Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  So far, he was at a loss to explain what his sister had found so appealing about Texas in general and Two-Time in particular. Her letters had been filled with glowing reports of wildflowers, rolling hills, vast skies, and friendly folks. That was a far cry from reality. He now knew the state was populated with fat cattle, lean men, and short tempers. Friendly? Hardly. Fistfights broke out with little or no provocation. Gunfire was as common as houseflies. The only things saving this town from extinction were bad aims and fast horses.

  The day he arrived in Texas had been the worst day of his life. Instead of finding his sister waiting for him at the Two-Time train depot, he had been greeted by his brother-in-law, Joe.

  One look at Joe’s face told him something was terribly wrong, and his words bore that out. His sister had gone into premature labor, and neither she nor her child had survived. It had been a stunning blow.

  Grant would have left town then and there, had Joe not talked him into staying. “Mary was convinced you’d love it here.”

  Mary, his twin. The one person in the world who had known him better than anyone else. As children, it had seemed that she could even read his mind. For that reason, he had reluctantly agreed to stay. He’d give it his best shot if for no other reason than to honor his sister’s memory.

  So far, he’d found nothing to love about the town or the people. How could his sister have been so wrong about Two-Time? So wrong about him?

  The tall, stately clock in the corner of the parlor sighed just before the hammer hit the bell. Deep, rich dongs filled the room, commanding attention with the same force as a judge’s gavel. Out of habit, Grant pulled the watch from his vest pocket. A fifteen-minute difference in time meant that either the tall clock was slow or his watch was fast. Shrugging, he pocketed his watch and reached for his coffee cup. Might as well sit here as in his empty office.

  It sure did look like staying in Two-Time was a mistake. He should have turned around immediately upon learning of his sister’s death and gone back to Boston. Now he was obligated to stay, at least till the rent ran out on the office.

  So far he had only one client, and he wasn’t even sure about that. He’d told Farrell he would think about taking on his case and get back to him. There were risks involved in handling such a high-profile, controversial lawsuit, and it might do more harm to his business than good. He was viewed as an outsider and was likely to remain so if he took sides. On the other hand…

  Startled out of his reverie by a sudden loud pounding at the front door, Grant spilled his coffee. He set his cup down and reached for his napkin. “Shall I see who it is?”

  Mrs. Abbott rose and brushed a strand of white hair behind her ear. “I’ll get it.” She frowned. “It’s probably Mrs. Walters wanting to borrow more flour.”

  She hastened from the dining room to the parlor, tottering from side to side like a child just learning to walk.

  The banging persisted with an urgency that brought Grant to his feet.

  Mrs. Abbott swung the front door open. Before a word escaped her mouth, a barrel of a man pushed his way inside, forcing her back against the wall.

  “Your clock is running slow,” he said as brusquely as one might sound an alarm. He crossed to the tall clock in the corner of the parlor with quick steps. It seemed like the only time a man walked or talked fast in this town was when he was interfering in somebody else’s business.

  After opening the clock’s glass case, the man pulled a screwdriver from his pocket. Bending slightly at the waist, he turned the screw on the pendulum disk.

  “You must check the clock each time you hear me ring the bell,” he scolded as he worked. “It’s the only way to ensure accurate time. If I hadn’t heard the gongs as I walked by your house, you’d have ended up on Farrell time.”

  Mrs. Abbott’s eyes rounded in horror. “Oh dear!”

  Watching from the dining room doorway, Grant frowned. The two of them made Farrell time sound like the end of the world.

  The visitor stepped back and pulled out his watch. After checking the time, he made one more adjustment before closing the cabinet. Seemingly satisfied, he doffed his hat and left with nary a good-bye.

  Mrs. Abbott shut the door after him and walked back to the dining room.

  “Who was that man?” Grant asked, taking his seat.

  “Why, that was Mr. Lockwood—”

  “Lockwood!” Meg’s Lockwood’s father? He should have known.

  “When the bell in front of Lockwood Watch and Clockworks rings, I’m supposed to check the time on my clock.” She wrung her hands. “Sometimes I get busy and forget.”

  Grant shook his head. “What business is it of his if your clock runs fast or slow?”

  Bells rang throughout the day at all different times. The bells from the large clock in front of Lockwood’s shop had a deeper tone than the bell from Farrell’s, which allowed Two-Time residents to tell them apart. The gongs were so loud and insistent that not even a blind man could ignore the passage of time. Mercifully, the bells stopped at night or no one would get any sleep. It was hard enough sleeping through the gunfire.

  “Oh, Mr. Lockwood is just being thoughtful,” Mrs. Abbott assured him. “He doesn’t want me to be late. My boarders depend on me serving meals on time.”

  “I still think he had his nerve barging in like that.”

  “It’s a good thing he did. Look what happened to Mrs. Fitzgerald. She missed her husband’s funeral, and all because she refused to keep her clock properly wound. When she finally arrived nearly two hours late, they had to open the grave and repeat the whole service over again just for her benefit.”

  Grant rubbed the back of his neck. He’d never heard of anything so ridiculous. No such problems existed in Boston, which adhered to the standard time established by the Harvard College Observatory. Prior to regulated time, train crashes in the area had been a frequent occurrence. More than a hundred accidents were the direct result of engineers leaving or arriving at depots too early or too late, and not knowing the location of other trains.

  Mrs. Abbott still looked distressed as she returned from the kitchen to refill Grant’s cup. “I’ll try to remember to check that the clock runs on time. I don’t want you to be late for the office,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Not that anyone in town would notice if he was late or altogether truant. Lockwood’s unwelcomed interruption had served one purpose though. Grant’s sympathy for Tommy Farrell had increased tenfold. No wonder the poor fellow got in over his head. The possibility of a father-in-law like that was enough to make any man have second thoughts about marriage. Taking on the Farrell case no longer seemed like such a bad idea.

  Five

  The meeting at Mr. Barnes’s law office to discuss the breach-of-promise lawsuit was scheduled for 1:00 and 1:40 p.m. consecutively to accommodate both parties.

  Meg insisted upon arriving early. She had something to say, and she needed to say it before Tommy and his attorney made their appearance.

  Mr. Barnes greeted Meg and her parents at the door and then ran around the office clearing books and papers off chairs to make room for them to sit. A man of extremes, he had a rotund body perched upon pencil-thin legs. His full beard hardly seemed to belong with the shiny, bald head it sat upon.

  He pushed a pile of papers aside and perched on the corner of his desk, arms folded. “Well now, little lady, your father said you have some questions.”

  Seated between her parents, Meg pulled off her white gloves and laid them across her lap. Normally the lawyer’s condescending tone would infuriate her, but today she had other things on her mind.

  “Only one,” she said. “What do we have to do to drop the lawsuit?”

  This brought an immediate reaction from her father. “Meg, we’ve been through this a hundred times. We can’t let Tommy get away with what he did to this family.” His voice rose until it rattled the windows. “To you!”

  “Henry, you promised not to shout,” Mama said.


  “I’m not shouting!” her father shouted.

  Meg clenched her hands tight. “I’m the one he walked out on, not you. And you didn’t want me to marry him in the first place.”

  “That’s neither here nor there. The man hurt you and deserves to pay.”

  “I don’t want his money. I want nothing from him!” Her voice rose to an unladylike level, but it was the only way she knew to penetrate her father’s thick skull.

  “Now, now.” Mr. Barnes waved his hands up and down like a housewife shaking out the wash. “Let’s all remain calm. It wouldn’t do to let the other party know we’re not in full accord.” He cleared his throat and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “So, Meg, what exactly are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I want no part of this lawsuit. What happened between Tommy and me is over, and I want to forget about it.”

  Her father reared back. “What crazy talk is this? Next you’ll be telling me you forgive him.”

  Meg glared at her father. “Maybe I do.”

  Her father shot to his feet like a popped cork, and everyone started talking at once. Soon they were all on their feet, even Mama.

  “Now, Henry, you promised…” Mama tugged on Papa’s sleeve.

  Meg seethed. “And I am not damaged goods!”

  Mr. Barnes’s eyebrows shot up. “Good heavens! Are you saying you broke the code of maidenly modesty?”

  That got her father’s attention, and he looked as puzzled as she did. “Maidenly what?”

  “I was simply asking if your daughter and Mr. Farrell had engaged in—”

  “Certainly not!” Meg exclaimed. The very idea. She and Tommy had shared, at most, a couple of chaste kisses. “I just want to forget about the wedding—”

  Mr. Barnes cleared his throat and straightened his bow tie. “Don’t forget that the wedding took a healthy chunk out of your father’s finances.” He reached for a piece of paper. “The wedding dress alone cost—”

  The door to the office sprang open, and Barnes stopped reading. All four heads swiveled toward the newcomers. Papa pulled his watch out of his vest pocket, a not-so-subtle reminder of the differences between the two families.

  Tommy’s father entered the office first. Robert Farrell gave Mr. Barnes a curt nod, but didn’t as much as glance at Meg or her parents.

  A thin man with a saucer-size bald spot on his crown, he was the physical opposite of her father. Papa was tall and round as a rain barrel, while Mr. Farrell was a good five inches shorter and thin as a measuring stick. It was as if by some mutual agreement the two men had decided to look as different in appearance as their personalities and philosophies dictated.

  Behind him, Tommy slinked into the office as cautious as a minnow swimming through shark-infested waters. Meg couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. But it was the tall man walking in last who commanded her attention. She recognized him at once and suddenly couldn’t breathe.

  Oh dear God. This can’t be happening.

  Barnes cleared off three more chairs and quickly introduced his clients to Tommy’s lawyer. “I’d like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood and their daughter, Meg.”

  Grant Garrison pulled off his derby and tucked it beneath his arm. His tailored dark trousers and frock coat made him look even taller and leaner than Meg remembered. Thick brown hair fell from a side part and tapered neatly to his collar.

  He shook hands with her father and took her mother’s offered hand in his before releasing it. He then turned his handsome face to Meg and locked her in the depths of his golden-brown eyes. He picked up the gloves she didn’t know she’d dropped on the floor. As he handed them to her, his fingers brushing hers, a corner of his mouth quirked upward.

  “We meet again.”

  *

  Grant had attended many meetings with opposing counsel, but he’d never witnessed anything quite like this. If the raised voices weren’t bad enough, Mr. Lockwood’s habit of pounding the desk with his fist as he spoke was downright annoying.

  The only thing Grant could compare the meeting to was a Boston labor riot from which he’d been lucky to escape with only a slight wound to the shoulder. The way things were going, he doubted his luck would hold a second time.

  With each booming eruption of Henry Lockwood’s voice, the windows rattled and the beaded lampshade on Barnes’s desk shook like it was about to explode.

  The defendant’s father responded in kind, his voice thinner but no less virulent.

  The lack of alarm, surprise, or even disapproval on the women’s parts suggested that such outrageous behavior was not unusual and, indeed, quite normal for the family patriarchs.

  Things were different in Texas, that was for sure, but never had Grant imagined having to deal with such unbecoming behavior. His ears were already ringing. Mr. Lockwood had a voice like the biblical bulls of Bashan.

  Since Mr. Barnes had called the meeting, it was his job to restore order. When he failed to do so, Grant stood and positioned himself between the battling twosome. Enough was enough.

  “Gentlemen!”

  The two men glowered at each other but thankfully fell silent. Their heaving chests and daggerlike glares suggested the reprieve was only temporary, and a second round was imminent.

  “If you would kindly take your seats, we will get started,” Grant said in a voice usually reserved for a biased jury.

  Lockwood looked about to argue, but his wife tugged on his coattail, and he lowered his generous bulk onto the chair next to hers.

  Only after order had been restored did Mr. Barnes read the charges lodged by his client. He then folded his hands on his desk and cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Garrison, would you care to comment?”

  “Thank you,” Grant said. He was still standing and decided to remain so for security purposes. Holding on to the lapel of his frock coat gave him a feeling of control. “While I have nothing but sympathy for Miss Lockwood…”

  Pausing, he leveled his gaze at her and almost lost himself in her bold regard, her turquoise eyes as unfathomable as the deepest ocean. She sat perfectly composed, feet together, hands on her lap, chin up. She certainly didn’t look like she needed his sympathy. Nor anything else, for that matter.

  He averted his gaze and continued. “The fact is that my client was pressured into asking for Miss Lockwood’s hand in marriage and—”

  Lockwood popped up from his seat—a regular jack-in-the-box. “That’s absurd!”

  “Papa, please,” his daughter pleaded. “Listen to what the man has to say.”

  “We’ll have a chance to present our side in due time,” Mr. Barnes assured him.

  Lockwood’s mouth puckered, and he looked about to argue. Finally, at his wife’s urging, he lowered his bulk onto the chair again with a silent scowl, arms folded across his ample chest.

  Grant continued. “My client is willing to pay a reasonable sum to cover expenses but not the exorbitant fee listed in the complaint. Furthermore—”

  Once again Lockwood sprang to his feet. “Considering the mental anguish Tommy put my daughter through, ten thousand dollars is more than reasonable.”

  Mr. Farrell leaped up, and the two men faced each other like combatant soldiers. “Now see here, Lockwood—”

  “No, you see here!”

  “Gentlemen.” This time Mr. Barnes took charge by pounding his desk with a brass paperweight. “If you would be so kind as to take your seats, you’ll both have a chance to speak at the appropriate times.”

  Grant waited for the men to comply before continuing. “The defendant wishes to make it clear that he never meant to hurt Miss Lockwood. But the truth is that he was forced—”

  “Forced, my foot,” Mr. Lockwood shouted. “He sneaked behind my back and damaged my daughter!”

  Meg’s hand flew to her throat, and her protest escaped in a strangled whisper.

  “Henry!” her mother said sharply.

  “It’s true, and you know it.”

  Cheeks blazing, Meg ros
e from her chair and glared at her father. “How…how could you?” she sputtered.

  Feeling sorry for her, Grant quickly restored order. “Would you care to make a statement, Miss Lockwood?”

  Shooting him a look of disdain, she appeared about to say something, but after a quick glance at her father, she abruptly changed her mind. Whirling about in a flutter of skirts, she stormed out of the office, slamming the door so hard that the lamp on the desk shook.

  Miss Lockwood’s departure relieved Grant of any hope that the dispute could be brought to a quick and civil conclusion.

  Six

  “Do hurry, Meg, or we’ll miss the train,” Amanda shouted as they hurried around a horse and carriage and dashed down the narrow, dirt-packed streets of San Antonio toward the train depot.

  “I am hurrying!” Meg retorted. It was overcast and cold that late afternoon in November, and the threat of rain hung precariously in the air. The streetcar driver had told them that the town clocks were set to train time, but neither she nor her sister could imagine anything so perfectly synchronized.

  They raced past rows of single-story adobe buildings. Clay waterspouts jutted out from beneath flat roofs, and the fenced yards were filled with goats, chickens, and brown-faced children.

  Twenty thousand people called the city home, but the crowded streets around Market Plaza suggested many times that number.

  Balancing an armload of gaily wrapped packages, Meg followed Amanda past stalls of hand-tooled leather goods, bright shiny jewelry, and colorful shawls called rebozos. Booths were strung between mule-driven wagons and the Spanish mission. Mexican vendors vying for Christmas shoppers outshouted each other, and trail-driving cowboys traded stories with charros, their Mexican counterparts.

  An artist seated behind an easel was painting the portrait of a young Mexican woman dressed in a bright-blue peasant dress. A man sat cross-legged on a blanket selling clay pots, and three men played guitars while another sang. The music could hardly be heard above the cries of the vendors.