
Record.
Now and then she paused to check a spelling or regiment, but more often the obituary simply confirmed the information already recorded on the Fallen Heroes section of the honor board.
The realization brought an unexpected smile.
For years Colonel Briggs had been watching over Hawthorn's veterans, making certain their stories weren't forgotten. Now he was quietly helping her do the same.
She was reaching for another obituary when measured footsteps sounded on the porch. A familiar knock followed.
"Miss Owens?"
She looked up. "Good morning, Colonel Briggs. Come in."
The old veteran removed his hat as he stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the growing displays before settling on the papers spread neatly across her worktable. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"Not at all." She smiled. "In fact, I was just getting acquainted with more of your collection."
"Then this is good timing. I found one more item you might want." From beneath his arm he produced a folded newspaper, carefully wrapped in brown paper to protect it.
Mercy accepted it with a smile. "You keep insisting you've brought me everything." Colonel Briggs had taken to stopping by two or three times a week and more often than not had something else for her.
"So I do." His eyes twinkled. "Then another envelope arrives in the mail or something I’d forgotten about falls out of an old book."
She laughed softly. "It seems Hawthorn has no shortage of forgotten treasures."
"And aren’t we blessed for it?" He nodded toward the package he’d handed her. "Mrs. Littleton came across it while clearing a dresser drawer. Said she'd tucked it away years ago intending to bring it to me and never did."
Mercy set it beside the growing stacks. "I'll add it to today's work."
The veteran nodded. Then, rather than sitting, he moved to the honor boards. "These weren't here my last visit."
“Daniel delivered them yesterday,” she replied. “I think they turned out well.”
He stopped before the veterans' display, clasping his hands behind his back as he studied the names and dates listed there.
He continued another few steps before turning back toward her. "Did you ever find those Fletcher folks or hear back from the War Department?"
Mercy blinked. "The Fletchers." She smiled. "Oh dear, I never told you, did I?"
He shook his head.
"They are currently stationed at Fort Reno in Indian Territory."
A pleased grin spread across his weathered face. "So, you found 'em."
"I actually heard from Mrs. Fletcher on Thursday."
"Good."
Nothing more. No questions about the family. No curiosity over how she'd managed it.
Simply quiet satisfaction that she’d found her answers.
Mercy found herself smiling in return.
Footsteps sounded at the open doorway.
Wilson stepped inside carrying a narrow bundle of trim beneath one arm. "Mornin'."
Mercy looked up, and before she could stop it, a smile spread across her face. "Good morning."
Colonel Briggs turned. "Porter."
"Colonel." Wilson leaned the trim against the wall beside his worktable before crossing to where Colonel Briggs stood. "I see you've been keeping busy."
"So have you." Briggs gave an approving nod toward the annex. "You've given this town something it'll be thankful for long after the Centennial's over."
As Colonel Briggs made his exit, Wilson retrieved the bundle of trim he'd brought and carried it to one of the display cabinets near the annex doorway. "I shouldn't be much longer with these."
Mercy glanced up from the obituary she'd been reading. "You're running out of things to improve."
A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should."
He chuckled softly and set to work, measuring the narrow strip against the cabinet before reaching for his plane. The familiar scrape of steel across wood soon filled the room.
Mercy returned to Colonel Briggs' papers.
Read.
Compare to the honor board.
Update summary card if needed.
Update family display if needed.
Record.
The quiet rhythm settled around them once again.
She'd always enjoyed orderly work like this, but somewhere over the past several weeks she'd discovered she enjoyed it even more when Wilson occupied the other side of the room. Neither of them felt compelled to fill every silence. There was something comforting about simply knowing he was there.