Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  He dismounted and tethered his horse to a wooden fence. He guessed the woman lived nearby, but that still didn’t tell him where they might have met.

  He tipped his hat. “Name’s Grant Garrison.”

  She studied him with a sharp-eyed gaze. “You!”

  Since she looked fit to be tied, he stepped back. At that point, the flashing blue-green eyes jarred his memory.

  “You’re the”—he almost said jilted—“bride.” He hardly recognized her out of her wedding gown. According to local tongue-waggers, her name was Meg Lockwood. Best not to let on how last week’s disastrous nonwedding was still the talk of the town.

  She glared at him, eyes filled with accusations. “That day at the church…you had no right to eavesdrop on a private conversation.”

  He extended his arms, palms out. “Please accept my apologies. I can assure you the intrusion was purely unintentional. I was visiting my sister’s grave.”

  Uncertainty crept into her expression, but her combative stance remained. “You…you could have announced yourself.”

  He also could have stayed hidden, which might have been the better choice. “I considered doing just that. I’m afraid that had I done so, I might have flattened your bridegroom’s nose.”

  This failed to bring the smile he hoped for, but at least she looked less likely to do him harm. She glanced up and down the street as if trying to decide whether to accept his help.

  “I would be most obliged if you didn’t mention…what you heard.”

  Her request confused him. Everyone in town knew the wedding had been called off.

  “About the Pacific Islands,” she added.

  Never would he profess to understand the way a woman’s mind worked, but her concern was indeed a puzzle. Would she rather her fiancé had left her for another woman, as some people in town suspected?

  “I promise.” He pretended to turn a lock on his mouth. “Not a word.”

  She let his promise hang between them for a moment before asking, “What brings you to Two-Time, Mr. Garrison?”

  He hesitated. “I’m a lawyer. Since the East Coast is overrun with them, I decided to try my luck here. I just opened an office off Main.” He replaced his hat and tossed a nod at the cart. “Where are you taking that?”

  “To my sister’s house.” Her gaze shifted to the end of the street. “She lives in the corner house with the green shutters.”

  “Well, then.” He grabbed hold of the handle and yanked the cart back and forth before giving it a firm push. The wheels gave a reluctant turn and finally pulled free of the gooey sludge with a slurp. But just as it cleared the mudhole, the cart tipped to one side and the chest shot to the ground, splashing mud everywhere.

  Miss Lockwood jumped back, but not soon enough to prevent mud from splattering on her skirt. “Oh no!”

  Muttering an apology, Grant quickly turned the chest upright, leaving an intriguing assortment of corsets, petticoats, and camisoles scattered on the ground. He never expected to see such a fancy display in a rough-and-tumble town like Two-Time.

  While she examined the chest for damage, he quickly swooped up the satin and lace dainties and shook off as much mud as possible. Did women actually need this many corsets?

  “I have to say, ma’am,” he began in an effort to make light of the situation, “there are enough underpinnings here to fill an entire Montgomery Ward catalogue.” He couldn’t help but look at her curiously before dumping the garments back into the chest.

  Checks blazing, she slammed the lid shut and double-checked the lock.

  He offered her his clean handkerchief, which she turned down with a shake of her head. Silence as brittle as glass stretched between them, and Grant couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. They seemed doomed to meet under trying, if not altogether embarrassing circumstances.

  Since the lady seemed more concerned about the wooden chest than the corsets…uh…contents, he studied it more closely. It was obviously old but had been well cared for. Intricate engravings of birds, flowers, and a ship graced the top and sides, along with several carefully carved initials.

  “No damage done,” she said, her voice thick with relief. The red on her cheeks had faded to a most becoming pink. “My family would kill me if something happened to it.”

  “A family heirloom?” he asked.

  She nodded. “All the way from Ireland. It’s called a hope chest.”

  Grant knew about such things, of course, from his sisters. But never before had he been privy to a hope chest’s contents. It was hard to know what disconcerted him more—manhandling Miss Lockwood’s intimate garments, or the possibility that something of a similar nature filled his sisters’ hope chests. Whatever happened to filling a hope chest with household goods?

  Tucking the handkerchief into his trouser pocket, he struggled to lift the chest off the ground. He set it atop the cart and wiggled it back and forth to make sure it was balanced just right. “I’m afraid the contents may be ruined.”

  “Th-they’ll wash,” Miss Lockwood stammered, refusing to meet his gaze.

  He brushed off his hands and grabbed hold of the cart’s handles. This time, the wheels turned with ease, and he pushed it slowly down the road. She fell in step by his side, and a pleasant whiff of lavender soap wafted toward him. With heightened awareness, he noticed her every move, heard her every intake of breath.

  “You said you were visiting your sister’s grave,” she said in a hesitant voice, as if she wasn’t certain whether to broach the subject.

  He nodded, and the familiar heaviness of grief rose in his chest. “Mary died in childbirth a month ago. Her husband owns a cattle ranch outside of town.”

  They had reached the gate leading to the two-story brick house with the green shutters. The rail fence enclosed a small but well-cared-for garden. A hen pecked at the ground next to a row of sprouting squash plants.

  Miss Lockwood afforded him a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

  “And I’m sorry for yours.” In danger of drowning in the blue-green depths of her eyes, he averted his gaze. “Where would you like me to put it?”

  “Put it?”

  He shot her a sideways glance. “The corset…uh”—he grimaced—“hope chest.”

  She lowered her lashes. “The porch would be just fine,” she murmured.

  Since the cart wouldn’t fit through the gate, he had no choice but to haul the chest by hand. Fortunately, only two steps led up to the wraparound porch. Even so, he was out of breath by the time he set the heavy chest next to a wicker rocking chair.

  She’d followed him up the porch steps. “I’m much obliged.” Her prettily curving lips made the sadness in the depth of her eyes all the more touching.

  “My pleasure.” He studied her. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but…if I had someone like you waiting at the altar, I would never walk away. Not in a million years.” The expression on her face softened, and he was tempted to say more but decided against it. Better stop while he was ahead.

  With a tip of his hat, he jogged down the steps and headed back to his horse. The memory of all that silk and lace remained, as did the shadow of her pretty smile.

  *

  Meg stood on her sister’s porch, surprised to find herself shaking. If I had someone like you…

  Never had anyone said anything like that to her, not even Tommy. Just thinking of Mr. Garrison’s soft-spoken words sent a shiver racing though her, one that ended in a sigh.

  Pushing such thoughts away, she knocked and the door sprang open almost instantly.

  Josie greeted her with a questioning look. “Who’s that man I saw you with?”

  “Just…someone passing by. He stopped to help me.” Meg seldom kept anything from her older sister, but she didn’t want to discuss Mr. Garrison. Not in her confused state.

  Josie looked her up and down. “Oh dear. You’re covered in mud. What happened?”

  Meg glanced down at her skirt. “I had
a little accident.”

  “I told you to wait for Ralph,” Josie scolded. “That hope chest is far too heavy for a woman to manage alone.”

  Meg hadn’t wanted to ask her brother-in-law for help. Not with the way he’d been coughing lately.

  “It’s a good thing I have you to help me, then.” Meg cleaned the sludge off the soles of her high-button shoes on the iron boot scraper, then shook as much of the mud off her skirt as possible. Satisfied that her sister’s pristine carpets would not be soiled, she circled the hope chest. “Grab hold of the other side.”

  Carved by her great-grandfather, the wooden piece had been handed down to family members for generations. Each bride carved her initials into the old wood before passing it on to the next woman in line. Mama had passed it down to Josie who, after her own wedding, had handed it over to Meg during a ritual that had made all three Lockwood sisters roll on the floor with laughter.

  Today, however, no such happy ritual was in play as she and Josie struggled to carry the massive chest inside the house and into the small but tidy parlor. They set it on the brick hearth so as not to get mud on the carpet.

  “Whew! I forgot how heavy it was,” Josie said.

  Meg brushed a hand over her forehead. Good riddance. The hope chest that once held her girlish dreams was now a dismal reminder of a day she’d sooner forget.

  “I don’t know why Amanda refuses to take it. It’s only fair. You and I both had our turn.”

  Josie frowned, as she was inclined to do whenever their younger sister’s name came up. “Amanda’s too independent to get married. She’s only interested in stirring up trouble.”

  By trouble, Josie referred to Amanda’s many causes. One—her campaign to close saloons during Sunday worship—had almost created a riot. Their youngest sister was the black sheep of the family and was always on the warpath about one thing or another.

  “Poor Mama,” Meg said. “All she ever wanted was to see the three of us married and bouncing rosy-cheeked babies on our laps.” She gasped and quickly covered her mouth. “Oh, Josie, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” Josie patted her on the arm. “I haven’t given up hope that one day I’ll have a child of my own. Some things just take time.”

  Meg flung her arms around her sister’s shoulders and squeezed tight. “I wish I had your patience.”

  Josie hugged her back. “I love you just the way you are.”

  Meg pulled away and smiled. Spending time with Josie always made her feel better. “Thank you for taking the hope chest off my hands. If I have to look at it one more day, I’ll scream.” She and Josie had spent hours working on her trousseau—and for what?

  “I’m afraid the clothes inside are a mess. The chest tipped over, and everything is covered in mud.” Just thinking about that handsome new lawyer’s hands all over them made her cheeks blaze.

  Josie opened the hope chest to check the contents. She lifted the carefully sewn garments one by one and examined them.

  While her sister inventoried the damage, Meg glanced out the parlor window and froze. There rode Mr. Garrison on his fine black horse. Her breath caught, and she quickly stepped behind the draperies so as not to be seen gaping. Did she only imagine him staring at the house? If I had someone like you…

  Josie’s insistent voice brought her out of her reverie. “I’m sorry?”

  “I said I’ll wash and press the garments, and they’ll be as good as new.” Josie studied her a moment, and her expression softened. “Are you okay?”

  Meg moistened her dry lips. “I’m fine.”

  Josie lowered the hope chest’s lid and stood. “It’s been nearly a month. You can’t keep hiding. Papa misses you at the shop. You know what a terrible bookkeeper he is, and with Christmas just around the corner…”

  Guilt surged through Meg like molten steel. How selfish of her. Staying hidden like a common criminal had done nothing but place an extra burden on Papa’s shoulders. It was her job to keep the shop records, order supplies, and serve the customers, thus freeing her father to spend his time repairing watches and clocks. And yet…

  “I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to show my face in public again.”

  “Meg, that’s ridiculous. No one blames you.”

  Taking the blame wasn’t what bothered Meg; it was the feeling that she had let everyone down. Papa had promised to make peace with Mr. Farrell as a wedding present. Now that the wedding had been called off, the feud between the two men had resumed. If anything, their animosity toward each other had grown worse, each blaming the other for the disastrous affair.

  “Go and clean up while I fix us something to eat.”

  Meg nodded and started down the hall, but not before taking another quick glance out the window. The deserted road looked as forlorn and lonely as she felt.

  *

  Moments later, Meg joined her sister in the sun-filled kitchen, her skirt still damp where she’d washed off the mud.

  Josie’s kitchen table had become the sisters’ sounding board. Everything that happened—good, bad, or otherwise; every crisis, every problem—was hashed out, analyzed, resolved, or left to die upon that maple table.

  Meg pulled out a chair, plopped down, and rested her elbows on the smooth-polished surface. “I don’t understand why Papa and Mr. Farrell continue to fight.” For as long as she could remember, bad blood had existed between the two men. Mama blamed it on professional differences, but Meg was almost certain their warfare had more personal roots.

  Josie filled the kettle and placed it on the cookstove. “Sometimes I wonder if even they remember what started it. It happened so many years ago.” She wiped her hands on her spotless white apron and pulled a bread knife out of a drawer.

  Through the open window over the sink came the sound of bells pealing out the noon hour for the residents living and working north of Main. The rest of the town, including her father, had stopped for the noontime meal a good forty minutes earlier.

  “Josie…how did you know you were in love with Ralph?”

  Josie gave her an odd look. “What a strange question.”

  “I’m serious. How did you know?”

  Josie thought a moment, cheeks tinged a pretty pink. “It was the way he made me feel. The way my heart leaped whenever he came into sight.”

  Meg chewed on a fingernail. She had known Tommy nearly all her life. Next to her two sisters, he was the best friend she’d ever had.

  In school, he’d dipped her braids in ink and helped her with geography and science. In turn, she’d teased him about his red hair, drilled him on his numbers, and made him read aloud until he became proficient.

  Knowing how their fathers disapproved of their friendship only strengthened the bond between them and forced them to meet in secret. It had been Romeo and Juliet all over again. Still, during all those years she’d spent in Tommy’s company, never once had her heart leaped at the sight of him.

  Josie dumped a loaf of bread out of a baking tin and proceeded to slice it. “I know you’re still hurting, Meg, but I never did think you and Tommy belonged together.”

  A month ago, Meg would have argued with her sister, but now she only nodded. “I guess there’re worse things than being jilted for the Pacific Islands.”

  Josie laughed. “I hope we never find out what those things are.”

  Meg laughed too, and for the first time in weeks, her spirits lifted.

  Three

  The bells on the door of Grant Garrison’s office danced merrily. Grant slid the last of his legal books onto the newly arrived bookshelves and stood to greet his visitor.

  The welcoming smile died on his face the moment he turned. He knew the man at once—the gangly fellow with the pasty skin was Miss Lockwood’s wayward bridegroom. He’d recognize those flyaway ears and that carrot-colored hair anywhere. Although today, the former groom’s hair was neatly combed and parted down the middle.

  “Mr. Garrison, is it? I’m Thomas Farrell.” He offered his han
d.

  Swallowing his dislike, Grant shook the man’s hand before walking around his desk. He sat, and the new leather chair squeaked beneath his weight.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Farrell?” Grant asked, his manner as cool and abrupt as his voice. A man so heartless as to leave a woman at the altar didn’t deserve the time of day, let alone civility.

  If Farrell noticed anything odd about Grant’s demeanor, he didn’t show it. Instead, he lowered himself onto the ladder-back chair in front of the desk. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and crossed and uncrossed his legs. He looked like a man about to be hanged.

  Grant waited. One minute passed, then two. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the rumble of a wagon floated through the open window. The clock on top of the bookshelf clucked like a hen on a nest. It was exactly two—or two forty, depending on which time zone one favored. According to railroad time it was probably closer to three, but few people paid attention to train schedules unless they were leaving town.

  “Mr. Farrell?” Grant prodded at length, if only to save what remained of the hat clutched in the young man’s hands.

  The man gulped, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a rubber ball. “I’m bein’ sued,” he said.

  Grant’s eyebrows shot up. For the love of Pete, what other dastardly deed was Mr. Farrell guilty of? “Do you owe someone money?” he asked.

  “No, no, nothin’ like that.”

  “Did you cause injury?”

  The question seemed to perplex the man, or at least render him momentarily silent.

  “No…not really.”

  “Then why are you being sued?”

  Setting his misshapen felt hat on the desk, Farrell reached into his trouser pocket and drew out what looked like an official document. He carefully unfolded the sheet of paper and smoothed out the wrinkles before sliding it across the desk.

  It was a legal document. Grant scanned it quickly until he came to Meg Lockwood’s name. A vision of a pretty, round face seemed to float up from the page. He remembered everything about her: her pretty pink cheeks, small dainty frame, and large, expressive eyes. He also remembered how she had struggled to smile the day they met on the street, even though her heart had been so recently broken by this very man.