Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  “Bullwhip.” She unwound the rope from a hook attached to the side of the building, careful not to let the clapper hit the bell mouth before it was time.

  There was a trick to ringing a bell with clear, sharp rings and no stuttering. Other than Papa, Meg was the only one in the family who had mastered the technique. Holding a watch in one hand, she pulled the rope until the bell tilted forward. Not until the clapper hung straight down and the minute hand on her watch pointed straight up did she let the bell fall. The bell pealed in perfectly spaced dongs on precisely the hour.

  Cigar held between his teeth, Bullwhip checked his watch, as did all passersby, though why he bothered was anyone’s guess. Adjustments were made as needed before other watch owners continued on their way, but Bullwhip made no changes to his.

  When all that remained of the last gong was a fading echo, Bullwhip put his watch to his ear, then shook it—a habit that drove her father crazy. Shaking a watch made as much sense to Papa as blowing on the muzzle of a gun after firing.

  Meg turned to go inside, but the heated voices at the end of the street were now so loud that she could no longer ignore them. What had begun as a small knot of people gathered in front of the stables had become a good-sized crowd.

  She hesitated, but curiosity got the better of her. Fishing the key out of her pocket, she locked the shop and headed toward the angry crowd.

  Nearing the stables, she recognized one of the voices as belonging to Mr. Steele, the blacksmith. “I’m a-telling you, something’s gotta be done about the crime ’round here. Why, just yesterday, someone walked off with one of my tools. And if local thieves ain’t bad enough, the train brings in every scalawag ’twixt here and Missourah.”

  “The train ain’t done much for my cattle either,” yelled a local rancher. “All that shakin’ ground has made them stop eatin’. They’re so skinny, they’re beginnin’ to look like bed slats.”

  Meg walked around the circle of grumbling citizens, but she couldn’t see much over the high-crowned hats favored by most of the men.

  “Yeah, well, we can’t do nothin’ about the outsiders, but we can do plenty about the local thieves. What the boy needs is a good whuppin’ and maybe some time in the hoosegow. That’ll teach him.”

  Everyone started talking at once.

  Meg stepped onto a crate in front of the hardware store and stretched as high as her short frame allowed. She blinked. Was that…?

  Tucker!

  The butcher—a large, beefy man with a pockmarked face and crooked nose—held Tucker by the ear with one hand and the boy’s gift for his pa in the other. His name was Bruce Burrow, but everyone called him T-Bone.

  The boy’s eyes were as round as wagon wheels as he stared at T-Bone’s bloodied apron.

  Oh no. “Wait! Stop!” Meg shouted, but her cry could barely be heard over the loud voices of the others. She hopped off the crate and quickly cleared the steps leading off the boardwalk. Shouldering her way through the mob, she yelled, “Let me through.”

  After barreling her way to the front of the throng, she faced T-Bone, eyes blazing. “Take your hands off that boy at once!”

  T-Bone furrowed his brow. “And who’s gonna make me?”

  Before she could respond, a male voice answered for her. “I am.”

  Meg recognized the cultured eastern accent even before Mr. Garrison emerged from the crowd and joined her in the small clearing. His long, lean form was attired in dark trousers and frock coat, and he stood out among the crowd of shopkeepers, farmers, and cowpunchers. All eyes turned to him in hostile silence.

  T-Bone spit out a stream of tobacco; it fell to the ground with a plop. “Well, well, well. If it’s not the fancy lawyer from the East.” His eyebrows met and curtsied. “And what business is it of yours what I do?”

  Garrison regarded the man with a look of disdain. “I happen to be this lad’s lawyer.”

  “Is that so?” T-Bone looked skeptical, but he released the boy’s ear.

  Tucker rubbed the side of his head. “He’s got my watch.”

  “I’ll take it,” Garrison said, holding out his hand.

  The butcher gave him a quick visual check before handing over the timepiece. It didn’t take a soothsayer to know that Mr. Garrison had the advantage in height, age, and probably even strength.

  “Don’t know how the boy affords a lawyer,” T-Bone growled. “Cain’t even afford one meself.”

  Mr. Garrison placed a hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “In that case, I suggest you make it your business to avoid litigation.”

  T-Bone scratched his temple. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means to stop looking for trouble,” Meg said.

  Garrison met her gaze. For once, he’d dropped his guarded look, and she saw approval in his eyes. Touching the brim of his hat with the tip of his finger, he led the boy away.

  The butcher watched until the lawyer disappeared in the crowd. “The boy’s a thief.”

  “He’s not a thief,” Meg said and told them how Tucker had picked the watch out for his pa. “He bought that watch with his own money.”

  T-Bone made a derogatory noise. “If that’s true, I promise you that money didn’t come from no legal means.”

  “Watch with the promises,” someone yelled from the back of the crowd. “You don’t want the jilted bride suing you.”

  This brought an outburst of laughter. Cheeks flaming, Meg bulldozed her way past the jeering men with as much dignity as she could muster.

  *

  A moment later, Grant entered the Lockwood Watch and Clockworks shop to a riot of jingling bells. Hand on the boy’s bony shoulder, he guided him inside.

  The walls fairly vibrated with the sound of ticking clocks, some loud, some soft. Shiny brass pendulums swung back and forth. Minute hands moved a notch en masse like drilling soldiers. Never had Grant seen so many clocks in one place.

  Yet he had the eerie feeling that even with all the improvements made to clocks and watches in recent years, no one really knew what time it was—or even how much time was left. His sister certainly hadn’t.

  Lockwood looked up from behind the counter, eyes flat as wallpaper. He glanced at the boy before setting his tool down and closing the case of the mantel clock in front of him.

  Grant led the boy up to the counter. Lockwood made no effort to temper his dislike. Even the wall of ticking clocks couldn’t hide the tension that stretched as thick as pea soup between the two men.

  “You better have a good reason for being here, Garrison,” Lockwood said.

  Grant nodded. “I’m here on behalf of this young man. He’s been accused of stealing this watch.” He set the paper bag on the counter and pulled out the square box. “He claims he purchased it from this shop fair and square.” He opened the box and held it so Lockwood could see inside.

  Lockwood gave the watch a cursory glance. “You’d have to be rich to afford a watch like that.”

  Grant raised an eyebrow. He didn’t want to believe the boy was a liar, but it certainly appeared that way. He turned to Tucker. “What do you say to that?”

  “I was rich till I bought the watch.” The boy looked close to tears. “Cost me a whole twenty-five cents, it did.”

  Lockwood grunted. “Twenty—” He cleared his throat. “The boy’s lying. No one but a fool would sell a watch like that for mere peanuts.”

  Jingling bells announced someone entering the shop, and all eyes turned to the front of the store. Miss Lockwood was framed in the doorway with the light at her back, and suddenly, Grant felt the need to catch his breath.

  She wasn’t dancing this time, nor was she standing up for a boy too young to stand up for himself. Still, she sure did look pretty as a picture, her tiny waist and trim hips hugged in all the right places by a blue floral dress.

  Tucker pointed his finger at her. “She sold it to me!”

  Miss Lockwood turned her gaze to Tucker, and a shadow of a smile touched her lips.

  Wishing
the smile was for him, Grant doffed his hat, but all he got for his efforts was a wary glance.

  She shut the door and joined them at the counter. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked, sounding oddly breathless, as if she’d been running. Two red spots stained her cheeks.

  Her father grunted and tossed a nod at the watch on the counter. “This boy claims you sold him that there watch.”

  “His name is Tucker.” Meg lifted her chin. “And what he said is true. I did sell him the watch.”

  Lockwood’s glance sharpened. “For twenty-five cents?” he sputtered.

  “He bought it for his pa for Christmas,” she said, her voice thick with meaning. “I’m afraid it took all of his hard-earned money.”

  Father and daughter glared at each other, and neither looked about to back down.

  “I guess that settles it then,” Grant said, anxious to whisk the boy away before the real battle began.

  “Nothing is settled.” Lockwood slapped his hand palm down on the counter. “That’s an expensive watch, and—”

  “I’ll cover it,” Meg said beneath her breath.

  Father and daughter continued to glower at each other with the same stubborn look. Much to Grant’s relief, Lockwood threw up his hands, spun around, and vanished into the back of the shop.

  Miss Lockwood slipped the watch back into the box and handed it to Grant. Their fingers touched as he took the box from her. Quickly pulling her hand away, she moistened her lips and lifted her lashes.

  “Sorry for the confusion,” she said, “but the watch is his to keep.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Grant said. “Much obliged.”

  She lowered her gaze to the boy, and her expression softened. “You go straight home now, you hear?” she said. “And wish your father a Merry Christmas for me…from the whole Lockwood family.”

  Tucker nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll see that he gets home,” Grant said, reaching into his pocket for a golden eagle. Tucker shouldn’t be roaming around with an expensive watch. Better to see him safely home, but first things first. The boy could definitely benefit from a decent meal and a new pair of trousers.

  Grant slid the twenty-dollar coin onto the counter and steered Tucker toward the door.

  He glanced back at Miss Lockwood as he left, and this time her pretty smile was most definitely for him.

  Twelve

  Papa was unusually quiet that night at supper. Mama gave him a questioning look but said nothing. His silence made the ticking clocks sound like hail on a tin roof.

  Meg exchanged a glance with her sister.

  “Does Papa know?” Amanda mouthed.

  At first Meg didn’t know what Amanda meant, but then she remembered the suffrage school. She gave a silent shake of her head. No, Papa didn’t know. At least she didn’t think so.

  A look of relief crossed Amanda’s face, followed by a knitted frown that seemed to say, Then what? What is on Papa’s mind?

  Meg lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. Surely he wasn’t still upset about the watch. Not after Mr. Garrison had paid at least double what it was worth.

  She looked down at her plate and was startled when the vision of a crooked smile and velvet-brown eyes came to mind.

  “Is everything all right, Meg?”

  Meg lifted her gaze. “What, Mama?”

  “Is there something wrong with your meal?”

  Meg shook her head. “No. Everything’s fine.”

  Her mother studied her for a moment before glancing at the wall of clocks. In five minutes a cacophony of chimes would announce the hour.

  “How long do you intend to keep us in suspense, Henry?”

  Papa looked up from his plate. “What are you saying, my dear?”

  Mama finished buttering her roll. “It’s obvious that you have something on your mind.”

  Setting his fork down, Papa dabbed his mouth with his napkin and cleared this throat. “What I have to say can wait until after we have finished eating.”

  Mama set the buttered roll on her bread plate. “I’d rather you say it now.”

  “Very well, my dear, if you insist.” Papa cleared his throat and glanced at the clocks. Reprieve was still four minutes away. “Barnes wants to meet with you in his office. Wants to go over your testimony.”

  Mama sat back in her chair. “M-my testimony?”

  “Since neither the plaintiff nor defendant is allowed to testify in a breach-of-promise suit, it’s up to the rest of the family to take the stand.”

  Meg’s heart skipped a beat. “But why, Papa? You know how Mama hates talking in front of an audience.”

  “What are you talking about? Audience? A courtroom is not a theater. All she has to do is address her comments to the judge.”

  “But what on earth would I say?” Mama asked.

  Papa laid his napkin by the side of his plate. “The truth. You just have to tell the court how devastated our daughter is. How it’s affecting the entire family.”

  Her mother glanced at Meg as if to determine the truth of his statement.

  Amanda crossed her eyes and mouthed, “Devastated?”

  Meg pushed her plate away. “This is ridiculous. I won’t have it, Papa. It’s bad enough that you’re putting me through this, but now Mama.”

  Her father dismissed her concern with a wave of his fork. “We’re family. That means we’re in this together.”

  Meg’s temper flared. “If that’s true, then why didn’t you consult us before filing the lawsuit?”

  “As head of this household, I’m required to make certain decisions I think are best for the family.” He arched an eyebrow. “Surely, you’re not questioning my judgment. Hmm?”

  That was exactly what she was doing. She blew out her breath in an effort to calm herself. “I’ve always tried to be a good daughter and do what you’ve asked of me. But this time you ask too much.”

  The silence that followed was as brittle as broken glass. Even the ticking clocks couldn’t fill the void.

  “Would you please pass the salt,” Amanda said at last.

  Meg reached for the salt dish and handed it to her sister. Amanda met her gaze and tossed a slight nod at their father, calling attention to his bright-red face.

  Alarmed, Meg softened her voice. “I’m sorry, Papa. I don’t mean to question your judgment, but I’m very much against this lawsuit.”

  “I didn’t think you’d fight me on this, Meg.”

  “And I didn’t think you would go against my wishes.”

  She had already done battle with him twice today, but it couldn’t be helped. She felt like she was fighting for her life.

  He struck the table with the palm of his hand, rattling the dishes and causing Mama to jump. “You’ll do what I say, young lady, and—”

  “Henry, please,” Mama said gently.

  “This is a matter of honor.” Papa toned down his voice, but the stubbornness remained on his face. “Tommy Farrell caused great injury and embarrassment to my family.”

  Meg glared at him, and this time she made no effort to hide her anger. “This has nothing to do with me or even Tommy, and you know it. It’s all about your ridiculous feud with Mr. Farrell.”

  “Meg…” Mama said. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “It’s true, Mama. You know it’s true.” Meg pushed her chair away from the table and jumped to her feet. “And I won’t have Mama testifying! I want nothing to do with your blasted lawsuit!”

  Her father rose so quickly that his chair fell back. He opened his mouth to speak but instead tugged on his tie, his neck thick with blue ropelike veins.

  Meg slammed her chair against the table at the same time the minute hand of every clock struck the hour. The bells, cuckoos, and gongs sounded like a bunch of scolding jurors all mocking her. She clapped her hands over her ears.

  “Meg, please,” her mother pleaded, her voice barely heard above the chiming clocks. “Let’s talk about it.”

 
“There’s nothing to talk about!”

  Her father opened his mouth to say something, but his voice faltered and he gasped for air. Before Meg’s startled eyes, he folded like a rag doll and collapsed to the floor.

  Horrified, she was the first to reach his side. “Papa!”

  Thirteen

  Meg waited in the hall outside their parents’ bedroom door with Josie and Amanda. It seemed as if they’d been waiting for hours for either Mama or Dr. Stybeck to exit.

  Amanda had fetched Josie, and Meg was filling her in on what little they knew about Papa’s condition. While the two stood whispering, Amanda paced the narrow hall like a dog with a bone to bury.

  “How’s Mama?” Josie asked with a worried frown.

  “You know Mama,” Meg said, her voice wobbling. “She’s as calm as the moon.”

  Josie’s forehead creased. “I don’t understand. Father’s never had trouble with his heart before. What would cause him to have trouble now?”

  “It’s all my fault.” Meg dabbed at the corner of her eyes with her handkerchief. “We had an argument.”

  “Over the lawsuit,” Amanda added, though it was unnecessary. Josie knew that Meg was against it and had been from the start.

  Meg tried to breathe, but it felt like a brick had lodged in her chest. “If…if he dies, I’ll never forgive myself,” she said and immediately burst into fresh tears.

  Josie wrapped an arm around Meg’s shoulder. “Papa’s strong, Meg. You know that. That old ticker of his is never going to run down. He’s like an old clock.”

  Comparing Papa to an old clock usually brought smiles if not laughter, but not today. Even the most expensive clocks ran down eventually.

  The bedroom door opened, and all three women swung around to face it. Dr. Stybeck stepped into the hall, black case in hand. Round and compact as a ladies’ watch, he had a full head of white hair and a goatee to match.

  Meg waited for him to close the door. “How is he?”

  “He’s asleep right now. The mustard plaster helped, and his pulse is now normal. I left your mother something to relieve his pain and laudanum to relax him.”

  “What would cause a problem with his heart?” Josie asked.

  “Mental strain and excitement are the chief causes of heart disease,” the doctor said. “He’ll be fine with some bed rest. Just keep him calm. If he gets upset, he could have another episode, and we might not be so lucky next time.”