Chapter 6 #3
Mr. Porter looked toward the stump where her collection of finds rested. "I’m surprised you’re bothering with today’s finds. You barely have room for what you already have."
"Every story can teach us something." Would she ever be able to get him to see that?
His expression suggested he remained unconvinced.
Mercy pretended not to notice. Instead, she changed the subject. "I've also been thinking about where the shelves ought to go and have questions about how we decide the space allocation for the individual displays."
That launched them into a discussion of the archive room, available wall space, and the best arrangement for the lumber they hoped to recover.
They finished their meal before the discussion, but at length Mr. Porter paused and brushed some crumbs from his pants leg. "We should probably get back to it."
Mercy nodded and began to collect their dishes and leftovers. "We should."
To her surprise he helped her put the things away. Then he rose and offered her a hand.
Mercy's pulse gave an entirely unnecessary flutter as she accepted it.
A moment later they were crossing back toward the outbuilding.
The work waited exactly where they'd left it.
The afternoon wore on beneath the growing heat.
The work no longer felt quite as awkward as it had at the beginning of the day. Conversation came and went naturally, giving way to comfortable stretches of silence as they focused on the task before them.
Despite the wound he'd received earlier, the stubborn livery owner refused to slow down.
He removed boards from the front wall with the same steady energy he'd displayed that morning while Mercy continued pulling nails and stacking lumber.
Whenever he paused for a drink of water, he'd carry another stack of finished boards to the wagon before returning to work.
During one of her water breaks, she paused to survey their progress. "We've accomplished quite a lot," she said feeling a mix of satisfaction and pride.
He glanced toward the growing stacks. "We have."
Mercy looked toward the lumber again. "You realize, of course, that one day people will admire those shelves but never know how much effort went into them."
"If anyone admires the shelves, I imagine they'll survive not knowing how they got there."
She smiled. "Perhaps I should include a plaque."
That earned her a look. "A plaque?"
She cleared her throat officiously. "'These shelves lovingly constructed from lumber salvaged under difficult conditions by two dedicated, hardworking citizens of Hawthorn.'"
For a moment she thought he might actually laugh. Instead, one corner of his mouth lifted. "Bit wordy for a plaque."
Mercy grinned as she set down her cup. She realized she was beginning to enjoy trying to get Wilson to smile.
Then she paused.
Wilson?
It seemed that sometime between lunch and now she'd begun thinking of him as Wilson instead of Mr. Porter. The realization was oddly unsettling.
And strangely pleasing.
Determined not to examine either reaction too closely, she flexed her hands. The gloves had spared her the worst of it, but her palms had been growing steadily more tender throughout the afternoon.
But she was determined not to let it stop her. Partly because she’d made a commitment and was determined to live up to it. And perhaps she was also just a tiny bit unwilling to let Wilson see her fail. Besides, it hadn’t gotten unbearable yet.
The work continued for another quarter hour before his voice carried across the clearing. "Miss Owens."
She looked up. He stood near the partially dismantled front wall. Something rested in his palm.
"I think this belongs on your stump."
Curiosity immediately replaced every other thought. She crossed the distance between them and looked down. A small wooden horse lay in his hand.
Time and weather had darkened the wood. One leg had broken away long ago, but traces of careful carving remained visible beneath the dirt.
"Oh." The soft sound escaped before she could stop it.
Wilson glanced at the figure. "Looks like some youngster lost it."
Mercy carefully lifted it from his palm. The wood had been worn smooth in places, as though small fingers had held it countless times. "I wonder who carved it."
He shrugged. "Father. Brother. Grandfather."
"Perhaps." She turned the little horse over in her hand. "Or perhaps the child carved it himself."
A smile touched her lips. For a moment she could almost picture it—a boy seated on a porch step with a pocketknife and a scrap of wood, carving away while a patient father offered advice.
The image made the little horse seem far more valuable than its appearance suggested.
Wilson nodded toward the stump. "Better add it to the collection before it loses another leg."
Mercy laughed softly and carried the toy to the growing display.
When she returned, he was already back at work.
Mercy wasn't entirely sure why the discovery pleased her so much. The little horse was certainly charming. But she suspected the real reason had less to do with the toy than with the fact that Wilson had seen it and thought of her and her project.
The realization warmed her far more than the afternoon sun.
The work continued.
Board by board. Nail by nail. Slowly the remaining structure surrendered what it had left to give.
By late afternoon only a small section of wall remained standing.
Mercy had been aware of the soreness in her hands for hours now. What had begun as a mild irritation shortly after lunch had gradually become harder to ignore. Each board she needed to move, each nail she needed to pull seemed to make it just a little worse.
This was what came from spending a day doing work her hands weren't accustomed to.
She told herself they were nearly finished.
There was no sense making an issue of it now.
But as she stared down at the next nail waiting to be pulled, she paused and wiped her forehead with the back of her forearm.
Then she grabbed the hammer and slipped the claw end under the nail head.
The moment she applied pressure, the tender spots along her palms protested. Strongly.
She drew in a quick breath. Not enough to cry out. But enough.
For a moment she simply stared at her gloved hand.
Mercy glanced toward Wilson. Fortunately, he appeared occupied pulling yet another board.
She took another breath, gritted her teeth and returned to work.
A few moments later a shadow fell across the board in front of her. "Miss Owens."
Something in his voice brought heat to her cheeks as she looked up. Why did she suddenly feel like one of her students caught cheating on an assignment?
Wilson's gaze flicked from her face to her gloved hands and back again. And Mercy knew she hadn’t hidden the problem nearly as well as she'd hoped.
He stooped down so he was on a level with her and held out a hand. “Let’s have a look at what’s inside those gloves.”
Wilson studied her face, trying to see beyond her surprise. "If it’s too painful I can remove them for you," he said when she didn’t move.
Miss Owens' expression suggested she found the proposal deeply unreasonable. "It's nothing."
Wilson nearly smiled. The words sounded remarkably familiar. "That's exactly what you told me about my splinter."
A hint of color crept into her cheeks. "It was a very large splinter."
"It was not."
Her chin came up. "It absolutely was."
Realizing she was trying to distract him, Wilson folded his arms. "Miss Owens."
She sighed, a sound that conveyed both exasperation and guilt. After a moment she tugged off one glove and then the other.
Wilson expected to find a few tender spots, perhaps the beginnings of a blister or two.
Instead, he found himself staring. The fingers and palms of her hands were red and swollen.
Several blisters had formed despite the gloves, and one had already broken.
For a moment he said nothing. Then he silently berated himself. How had he not noticed?
Miss Owens immediately became interested in a nearby board. "It really isn’t that bad."
Wilson lifted an eyebrow.
She glanced at her hands, then back at him. "Perhaps a little worse than I'd hoped."
A little worse. The woman had apparently spent the day pulling nails and hauling lumber with hands that looked as though she'd wrapped them around a hot poker. "You should've said something."
"We were nearly finished." There was a touch of defensiveness beneath her bluster.
"That's not the point." The answer came out sharper than he intended.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then she looked away. "I didn't want to slow things down."
Something tightened unexpectedly in his chest. The woman had spent the better part of the day working as hard as any hand he'd ever hired at the livery, and she was worried about slowing things down.
Wilson shook his head. "You're done pulling nails for the day."
Her head came up immediately. "I most certainly am not."
"You most certainly are."
The familiar spark appeared in her eyes. Wilson had seen that look often enough over the past week to recognize it as a warning. Unfortunately for her, he'd already made up his mind and didn’t plan to budge.
"There are only a couple of boards left worth salvaging. And the rest of the nails can come out next week—I’ll just need to be careful when I stack it."
"I can still help in other ways."
"No."
"Mr. Porter?—"
"No."
She stared at him.
He stared back.
At length she exhaled through her nose.
Wilson recognized surrender when he saw it.
He straightened. For a moment he considered loading her into the wagon and heading back to town right then and there.
But he knew she’d put up a fuss, so he discarded that plan.
“You just stay put and rest those hands. And don’t worry, this won’t take long.
We’ll be headed back to town in no time. ”