Chapter 14
The next two days settled into a steady routine.
Each morning Mercy sorted another handful of family collections, deciding which would remain on the tables and which could be combined into wall displays.
She arranged letters beside photographs, tucked bits of lace or mourning ribbon into place, and made careful notes about anything that would need to be secured once the wooden frames were built.
Wilson measured each arrangement before carrying the dimensions back to his workbench. Daniel found enough lumber scraps for the project, and before long a neat stack of unfinished frames began to grow along one wall. They were plain, sturdy, and uniform, exactly what the exhibit needed.
As each frame was completed, Mercy mounted a family collection inside, fastening each piece with the same care she'd devoted to cataloging it. One by one, the bare walls began to fill, leaving the tables less crowded and the room easier to navigate.
Wilson remained as dependable as ever. He arrived each morning from the livery, tackled whatever task lay before him, shared lunch, and left in time to tend his own business each afternoon.
Yet something between them had shifted.
Their conversations rarely wandered beyond the work at hand now. Questions received answers. Problems found solutions. But the easy discussions that had once turned every decision into something they shared seemed to have quietly slipped away.
Mercy told herself not to read too much into it.
Some burdens, perhaps, did not grow lighter simply because they had finally been spoken aloud.
So, she let him have the silence he seemed to need and poured herself all the more earnestly into finishing the exhibit.
Late Thursday afternoon, Mercy set down her pencil and flexed the stiffness from her fingers.
Only a handful of labels remained.
She crossed the room slowly, pausing before one display after another. A crooked photograph here. A card that needed to be moved a finger's width lower there. She straightened a folded regimental flag, adjusted the angle of a framed family register, then stepped back again.
It was remarkable how such small changes could make a display feel finished.
She continued toward the rear of the room, studying each section as a visitor might.
The three honor boards were lined up in the schoolroom.
Family stories lined the walls in their simple wooden frames.
Larger collections anchored the floor displays, each with enough room now to invite visitors closer instead of forcing them to peer around neighboring artifacts.
She smiled.
For weeks she'd looked at the annex as a thousand separate tasks.
Now, at last, she could see the exhibit. Not just tables and shelves. Not just trunks and uniforms and photographs.
Stories.
Dozens upon dozens of lives, each woven into the history of Hawthorn. She imagined fathers showing children a familiar family name. Grandmothers pointing to a photograph and telling a story that had almost been forgotten. Veterans lingering before a display honoring an old friend.
The room would never tell every story. No exhibit could.
But perhaps it would remind people that every family had one worth remembering.
The thought filled her with quiet contentment.
Almost.
She found herself wishing she could turn and catch Wilson's gaze, point to the room, and celebrate how far they'd come together.
Instead, she let the moment pass.
Behind her, the scrape of a plane drifted across the room as Wilson smoothed another frame, the steady rhythm blending with the familiar scent of fresh-cut pine.
For just a moment, she closed her eyes and let herself simply be grateful.
The final hymn faded, followed by the familiar murmur of greetings as the congregation began making its way toward the doors.
Mercy slipped her arm through Mama's as they joined the slow procession into the sunshine.
She found herself smiling. Without her asking, he’d said he’d see her Sunday, and she’d held on to those words for the past two and a half days.
For the first time all week, there would be no exhibit to organize, no labels to write, no decisions waiting to be made. Just a leisurely walk home, Sunday dinner, and an afternoon spent in easy conversation.
She'd missed that.
Wilson had arrived only moments before the service began—she only knew because she’d been peeking behind her as she slipped into her pew beside Mama.
There’d been no opportunity to speak then. Now, at last, there would be. Anticipation bubbled up inside her at the thought of it.
They had barely stepped off the church porch when Wilson approached.
"Mrs. Owens." He inclined his head. "Mercy."
"Good morning, Wilson," Mama said warmly.
"It's a fine day," he said politely.
"It surely is."
For just a moment, Mercy expected him to fall into step beside them as he had each of the past three Sundays.
Instead, he settled his hat more firmly on his head. "I hope you both enjoy the rest of your afternoon."
"You as well," her mother replied, a faint crease on her forehead.
His gaze met Mercy's, lingering only for a heartbeat.
Then he tipped his hat. Without another word, he turned and started down the boardwalk toward the livery.
Mercy stood where she was, watching him go.
Only when he disappeared into the flow of people making their way through town did she finally turn toward home beside her mother.
For several yards neither of them spoke.
The sounds of Sunday morning drifted around them—the laughter of children racing ahead of their parents, wagons rumbling toward home, neighbors lingering to exchange news beneath the shade trees.
Mercy scarcely noticed.
She replayed the brief exchange again in her mind. He'd come to them almost immediately after the service. Not to join them. To make certain they understood he wasn't.
Why had he made a point of saying he’d see her on Sunday if he didn’t intend to join them for dinner? He wasn’t a cruel man.
Her thoughts drifted back to the previous Sunday. To the schoolhouse. To the newspaper article. To the quiet, painful story he'd entrusted to her.
Had she misunderstood something he'd said?
Or perhaps it had been something she'd said.
She examined every word she could remember, every question she'd asked, every response she'd given.
Nothing stood out. Nothing except the growing certainty that something had changed between them.
She'd told herself all week that he simply needed time. Now she wasn't so sure.
The thought of returning to the annex tomorrow knowing he wouldn't be there...
The thought that last Sunday's after-dinner walk together might have been the last...
It hurt far more than it should have.
The ache that settled deep in her chest told her why.
"Mercy."
She looked over.
Mama's expression was gentle. "Whatever is troubling Mr. Porter," she said softly, "I don't believe it's because he's stopped caring for you."
Heat crept into Mercy's cheeks. "Mama..."
"I've watched the way he looks at you."
Mercy lowered her gaze to the boardwalk.
His actions insisted one thing.
Mama's quiet confidence suggested another.
She wished she knew which to believe.
Wilson let himself into the livery through the side door and paused just inside.
The horses shifted in their stalls at the sound of his boots. One nickered softly.
"Easy now."
His voice sounded steady enough.
He crossed to the nearest stall, resting a hand against the gelding's neck before moving down the aisle, checking feed bins and water buckets though he already knew they'd all been seen to before church.
Anything to keep his hands occupied.
Anything to keep from seeing the look on Mercy's face when he'd wished her a pleasant afternoon and walked away.
He hadn't imagined the hope in her eyes when he'd approached.
Nor the confusion that followed.
He stopped beside an empty stall and gripped the top rail.
She deserved better than a man who carried the weight he did.
Last Sunday she'd listened with compassion. She'd offered understanding when he'd confessed the burden he'd carried since the war.
But she'd heard the story only moments before.
She hadn't yet had time to consider it.
Hadn't had time to wonder whether another man might have found a way to save Sam.
Hadn't had time to ask herself whether she could build a future with someone who would forever question the choice he'd made on that battlefield.
She would. Sooner or later, she would. Better that he step away now.
The thought settled over him with all the certainty of a sentence already passed.
He turned toward the tack room.
A familiar voice drifted in through the open stable doors. "Porter."
Wilson looked up. Colonel Briggs stood just outside, hat in hand. "Colonel."
"I was passing by." Briggs nodded toward the interior of the stable. "Mind if I come in a spell?"
"Not at all."
Briggs stepped inside, his gaze wandering briefly over the stalls before returning to Wilson. "Fine-looking stock."
"They've treated me well."
"They always have."
Silence settled between them for a moment as Briggs rested a hand on the top of a stall partition. "I saw you after church."
Wilson said nothing. Where was this headed?
"I've grown accustomed to seeing you walk home with the Owens ladies."
Wilson picked up a currycomb from a nearby shelf. "The exhibit's about finished."
"So it is." His gaze never left Wilson. “Noticed you weren’t at the schoolhouse when I stopped by on Friday.”
He ran the comb through the bay's coat with slow, even strokes. "The work's done."
"The exhibit's done," Briggs corrected quietly.
Wilson kept brushing, trying not to squirm.
Briggs watched him another moment. "Funny thing about people, though."
Wilson waited.
"They're seldom as easily set aside."
The strokes slowed.
"I don't know what passed between you and Miss Owens," Briggs continued. "That's your business." He folded his hat between his hands. "But I know what I saw."
Wilson finally looked at him.
"I saw a young woman expecting you to walk beside her."
He lowered his gaze again.
"And I saw you choose not to."
The words settled into the quiet stable.