Sallie-May stared at her with a look of disbelief. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” Meg tossed her broken parasol into the oak barrel used for trash and left the shop. A wave of apprehension rushed through her as she peered up and down the street. Her assailant was nowhere in sight. With a sigh of relief, she continued on her way.
*
Moments later, Meg reached Jackleg Row. The fine black steed tied to the hitching post in the middle of the block was Mr. Garrison’s, which meant that Tommy’s lawyer was in his office. She hadn’t seen him since the day they’d been on the train together.
The memory made her pulse skitter. As much as she hated to agree with Sallie-May, she was right about one thing—Mr. Garrison really was a most handsome man, especially when he wasn’t frowning. Although even then he held a certain appeal.
If I had someone like you waiting at the altar…
The voice, the memory—coming as it did out of nowhere—quickened Meg’s pulse. Heat rose up her neck, and she forced herself to breathe.
Refusing to look in Mr. Garrison’s office window, she held her head high and her shoulders back. She kept her gaze focused ahead as she passed, and the whole time her heart was racing to beat the band.
Three doors away, she barreled into Mr. Barnes’s office like someone seeking shelter from a storm.
The lawyer lifted his bald head with a startled gaze and pushed his spectacles up his bulbous nose. “Miss Lockwood.”
Closing the door behind her, Meg stepped up to his weathered desk. She drew in a deep breath and fought to recall what she was doing there.
“How can I help you?” he prompted.
“I wish to drop the charges,” she managed at last. “But as you know, my father would never agree.”
“And rightfully so.” Mr. Barnes stuck his pen in the penholder. “Mr. Farrell put you and your family through a dreadful ordeal.” The lawyer shook his head, the jowls beneath his beard wobbling like jelly. “Simply dreadful. It’s only right that he make retribution.”
“But even you must admit that ten grand is excessive.” Not in good conscience could she accept such a large settlement.
“By Texas standards perhaps, but by eastern standards it’s little more than average.” He narrowed his eyes. “Surely you’re not suggesting we settle for less?”
“There’s more at stake here than money.”
He blinked. “More, you say?”
“What are our chances of getting Mr. Farrell to drop this ridiculous feud with my father and accept Lockwood time?”
Mr. Barnes folded his hands across his stomach and gave a mirthless laugh. “Never going to happen, and you know it.”
“Both men agreed to make Two-Time a one-time town as a wedding gift.”
“Yes, but the agreement involved a formula based on East Coast time, not Lockwood or Farrell time. Now that the wedding has been called off, neither is willing to pursue that course of action.”
Meg chewed on her lip. Now that marriage was out of the question, Papa would never agree to anything other than Lockwood time. She’d hoped that Farrell would be more reasonable, if for no other reason than to keep his son from financial ruin.
The lawyer cocked his head. “If you’re worried about the outcome of the trial, you needn’t be. The cards are stacked in our favor.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Surely your father isn’t worried about losing the case?”
Such a thought would never cross Papa’s mind. “He doesn’t know I’m here, and I’d be most grateful if we keep it that way.”
“Ah.” Mr. Barnes stood and walked around the desk. Reaching out, he patted her on the arm in that condescending way that made her feel like she’d stepped into a gopher hole. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing. Go on home and leave everything to me.”
*
Grant looked up from his desk just as Miss Lockwood passed his window for the second time that day. Earlier, he’d peered out the door after her and watched as she sailed into her lawyer’s office. This time, she charged down the street like the cavalry, hips swinging side to side. She looked madder than a wet hen, and he couldn’t help but laugh.
For such a small package, she sure could get riled up. He had to look twice to make sure steam wasn’t coming out of her ears.
Whatever her lawyer had said to her sure wasn’t sitting well. Grant tapped his fingers together. What was it that had her and Barnes at odds? Another one of her schemes? Like the one she’d pulled on the train? Even now, he could envision her as she’d looked that day. Her wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked innocence hadn’t fooled him a bit. She’d known all too well what she was doing.
He hated feeling sorry for the man who was set to oppose him in court, but the lawyer Barnes had his hands full. No question about it.
Ten
Meg spent a busy morning helping customers pick out the perfect clock or just the right watch to give as Christmas gifts, and, of course, no watch was complete without a sturdy chain.
Owning a watch often caused more anxiety than it cured. Watches weren’t cheap, and owners feared losing them or having them stolen by pickpockets. This fear had resulted in all manner of security devices. Men preferred the single or double Albert chains attached to a fob or medallion that made it easier to pull the watch from the pocket. Women wore watches either on brooches or around their necks on slide chains.
Poor Mrs. Cooper attached her watch to both a chain and a brooch. Even with that, she was so fearful of something happening to the watch that she’d ended up with a nervous disorder that caused her to lose her eyebrows.
After the morning rush, Meg replaced the watches and chains in the display cabinet beneath the counter, locking the sliding door.
“I’m just going to get some fresh air,” she called to her father.
Papa looked up from his workbench but said nothing.
Outside, the sky was gray, and the cold air nipped at her cheeks like a playful puppy.
The sound of music drew her attention down the street. A parade was heading her way. It was one of many spontaneous parades that streamed down Main every few weeks or so. Most were political, but this one looked as though it was purely for fun.
A group of mariachi players, dressed like peasants in white cotton pants and shirts, led the way, followed by all manner of horses, buggies, and people on foot. Two violinists and a guitarist strolled alongside a painted wagon carrying a harpist.
Meg marched next to the street musicians, absorbing the sweet, salty sound of the music. She felt like a flower opening up beneath the warming rays of the sun. It wasn’t her nature to be somber or morose, but since the disastrous wedding, she’d been both. She was ready to throw off the shroud of gloom and have some fun.
“Ay-ya-yay-ya!” she shouted in time to the music, and the wagon rolled to a stop.
A Mexican man wearing a large straw hat and a red sash around his waist stepped from the wagon and held out his hand. “Senorita?”
Meg drew in her breath. The senor—a stranger—was asking her to dance. In the middle of the street, no less.
Her first thought was to say no—a lady would never accept such an invitation! But before she could demur, she discovered her feet already moving to the music.
Taking this as consent, the man bowed from the waist. He then drew her into the street in front of the musicians. Facing her, he dropped his arms to his sides and, heart pounding, Meg followed suit. It had been so long since she’d kicked up her heels that she wasn’t sure she remembered how.
A guitarist struck a chord and the horns blared. Soon she and her partner were moving their feet in time to the up-tempo music.
Aware that a crowd was gathering to watch, Meg felt self-conscious at first. Oh, sweet heaven. What must they think of this jilted bride now? Fortunately, the music soon took over, and her usual carefree self returned.
Keeping her upper body rigid as the dance required, she followed her partner’s lead, pounding her heels into the ground
with swift, precise movements.
Lacking the traditional wide skirt, Meg moved her arms to imitate the colorful swirl of fabric, twisting her body from left to right. The dirt road prevented the sound of stomping feet, but spectators made up for that lack with the clap of hands.
It felt good to let herself go and not think about her disastrous wedding and all that had happened since. Now she knew how a butterfly felt emerging from a dark cocoon. As her feet moved to the rhythm, her spirits soared. Laughing, she lifted her face to the gray, swollen sky and cried, “Olé!”
*
Music greeted Grant as he walked out of the barbershop, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. A crowd had gathered around a couple dancing in the middle of the street. He almost didn’t recognize the carefree, lighthearted, and nimble-footed woman as Meg Lockwood.
But now that he did, he stepped off the boardwalk for a closer look and couldn’t take his eyes off her. Never had he seen her look so joyful.
She stomped her feet and twirled as effortlessly as a child’s whirligig. Eyes sparkling, she tossed a coquettish smile at the spectators and beamed up at her partner, cheeks rosy red. She dipped right, left, and spun around, imitating the whirl of a colorful skirt with the graceful flow of her arms and hips.
The tempo of the music increased, and Miss Lockwood’s feet became but a blur beneath her.
Her skirt flapped against her slim ankles, revealing glimpses of a lace petticoat beneath the hem. A disturbing but not unpleasant memory popped into his head—the memory of her hope chest and the intriguing underpinnings contained within.
Forcing the thought away, Grant sucked in his breath. His manly interest battled with professional integrity. The woman was intriguing—no question. Still, that was no excuse to forget, even for a second, that she was the plaintiff in a lawsuit filed against his client.
Because of that, he forced his thoughts back toward legal matters. So this was how the heartbroken lady spent her time, was it?
Miss Lockwood, if you are as dejected and inconsolable as your father claims, would you please tell the court why you were seen dancing in the street?
No sooner did the thought occur to him than another followed in its stead. How would it feel to be her dance partner? To hold her in his arms? To twirl her around and make her laugh and…
Startled by the wayward turn of his mind, Grant steered his thoughts back to the case, as hard as that was.
What else did the lady do to soothe her so-called dejected spirit? It was a question any lawyer worth his salt would ask. Nevertheless, that led to disturbing speculation involving the lady’s sweet lips.
Grant shoved his hands in his coat pockets and blew out his breath. What was it about her that affected him on so many levels? Yes, she was a looker, but it had to go deeper than that. There had been no shortage of pretty women in Boston, yet none had turned his head as effectively as Miss Lockwood.
Perhaps it was the memory of her standing forlorn in the cemetery the day Farrell had left her at the altar. Maybe it was the recollection of her pushing her hope chest, along with her broken dreams.
Whatever it was, he’d better get over it, or he wouldn’t be in any condition to handle his client’s case in court.
Eleven
The sky was metal gray, and clouds hung low with the threat of rain when Meg opened her father’s shop that Saturday morning. Already a line of customers waited, anxious to take advantage of the ten percent discount advertised in the morning’s newspaper.
During the next couple of hours, eight-day clocks, fine men’s timepieces, and ladies’ pendant watches inset with foreign gems flew out the door like bats from a cave.
It was midafternoon before the rush was over. The moment the last of the sale items left the shop, Meg leaned against the counter and ran the back of her hand over her heated brow.
“Whew!”
Papa rubbed his hands together. “It’s going to be a fine Christmas.” A broad smile crossed his face. “Yes, indeed.” He plucked his hat and coat off a wall hook and reached for the bulging sack of money. “I’m off to the bank. I’ll unpack the new shipment when I get back. Need anything?”
“No, Papa. I’m fine.”
“Don’t forget to ring the bell on the hour.”
She glanced at the wall of clocks. It was quarter to three. “I won’t, Papa.”
Whistling to himself, her father left the shop amid a jingle of bells.
It was only then that Meg noticed the Malone boy on the other side of the counter, perusing the watches displayed in the glass case. How he was able to see anything through the thick curtain of straw hair in front of his eyes was a puzzle.
His name was Tucker, Tucker Malone. His pa owned a farm outside of town, and Tucker was one of twelve children. The family had gone through hard times in recent years. The railroad had caused local farms to fall out of favor, and fruits, vegetables, eggs, and even hog meat transported from out of town were considered more desirable than local fare.
At eleven years old, Tucker was small for his age. It pained Meg to see the boy running around barefooted even during the winter months. His clothes were at least two sizes too small. Buttons were missing from his shirt, and the holes in his ankle-high trousers were patched as close together as shingles on a roof.
“What can I do for you, Tucker?”
The boy stared at her though a slot of parted hair. For answer, he dug into his pocket and fished out a shiny quarter, which he slid across the counter with a grimy hand.
“I want to buy my pa a watch for Christmas.”
Meg’s gaze dropped to the quarter. About all it would buy was a watch stem, but Meg didn’t have the heart to say as much. “Let’s see what I have.”
Stooping, she slid the door of the display cabinet open and reached for the cheapest watch in the store. The fat, open-face watch had a winding stem at twelve o’clock. The bulky timepiece was of the kind derisively known throughout the business as a turnip and had been traded in for a newer model.
Looking up, she noticed the boy staring at another watch—a fine watch in a hunter case that needed no key because it had a wind-up stem at the three o’clock position. She hesitated for a moment before selecting the higher-priced watch and drawing it out of the cabinet.
It was a sturdy silver watch made by the American Watch Company. The case was engraved with an eagle.
“What do you think of this one?” she asked, setting it on the counter between them. Normally she would go into her practiced sales pitch and mention the high-grade jewels, fine workmanship, and twenty-year guarantee, but she doubted the boy was interested in such details.
Shaking the hair away from his face, he gaped at the watch with rounded eyes.
“You can touch it,” she said.
He glanced up as if to see if she really meant it before moving his hand across the counter. The moment his fingers made contact with the polished case, he jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned.
Meg picked up the watch and opened it to show him the white enamel face. “It keeps excellent time,” she said. “And only has to be wound once a week. Here, you can hold it.” She handed the watch across the counter. Taking it from her, he held it in both hands like an injured bird.
“Do I have enough money for this?” Tucker asked. The eyes meeting hers pleaded for a positive response.
She hesitated but a moment before relieving his worry with a smile. Her father would have a fit, but how could she say no?
“Absolutely. Do you think your pa would like it?”
“Yes, ma’am!” he shouted. As if remembering his manners, he lowered his voice but not his enthusiasm. “I think he would like it a lot!”
“Then it’s a deal.” Meg held out her hand, and he placed the watch in her palm. She then helped him pick out a sturdy silver chain. After placing both watch and chain in a small, square box, she slid it into a paper sack.
She handed the small parcel over the counter. “Merry Christmas.”
/> The boy held on to his father’s gift with both hands as if never intending to let it go. “Merry Christmas.”
The sudden spring to his step as he left the shop brought a smile to her face—a smile that turned to alarm as soon as the door closed after him. Papa wouldn’t necessarily mind her giving away a cheap watch, but he would take issue with an expensive one.
Reaching into the glass case, she quickly arranged the watches until the empty space looked less obvious. She stepped back. It would have to do. With a little luck, Papa wouldn’t notice the watch missing until after she’d paid for it out of her salary.
*
At precisely two minutes to three, Meg stepped outside the shop to ring the bell announcing the hour. An argument raged a half block away, but she paid the angry voices no heed.
Instead, she turned her attention to the stagecoach parked directly in front of Papa’s shop. The driver, known simply as Bullwhip, leaned next to the coach smoking a stogie as he did six days of every week, though never at the same time twice. No one could figure out his schedule, or if he even had one. As far as anyone knew, he left when he was good and ready and arrived whenever circumstances allowed. Anyone wishing to hitch a ride had better be ready to leave on a whim, or miss out.
Bullwhip wore a long linen duster, a low-crowned felt hat, and high leather boots—a uniform that never varied, no matter what the season. A burly man with a full red beard, he let nothing keep him from arriving at his destination. Not rain nor hail—or even concern for life or limb. Not even being robbed eleven and a half times at gunpoint.
Her father had little patience with the man, and not just because he refused to abide by Lockwood time. Papa considered the stories of death-defying escapes nothing but tall tales. “How can a person be robbed eleven and a half times?” he’d asked. “You’re either robbed or you’re not. There’s no halfway.”
Today, Bullwhip greeted Meg with a nod of his grizzly head. “Miz Lockwood.”
Left at the Altar Page 7
