Epilogue
Mama had gone out to tend the kitchen garden, leaving the house unusually quiet.
Mercy washed the luncheon dishes while Wilson dried them with the towel slung over his shoulder before setting them neatly into the cupboard.
Through the open windows drifted the familiar sounds of another Independence Day drawing near—children practicing patriotic songs somewhere near the commons, the occasional ring of a hammer, and voices carrying easily on the warm summer breeze.
A smile tugged at Mercy's lips.
A year ago, every decoration, every committee meeting, every borrowed table and handwritten display card had carried the weight of the Centennial. This year the town prepared with the easy confidence of people continuing a tradition they already loved.
Wilson set the last plate in its place and reached for the brown-paper parcel resting on the sideboard. "I finally finished it."
Mercy's gaze settled on the carefully tied package. "For Sam’s wife and child?"
He nodded. "I'm hoping to catch the afternoon post."
She crossed to him, laying a gentle hand over his.
"I'm proud of you."
He rubbed the back of his neck, just as she’d learned he always did when he was self-conscious. She found it endearing.
"It was time," he said simply.
She understood. During the long winter evenings, he'd gathered letters, copied service records, spoken with Colonel Briggs, and, hardest of all, written his own memories of Sam. The journal couldn't change the past, but it honored a friend whose story deserved to be remembered.
Mercy's gaze drifted toward the satchel resting on the nearby chair.
"I have something I've been meaning to finish as well."
She drew the silver locket from its familiar place inside and carried it to the table.
Wilson smiled as he watched her open the hidden compartment. "I thought you might."
Mercy carefully unfolded the parchment, her gaze settling on the words she'd written nearly a year earlier.
As our town gathered beneath the banner of liberty and remembrance, Wilson and I discovered that the true heart of honor lies not only in brave deeds, but also in understanding, compassion, and enduring love. Mercy Owens and Wilson Porter, Hawthorn, Texas, August 3, 1876
A smile softened her face as she gently traced Wilson's name before folding the parchment once more.
"I don't believe I'll ever tire of seeing our names together," she said.
Wilson's answering smile seta fluttering in her stomach. Then he surprised her with an unexpected question. "Do you know what you’re going to put in the locket yet?"
“Not the back part, no.” She’d place a small sprig of lavender for devotion and a scripture reference to 2 Peter 2:17. But she’d yet to come up with just the right thing for the back section.
Wilson crossed to the sideboard and opened the drawer. From inside he lifted his mother's old button box.
Mercy smiled the moment she saw it. “One of your mother’s buttons would be perfect.”
He opened the lid. “Not one of mother’s.
” He rested his fingertips on the worn wooden edge for a moment then searched through the contents.
, he withdrew two tiny buttons tied neatly together with a length of thread.
One was pearl from the cuff of the white shirt he'd worn on their wedding day.
The other, covered in ivory satin, had once fastened the back of her wedding gown.
They’d placed them there the day after their wedding—it had seemed fitting somehow.
Now he laid them gently in her palm and faint smile touched his lips. "When I saved these, I thought Ma would've liked knowing they were there." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Today I realized she'd rather they be where they could do some good."
He pulled a small scrap of paper from his pocket. “I thought this should go with ‘em.”
Mercy read the note. From our wedding garments and our hearts. She looked up. "This is beautiful."
He smiled. "Mama used to say every button in her box carried with it the memory of the life it touched."
His gaze met hers. "I thought maybe...ours would carry the memory of love."
Emotion tightened her throat. "It’s perfect."
Together they tucked the tiny buttons and note inside the locket then she closed it with a soft click. She rested her hand upon it for just a moment. "I've also made a decision."
He glanced at her hand. “About who gets the locket next?”.
Mercy nodded. "Clara Beckett "
He smiled in approval. "She'll take good care of it."
"I believe she will." Clara had been one of those students every teacher hoped for. Not because she was the cleverest—though she certainly was capable—but because she quietly gave every task her best. Mercy had no doubt Clara would prove a faithful steward.
Wilson moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist “When are you giving it to her?”
She leaned back against his broad chest. "I asked her to stop by the schoolhouse this afternoon. She leaves for Nebraska on Friday."
Wilson brushed a kiss against her neck then released her. He picked up the parcel for Sam’s widow and offered Mercy his arm.
"Ready to head back?"
She slipped her hand through his. "I am."
Together they stepped out onto the porch into the warmth of the July afternoon.
Hawthorn hummed with quiet anticipation as another Independence Day approached, children laughing beneath fluttering flags while neighbors greeted one another across tidy yards.
Mercy rested her free hand lightly against her abdomen and smiled.
If she wasn't mistaken, by the time another Fourth of July arrived, their own story would have grown by one more precious chapter.
Side by side, she and Wilson started toward the schoolhouse, grateful for the stories God had already written—and eager to discover the ones He had yet to unfold.
Keep reading for a preview of The Sky Between Us, the next book in this series.