Chapter 14 #3
His pace slowed. He wasn't studying the exhibit the way visitors would tomorrow. Instead, he found himself remembering the conversations that had filled the room while it was coming together.
The way she'd stop in the middle of sorting artifacts because she'd suddenly thought of a better place for one. The way she'd refuse to put an object where it looked nicest if it belonged somewhere else. The way she'd smile every time another family's story finally came together.
He looked around the room once more She'd done exactly what she'd set out to do. She'd made room for every story she could.
Then his gaze settled on the Porter display.
After a long moment, he walked toward it.
He stopped before the Porter display and for several moments he simply looked.
The trunk sat open, its lid propped to reveal the items Mercy had carefully arranged inside. Nothing looked crowded. Nothing looked forced. Every object had been given room to be seen.
His gaze moved over the familiar contents.
The family Bible.
His mother's quilt.
His father’s pipe.
That family photograph they’d taken just before he joined the calvary.
A few other keepsakes they'd sorted through together while deciding what best represented the Porter family.
Then he noticed the newspaper article.
She'd placed a small notecard with it, identifying it as part of the Colonel Amos Briggs Collection. And she’d carefully folded it to fit the display.
He stepped closer. The portion of the article she’d chosen to display face up was the part that mentioned him.
The words there were as familiar now as on the afternoon Mercy first handed it to him.
He read the opening lines anyway.
When he finished, his gaze drifted back to the display as a whole.
The article wasn't the centerpiece—the family photo was.
It wasn't even the first thing a visitor's eye would naturally settle on.
It was simply another piece of the family's story.
The display didn't begin with it.
And it didn't end with it.
Mercy could have given the article a place all its own. She hadn't.
She'd treated it no differently than the Bible...or the pipe...or any of the other pieces she'd chosen.
His gaze lowered to the open trunk once more.
Resting near the front, exactly where Mercy had placed it when they'd unpacked the trunk together, sat his mother's little wooden button box.
He stood quietly, looking at it.
The little wooden box was nothing special.
The finish had long since worn dull. One corner bore a shallow nick where he'd dropped it as a boy and tried unsuccessfully to hide the evidence. His mother had noticed it the first time she'd picked it up.
She hadn't scolded him. She'd only smiled.
"Well," she'd said, "I suppose now it'll be easier to tell it's ours."
The memory drew the faintest smile from him.
He couldn't remember ever seeing the box empty. Every loose button eventually found its way there. Buttons from work shirts worn threadbare. Buttons from Sunday coats too worn to mend. Buttons clipped from garments beyond saving.
As a boy, he'd once asked why she kept them all.
"Because they still have something to offer," she'd told him as she sorted through them. "You never know when one of these will help make something whole again."
His smile faded. He looked from the button box to the newspaper article.
Then to the family photograph.
The Bible.
The quilt.
Back to the button box.
Mercy had known every story behind these things.
She could have chosen the article alone.
Instead, she'd chosen all of them.
Not because any one object told the Porter family's story...
...but because none of them did.
Wilson drew a slow breath.
For the first time since Sharon had struck him outside her home that day, he wondered if he'd been the only one who believed that one terrible day defined him.
He remained where he was, the realization settling over him.
Memory after memory rose unbidden.
Mercy asking what he thought of the display layouts.
Mercy waiting patiently while he offered little more than a shrug.
Mercy thanking him for helping her see the answer when she'd struggled over the locket.
Mercy telling him about the words that had wounded her as a little girl.
Mercy trusting him with Kate Fletcher's letter before anyone else.
Mercy inviting him to Sunday dinner.
Mercy placing the schoolhouse key in his hand.
Not once.
Not once had she treated him as though that newspaper article had changed who she believed him to be.
His stomach tightened.
He'd been so certain he knew what she must be thinking that he'd never stopped to see what she was actually doing.
He saw himself gathering his tools. Answering every question with, I trust your judgment. Watching disappointment flicker across her face and pretending not to notice. Walking away.
He pressed the heel of one hand against his forehead.
Dear Lord...
I'd done this.
He drew his shoulders back and moved toward the door.
As he passed through the annex, his gaze settled briefly on Josiah Owens's saddle. He paused only a moment before continuing on his way.
He needed to talk to Colonel Briggs. And Daniel.
He locked the schoolhouse door behind him and walked away.