Chapter 14 #2
"It seemed the wiser course."
"Wiser for whom?"
Wilson had no answer.
Briggs waited, as though willing to give silence every opportunity to do its work.
Finally, Wilson said, "There are some disappointments best faced sooner rather than later."
The older man studied him for a long moment. "Perhaps." He shifted his hat to his other hand. "But I've lived long enough to know there's a danger in deciding another person's heart for them."
Wilson's grip tightened around the currycomb. "You don't know the whole of it."
"No." Briggs's answer came without hesitation. "I don't."
Another silence stretched between them.
"But neither do you."
Wilson frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"You know your own heart well enough." Briggs met his gaze. "You don't know Miss Owens's."
Wilson looked away. "I know what she'll think."
Briggs shook his head. "No." His voice remained gentle. "You know what you think."
He let that settle before continuing. "Don't mistake the two."
Neither man spoke.
Outside, wagon wheels rumbled past on the street. Inside, one of the horses stamped against the packed earth.
At length Briggs settled his hat back onto his head. "I've said my piece."
He started toward the stable doors, then paused. "For what it's worth, I've watched the two of you these past several weeks."
Wilson raised his eyes.
"I've learned that Mercy Owens is perfectly capable of reaching her own conclusions." With that he stepped out into the afternoon sunlight.
Wilson stood motionless beside the stall. The currycomb hung forgotten in his hand.
He wanted to dismiss the colonel's words. Instead, they lingered.
Not because he believed Briggs was wrong.
But because, for the first time, he could no longer say with certainty that he was right.
Wilson was oiling a harness when he heard footsteps on the boardwalk. He looked up, expecting a customer.
Instead, Mercy stood in the open doorway.
For just a moment, surprise broke through the careful reserve he'd been maintaining since Sunday. "Miss Owens."
She winced, then offered a small smile. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
He set the harness aside and wiped his hands on a rag. "Not at all. Is everything all right?"
"Everything's ready." She let out a quiet breath. "The committee wrapped up the last of the planning this afternoon."
"I'm glad to hear it."
A brief silence settled between them. It wasn't uncomfortable so much as unfamiliar. They had once filled such pauses with easy conversation.
Mercy reached into the pocket of her skirt and drew out a key. "I came because..." She glanced down at it for a moment before looking back at him. "You put so much of yourself into that exhibit. I thought you might like the chance to see it before everyone else does tomorrow."
She held out the key. "The schoolhouse is empty. You'd have it all to yourself."
Wilson stared at the key without taking it.
"You've already thanked me more than enough."
"I know." Her smile softened. "This isn't another thank-you."
His gaze finally lifted to hers.
"I've been walking through the finished displays all afternoon, making sure everything's in place.
" She gave a tiny shake of her head. "Everywhere I looked, I could remember some conversation we'd had while you were building a shelf or repairing a table or figuring out a better way to display something. "
She looked back at the key in her hand. "It didn't seem right that everyone else should see the finished exhibit before you did."
Something tightened in his chest. She wasn't asking for anything. Wasn't trying to draw him back. She simply wanted him to share in what they'd accomplished.
"I can lock up afterward?" he asked quietly.
She nodded. "Just give it back to me tomorrow. Daniel has a spare if we need it."
Wilson hesitated another moment before reaching for the key.
Their fingers brushed.
"Thank you," he said.
She smiled, though there was a sadness behind it that made him wonder if he'd imagined the warmth that had always come so easily between them.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
Before he could answer, she turned and stepped back onto the boardwalk.
Wilson watched until she disappeared down the street.
Then he looked down at the key resting in his palm.
He had told himself staying away was the kindest thing he could do. Yet as he closed his fingers around the key, it was suddenly much harder to believe distance was the only gift he had left to offer her.
Wilson unlocked the schoolhouse door and stepped inside.
He instinctively glanced toward the desk where Mercy usually spent her afternoons as he eased the door shut behind him.
It stood neat and empty.
He gave his head a mental shake. He was here to see the exhibits—that was all.
The honor boards were lined up on his right, all three of them standing proud. The Ladies’ Auxiliary had done a good job designing them. A fourth board stood slightly apart. Wilson smiled as he saw the title printed at the top
Veterans’ News
Courtesy of
The Colonel Amos Briggs Collection
Several of the frames he’d built were arranged on the wall around it, some containing newsletter articles, some containing note cards with information about the hometown veterans who had settled elsewhere.
Mercy had found a way to honor Colonel Briggs while honoring the collection he'd entrusted to her.
Wilson moved on to the annex and paused in the doorway.
The shelves were full.
Not crowded. Full.
Each family had its own space. Photographs stood beside letters. Household items rested next to military mementos. Nothing looked arranged because it was valuable. It looked arranged because it belonged.
He started down the nearest aisle and stopped at one display.
The shelf itself caught his attention first.
He remembered measuring and cutting it after Mercy decided the original one wasn't quite deep enough.
At the time, he'd wondered if the extra inch would matter.
Looking at it now, he could see why she'd insisted.
The family's Bible, a framed photograph, and a pair of worn spectacles fit together naturally, each leaving room for the next to be seen.
He moved on.
Here and there he recognized something he'd repaired—a cracked frame, a loose chair rung, a display stand he'd built from scrap pine.
Until this moment, he'd thought of them as little jobs.
Standing here, he realized every one of them had helped tell someone's story.