Chapter 12
After a very satisfying Sunday dinner, Wilson found himself walking beside Mercy, headed to the schoolhouse. He realized matching his pace to hers had become second nature. The thought brought a quiet smile. When had that started?
Perhaps it had always been that way.
Or perhaps, like so many other things between them, it had happened so gradually he'd never noticed until now.
The June sun had already climbed high enough to warm the street, but a light breeze kept the afternoon pleasant. Church, Sunday dinner, and now this familiar walk across town had settled into a rhythm he found himself looking forward to more than he cared to examine too closely.
It wasn't simply Mrs. Owens's cooking, though he'd be hard-pressed to name a better Sunday dinner anywhere in the county. Nor was it the chanced to review their work in the annex and create a checklist of what remained to be done.
No, it was this.
An unhurried walk beside Mercy. Conversation that wandered wherever it pleased. An hour or two spent helping her make decisions before heading back to the livery.
Simple things.
Yet somewhere over the past few weeks they'd become the best part of his Sundays.
He glanced toward Mercy. She carried no boxes today, no photographs or family heirlooms tucked beneath one arm. Just her notebook, clasped loosely in one hand as she watched the boardwalk ahead of them and occasionally comment on the Independence Day decorations going up everywhere.
The silence between them felt easy, companionable. But Wilson enjoyed their conversations too much to waste the opportunity. "Did you make much progress yesterday after I left?"
"I did." She nodded. "Enough to figure out the best approach to use, at any rate. There's still quite a bit to go, but I think it'll move faster now."
"I'm glad."
She looked over at him. "In fact, there are a couple of things I'd like your opinion on."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could catch himself.
She caught it immediately. "What?"
"Nothing."
She gave him a skeptical look. "It doesn't look like nothing."
He chuckled. "I was just thinking you've gotten into the habit of asking what I think about things."
She frowned slightly, as though considering it. "Have I?”
"You have."
She looked genuinely surprised. “Does it bother you?”
“Not at all.” The last thing he wanted was for her to stop.
"Good. Because I value your thoughts when I’m trying to work through something."
The simple certainty of her response caught him off guard. Wilson felt something warm settle quietly inside him.
There'd been a time when he'd measured his worth almost entirely by the things he could mend with his hands.
Somewhere along the way Mercy had begun asking him to help sort through decisions instead.
She had just said, in so many words, that she trusted his judgment every bit as much as his craftsmanship.
He hadn't realized until that moment how much that trust had come to mean.
"So," he said, his smile lingering, "what's on your mind?"
By this time, they’d reached the edge of the schoolyard.
"Come on inside,” she said. “It'll be easier if I show you."
Mercy led him into the schoolroom and crossed to her worktable. The box Colonel Briggs had placed in her keeping still sat open where she'd left it, newspaper clippings and folded papers spread across the tabletop in neat stacks.
"This is what I spent yesterday working through."
Wilson stepped beside her as she lifted one of the bundles. The faded blue ribbon lay where she'd untied it the afternoon before.
"I expected to find interesting stories," she said. "And I did. But that isn't what I'd like your opinion on."
She picked up one of the newspapers and handed it to him. "Look in the corner."
Wilson unfolded the brittle page. A brief penciled note appeared above the masthead.
Received from Mrs. Talbot after George's passing.
He reached for another.
Sent by Rev. Abbott of Chapel Rock, Texas.
A third.
James Whitcomb enclosed this with his Christmas letter, 1868.
Wilson looked up, not quite sure what it was she wanted him to see.
"I hadn't paid much attention to those at first," Mercy admitted. "But after reading through so many of them, I realized what they represent."
She rested her fingertips lightly on the nearest stack.
"Colonel Briggs didn't simply gather newspaper clippings.
He spent years writing letters, keeping up with veterans who'd moved away, and corresponding with their families after they passed on.
They came from places scattered throughout the country and every one found its way back to Hawthorn because someone knew he'd value it and preserve it. "
Wilson glanced over the collection again, seeing it differently now. "That would've taken a powerful lot of time."
"It did." Mercy nodded. "Some of these go back to the Mexican-American War. And without all of his quiet effort, many of these stories would've been lost."
She drew her notebook closer and opened it to a page filled with hastily written ideas.
"I've decided the articles that go into family displays should each have a small card noting they came from Colonel Briggs' collection. But..." She hesitated. "It doesn't seem like enough."
Wilson studied her for a moment before asking, "What do you suppose Colonel Briggs would find most meaningful?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she looked back at the stacks of papers. "I don't think he'd care much about having his name displayed."
Wilson smiled faintly, watching her puzzle it through. "Neither do I."
"He'd probably be happiest knowing people stopped to read the stories."
"I expect so."
She was quiet another moment. "But just because he wouldn't seek recognition doesn't mean he hasn't earned it."
Wilson nodded. "I agree."
Her gaze drifted toward the unnamed display board visible through the annex doorway.
"I've been thinking that board ought to bear his name somehow. Not to draw attention to him..." She searched for the right words. "...but so folks understand where these stories came from and whose faithful work preserved them."
Wilson looked toward the board as well. "I reckon that's fitting."
"You don't think it'd embarrass him?"
"It might." A corner of Wilson's mouth lifted. "But if it's done to honor the collection instead of the man, I expect he'd endure it." His grin widened. “And he’d like it a sight better than folks making a fuss over him with awards and speeches and such.”
Mercy smiled. "I hadn't thought of it that way."
She made one more note in her notebook, then closed it with a satisfied nod.
"I believe that settles it." She rested her hand atop the notebook for a moment.
Then she looked back up at him, her smile fading. "There was something else I found yesterday that I need to show you."
Mercy crossed to the far side of the table and lifted a newspaper from one of the unfinished stacks.
"I came across this yesterday afternoon."
Her voice had changed. The easy warmth that had filled the room only moments before had given way to something quieter. "I think you should read it."
Wilson accepted the folded newspaper without concern. During the past several weeks she'd discovered dozens of interesting accounts tucked among Colonel Briggs' collection. He expected this to be another.
He unfolded the yellowed pages and his eyes dropped to the headline. Then farther down.
Jonah Cartwright.
Every muscle in his body tightened. He scarcely noticed Mercy anymore.
Jonah.
He hadn't heard that name spoken in years. His gaze moved to the opening paragraphs.
Abilene.
The interview.
He knew this story before he reached the next column. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he continued reading.
...our young Lieutenant Porter...
Wilson closed his eyes for the briefest moment before forcing himself onward. He didn't need Jonah to tell him what happened that day. He remembered every moment. Every shouted order. Every rifle report. Every impossible decision.
The article spoke of courage under fire. Of calm leadership. Of men who owed their lives to a young lieutenant who had refused to abandon them.
Wilson barely saw the words. His gaze found only one sentence.
Against every expectation, he got all but one of us safely out.
Sam. The name echoed through his mind with painful clarity.
His fingers tightened against the brittle paper.
Then another realization settled over him.
Mercy had found this yesterday. Yesterday afternoon.
She'd known through Sunday dinner. Through the walk to the schoolhouse. Through everything they'd just said about Colonel Briggs.
Why had she waited to say something?
Had she needed time to think? To weigh what she'd read?
She'd had nearly a day. Nearly a day to wonder. To draw her own conclusions.
To decide...
He couldn't bear to finish the thought.
Slowly he lowered the newspaper.
Mercy hadn't moved. She stood where she'd been when she handed him the article, her eyes searching his face.
Wilson folded the newspaper with deliberate care, following the same creases that had preserved it all these years. For a long moment he said nothing.
Then he laid it gently on the table and forced himself to meet her gaze. "It doesn't change anything."
Mercy's brow furrowed. "What doesn't?"
"My answer about the parade."
She stared at him in open confusion. "I wasn't thinking about the parade."
Wilson looked at her. If not the parade...
...then why?
Mercy's gaze drifted briefly to the folded newspaper before returning to his. "I kept coming back to one part."
His stomach tightened. If she started talking about what a hero he'd been...
"Which part?" he asked quietly.
She looked at him. "'...all but one.'"
Her expression softened. "I'd like to hear about the one who didn't make it out." She paused a heartbeat. "But only if you want to talk about it."
She wasn't asking about the men he'd saved.
She was asking about the one he hadn't.
Wilson closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Mercy hadn't moved. She simply waited, leaving the choice entirely in his hands.
He drew a slow breath.