Chapter 5 #4
As he made his exit she stood where she was for a moment, thinking over the morning’s revelations.
The discovery of the locket had been exciting and provided an intriguing mystery she couldn't wait to pursue.
Yet what her thoughts kept returning to were the insights she'd received into the life of Mr. Porter himself. Through the stories attached to a photograph, a button collection, and a well-worn pipe, she’d caught glimpses of the boy he'd once been and the family that had shaped him. She’d also witnessed brief appearances of a more relaxed and unguarded man as he shared those memories with her.
And she had to admit she wouldn't mind seeing more of that side of him.
Wilson arrived back at the livery just as Walt Green was leading a chestnut mare into the yard.
"Hope I'm not too early," Walt called.
"Right on time."
Wilson spent the next several minutes examining the mare's hooves while Walt described a slight limp that had appeared after a rocky stretch of road. By the time the horse was settled into a stall and Walt sent on his way, Davey had a list of questions waiting for him.
A wagon team needed to be ready first thing in the morning. Someone wanted to rent a buggy next week. Feed supplies were running low.
Ordinarily the familiar rhythm of work would have occupied his full attention.
Today his thoughts kept drifting back to the schoolhouse.
More specifically, to the trunk sitting beside Mercy's desk.
He told himself there was nothing unusual about leaving it there.
They hadn't finished going through it. There was no sense hauling it home only to haul it back again once they found another opportunity to continue.
The explanation was sensible enough.
Yet even he wasn't entirely convinced it told the whole story.
The trunk held nearly every physical item he had left of his parents. A lifetime of keepsakes and memories. He could have loaded it back into the buggy before leaving.
Instead, he'd set it beside the teacher's desk and thought nothing of it.
Or at least nothing of it at the time.
A customer arrived to inquire about boarding a horse overnight. Wilson answered the man's questions, showed him an empty stall, and returned to repairing a worn harness strap.
His thoughts drifted once more.
Over the past several weeks he'd watched Mercy sit with the Millers and the other families they'd visited this week.
Somehow, she always managed to draw out the story behind a keepsake.
A faded ribbon became a courtship memory.
A worn comb became a tale of gratitude. An ordinary object became something worth preserving.
He'd thought he understood what she was doing.
Experiencing it himself had been different.
Before he'd fully realized what was happening, he'd found himself talking about his parents, his childhood, and memories he hadn't thought about in years much less spoken aloud.
The surprising part wasn't that she'd asked the questions.
The surprising part was that he'd answered them.
Truth be told, he hadn't always waited for her to ask.
There was just something about her presence—gentle, interested, never pushy.
Mercy listened as if every memory mattered, yet somehow never made a person feel obligated to share more than they wished.
And funny thing, once he'd start talking, the memories hadn't hurt the way he'd expected.
For years he'd avoided dwelling on them too long. The loss still lingered. He suspected it always would. Yet today he'd spent more time remembering his parents' lives—their joys and quirks and love—than mourning their absence.
His mother's button stories.
His father's pipe.
The family photograph.
The memories still carried an ache. But the ache felt different somehow. Less like a wound being reopened and more like one that had quietly stopped aching quite so much.
Wilson paused, frowning slightly at the thought.
Perhaps it helped that Mercy had listened with such genuine interest.
Not because the stories were historically significant.
Not because she needed another artifact for her collection.
Because she seemed to care about the people attached to them.
The notion lingered with him through the remainder of the afternoon.
By the time the last customer departed and the evening chores were finished, dusk had settled over Hawthorn.
Wilson secured the stable doors and started up the stairs to the small apartment above the livery.
His thoughts drifted briefly toward the next day's plans.
The old outbuilding might yield enough usable lumber to solve Mercy's shelving problem. There was satisfaction in that alone. And there was a certain appeal in seeing what they might uncover. An abandoned structure that old was bound to contain a few surprises.
Then again, if Miss Owens accompanied him, she'd likely find a story hidden in every loose board and rusty hinge.
The thought drew an unexpected smile.
Shaking his head, Wilson continued up the stairs.
He told himself he was looking forward to the salvage operation.
Whether that was the entire truth was another matter altogether.