Chapter 2
Wilson Porter ran his hand down Rudy’s neck, feeling the heat of the gelding beneath his palm, the steady strength of muscle shifting under hide. Rudy wasn’t one of his—the bay belonged to a rancher out past the creek—but the animal had learned Wilson’s hands well enough to stand for him.
There was a certain ease in that. Not pride exactly, and not anything he gave much thought to, but a quiet certainty in the work of it. Here, a man either knew what he was about or he didn’t, and the animals told the truth of it quick enough. Rudy stood for him because he had reason to.
That was usually how it went. They came in wary, and if they stayed long enough, they learned to trust him.
“Easy,” Wilson murmured, more out of habit than necessity.
His voice stayed low, even—the way horses responded to best. He kept his touch the same, unhurried, giving the animal no reason to test him again.
The gelding’s tension eased a fraction beneath his hand, not full trust exactly, but something close enough to work with.
Dust rose with each pass of the brush, catching in the slant of morning light that angled through the open doors of the livery.
The scent of leather, hay, and horseflesh hung thick in the air—familiar, constant.
It settled into a man the longer he stayed, until the work and the place were one and the same.
Wilson set the brush aside and reached for the currycomb, working it in slow, steady circles.
The rhythm mattered—same pressure, same pace—until the animal stopped questioning it.
There was satisfaction in that moment, small but certain, when resistance gave way and the work found its footing.
Rudy shifted his weight once, then settled, accepting the pattern.
Behind him, hooves scuffed lightly outside—an uncertain step, then a sharper one—followed by the hollow thud of boots on the packed dirt floor. Rudy’s ear flicked back at the sound before settling again.
“Morning, Porter.”
Wilson glanced back. Larry Halpern stood just inside the doorway, sweeping his forehead with the back of the hand that held his hat. His work horse was tied off outside. The mare tossed her head once, impatient with the wait.
“Morning.” Wilson turned back to his work, already fitting the pieces together. “She favoring that left fore again?”
Larry stepped closer as Wilson moved his hand down the gelding’s leg. “A bit. Thought I’d have you take a look before I put her to the plow.”
Wilson nodded once and finished with the gelding, setting the brush aside. He ran a final steadying pass along Rudy’s neck, then slipped the lead rope over a nearby rail, setting the horse where he’d stand quiet. “Bring her in,” he said.
Larry stepped back out and returned a moment later, leading the mare through the doorway. The change in light and space made her toss her head once, but she followed, hooves sounding sharper on the packed dirt inside.
Wilson gave her a moment to take in her surroundings before he stepped in close.
Then he crouched, running his hand along the leg, testing for heat, for swelling.
The warmth told him more than the look of it ever could.
Same place as before. Worked too soon, or too hard—or both.
The mare stamped once, a warning more than resistance, and he adjusted his touch automatically, easing the pressure until she stilled.
“Not as bad as last time,” he said. The heat was there, but not deep-set. “I’ll take care of it. She’ll need a few days easy before you put her back to the plow.”
Larry let out a breath. “Much obliged.” He lingered but his focus seemed to be directed to something outside.
Wilson followed his gaze without turning his head, only a shift in his attention. Movement outside—shadows crossing the doorway, a figure passing at a measured pace.
Colonel Briggs.
Even at a distance, the man carried himself the same—back straight, step deliberate, as though every foot of ground answered to him. He paused to speak with someone near the hitching rail, hat tipped just enough to be courteous without yielding anything of himself.
Wilson’s hand stilled on the mare’s leg—just a fraction—before he set it moving again. Same pressure. Same pace.
Larry said something—Wilson caught only the tail end of it.
“Mm,” he answered. Enough. It usually was.
He didn’t look up again.
The mare’s heat sat shallow under his fingers—there to be worked out if it was handled right. The right pressure, the right place. Done correctly, it answered. No talking it through, no circling back. Just the work—and whether it held.
Larry let out a breath. “Reckon I’ll leave her with you, then.”
Wilson nodded. “I’ll see to her.”
Larry returned the nod. “Appreciate it.”
His boots sounded again on the packed dirt as he headed back out into the street. The light shifted briefly as his shadow crossed the doorway, then settled back into its earlier slant.
Work waited. It always did. And it asked no more of a man than he was willing to give it.
Wilson mixed the salve and worked it carefully into the mare’s leg, his focus narrowing to the task at hand—the way the muscle gave under his touch, the small signs that told him when to ease off and when to press a little more.
The mare resisted at first, then yielded in increments, each one earned rather than given.
Outside, a wagon rattled past. Voices drifted in from the street—snatches of talk, a laugh, the easy movement of a town going about its day. Somewhere farther off, a hammer struck in a steady rhythm.
Wilson straightened, wiping his hands on a cloth, and turned toward the open doorway.
The street lay open before him, dust rising under passing wheels. A figure approached from up the way—purposeful, unhurried, her course set straight for the livery.
A woman.
He knew her before she came close enough for greeting.
The schoolteacher. Miss Owens.
Wilson stilled where he stood, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe as he watched her approach. Not surprise, but a faint, puzzled curiosity as to what business she might have with him.
She didn't slow. Didn't look aside. Whatever had brought her here, she meant to see it through.
He pushed away from the frame and turned back into the shade of the livery, reaching for the nearest task. Easier to meet a visitor with work in hand. Easier still to let the work stand between them until she spoke first.
Mercy Owens paused just beyond the threshold, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior of the livery.
She’d been here before, often enough to be familiar with both the place and the man who ran it.
Quiet. Capable. Dependable. The sort of man one went to when something needed doing.
But this time her purpose went beyond hiring a buggy.
Outside, the morning had been bright and orderly. Here, the air was thicker, edged with the scents of leather, hay, and animals. Dust drifted in the angled light.
Her gaze moved inward, taking in the stalls, the tack, the careful arrangement of tools with new eyes. Nothing in here appeared haphazard. Everything had its place, even if it didn't resemble the neat rows and ledgers she was accustomed to.
She had always thought of the livery as noisy and practical, a place one passed through on the way to somewhere else. She had never truly considered how much order it required to keep such a place running.
A flicker of movement to her left caught her attention and she turned, spotting him.
Mr. Porter stood a short distance away, methodically cleaning his tools at a sturdy workbench a few feet from the door.
His movements were measured, deliberate, as though each motion had been decided long before he made it.
There was no hesitation in him, no sense of performing for the benefit of anyone watching.
It made her wonder, with a small prickle of unease, how much of Mr. Porter she had passed by over the years without ever really seeing.
She drew in a quiet breath, then stepped fully inside.
“Mr. Porter?”
He didn’t turn immediately. Instead, he finished what he was about, then straightened and looked at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
The response was polite, but spare. Not unfriendly, simply contained.
Mercy inclined her head. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
A faint pause. “That’s all right.”
There wasn't an edge to it. No attempt to discourage her. But neither was there any invitation.
She clasped her hands lightly in front of her, keeping her tone measured. “I’d like to make arrangements to travel to several of the outlying farms and ranches. There are records to be verified for the Roll of Honor, and hopefully artifacts to collect. I’ll need a buggy and driver, as before.”
His gaze held on her a moment longer than was strictly necessary, as if weighing the request for its substance rather than its phrasing.
“Where’s your first stop?” he asked.
“The Miller place.”
He nodded, as if that confirmed something already forming in his mind. “All right. I can take you out tomorrow morning, if that suits.”
Relief flickered. “Of course. Just let me know what time." She brushed at her skirt. "I expect I'll need to make several of these trips over the next few weeks.”
He gave a small nod, already turning back toward his work. “Mornings are best. Davey can mind things here if I’m out early. Let's say eight-thirty.”
That might have been the end of it, if business had been her only purpose.
Her hands tightened slightly before she made herself loosen them. This was the part she'd rehearsed on the walk over and still hadn't found a way to make sound quite as simple as it ought. But she was determined to get it said.
Mercy drew a breath, steadying herself. “There’s one other matter.”
His hand stilled, though he didn't turn back fully. “Is there.”
“It concerns the Roll of Honor.” She kept her tone even, professional. Professional was safest. “Your name was included among those eligible for recognition. I understand you declined to participate.”