Excerpt from The Heart of Honor
Wilson shifted on the picnic blanket, studying Miss Owens more directly.
She patted her notebook. “I keep thinking how easy it would be for stories like these to disappear in another generation or two if no one records them.”
“My father used to say folks spend too much time looking backward,” he said.
She smiled. “And did you agree?”
“No.” The answer came before he thought much about it.
She nodded approval. “Perhaps your father would be pleased to know you’re helping preserve half the town's memories.”
Wilson made a sound low in his throat. “That’s stretching things a bit.”
“Only a little.”
Silence settled again, easier this time. Comfortable.
He set his cup down before the thought could wander any farther.
She looked up. “I realized something today.”
Wilson mistrusted the way she’d said that. “What now? Painted shelves? Window boxes?”
That earned him a grin. “No. Though those aren't bad ideas.” Her expression softened. "You live at the livery, don't you?"
He shifted. "I do. Helps me keep an eye on the place at night."
She nodded. "I must apologize. I completely overlooked you when I was doing the interviews of the families in town. Which means I don't have anything on your family in my notebooks yet. And that needs to be remedied.”
Wilson shrugged. “Most of the family stories went to the grave with my folks.”
Her expression turned sympathetic. "I'm sorry. But you're making my point for me." She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "However, I imagine you remember a lot more than you think. That's how it is with most people."
"There's not much I care to have remembered about my life."
Some emotion he couldn't read flashed across her face. “That isn't quite the same as saying there isn't anything worth remembering. Something can be learned from the painful and unflattering as well as the good times.”
Wilson looked toward the horse, watching as it flicked its tail against a fly. “I already told Colonel Briggs I don't aim to stand up in front of everyone so folks can applaud things they know nothing about.”
“I know.”
No argument. No correction. Just quiet acknowledgment.
Miss Owens continued carefully. “And I won't pretend I understand your reasons.”
That brought his attention back to her.
“But this isn't only about your military recognition.” She glanced toward the crate near the buggy. “The Nortons weren't only sharing about their sons' service—they were sharing their family. And the Halperns weren't only talking about the war. They were remembering Mary Alice.”
She held his gaze. “Aren't there things about your parents worth remembering? Things about your ancestors you’re proud of? Your family belongs in Hawthorn's history too, Mr. Porter.”
Something tightened in Wilson's chest.
Not because she sounded demanding. But because she didn't. Miss Owens spoke as if the matter were simple—the Porters still belonged somewhere inside the town's story despite the farm being long gone and his parents dead these past years.
Wilson circled his thumb around the lip of his cup. "My folks were good, solid people. Reckon there are some things I could tell you about them. And a few stories Pa used to tell me about his own folks. Not sure I remember them accurately though." He rubbed his chin. "Might be a few things packed away in Ma's trunk that'd help me remember."
She went still. "A trunk?"
He wished the words back. But it was too late. “Old papers mostly. Family Bible. Some letters maybe. Not sure what else. Ma kept things in there she thought important.”
He hadn't opened that trunk since she passed. Maybe it was time.
For a moment Miss Owens said nothing. Then, very gently, “I’d be honored to see them if you're willing.”
Not eager or triumphant. But careful. Respectful. The way she viewed all pieces of family history.
Wilson exhaled slowly. He realized then that she'd understood exactly what the offer cost him.
"Don't expect treasure," he said, trying for a lighter tone. "It's mostly everyday stuff."
She smiled. "Ah, but that's often where real treasure is found."
He’d mentioned the trunk without thinking. But she’d been right, his parents deserved to be remembered.
Just what had his mother tucked away in her trunk?
Miss Owens never seemed to look at something without seeing the story attached. What story might she find in his?
He suddenly felt oddly exposed.
But there was no turning back now.