Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  Meg tucked the advertisement into her drawstring purse. “All right, you win. No more fussing.”

  A cold wind greeted her outside, cutting through her woolen skirt like icy knives. Half a block away, she spotted the swaybacked horse and rickety old wagon belonging to Mr. Mutton, the dogcatcher. Stray dogs had become a problem in recent months, and things had come to a head when the mayor’s two-year-old grandson was bitten. Fortunately, the dog showed no sign of the dreaded rabies, but the town went up in arms and a dogcatcher was hired.

  The town council voted to pay him by the dog rather than a flat salary. A big mistake, because it left no canine safe from the man’s greedy clutches.

  Now armed with a snare pole, he crept along the side of a building like a thief in the night.

  A glimpse of the man’s furry target made Meg stop in her tracks. “Hey!”

  Lifting her skirt above her ankles, she ran across the street with such haste that the driver of the hotel’s horse-drawn omnibus was forced to jerk on his reins and come to a quick stop.

  “Watch it!”

  Paying no heed to the driver, Meg frantically waved her arms and called, “Mr. Mutton! Wait.”

  By the time she’d reached the alley, Mutton had already snared the dog. The poor thing trembled and whined, tail between its legs and its neck caught by a loop of horsehair.

  “That’s Blackie,” Meg said upon reaching the dogcatcher. “He belongs to Mr. Steele. Can’t you see the tag?” Mutton would have to be blind not to see it.

  “Git outta the way, miz. I got work to do.”

  “Yes, but this isn’t it.”

  He pulled on his pole. Blackie reared back on his hind legs, but this only made Mutton pull harder.

  Meg grabbed the pole and glared at him. “That dog is licensed.”

  “That dog is a nuisance!” Mutton snarled back.

  “Then complain to the owner.”

  “I ain’t complainin’ to no one.” His nose was mere inches from Meg’s. “Now git outta my way.”

  He yanked on the pole, but Meg held on with both hands. They were fairly evenly matched in height, but Mutton didn’t have to battle with a wind-blown skirt.

  A tug of war ensued, with Meg yanking the snare pole one way and the dogcatcher another.

  “Let go!” he barked.

  “You let go,” she yipped.

  Meg didn’t realize that Deputy Sheriff Jeff Boulder had arrived until he spoke. “I suggest you both let go.”

  Instantly obeying Boulder’s command, she released the pole. Mutton flew backward, hitting his head against the wall with a sickening thud.

  Hand on her mouth, Meg stared in horror as the man slithered to the ground.

  *

  Sheriff Clayton greeted Grant with a nod of his head and feet firmly planted on his desk. His light, sandy hair brushed against skin as leathery and worn as the soles of his boots.

  “What can I do fer you, Garrison?”

  “Got a message that your prisoner wants to see me.”

  The sheriff leveled a thumb toward the open door leading to the jail cells in back.

  “Much obliged.”

  There were three cells in all, but only one was occupied. That was a surprise. Considering the noisy street brawls that kept him awake half the night, Grant had expected the jail to be packed.

  The prisoner sat on a cot rubbing his foot. A fat, hairy toe poked through a hole in his gray woolen sock.

  Grant introduced himself. “You said you wanted to see me.”

  The prisoner dropped his foot and stood. “Kinda young, ain’t you?”

  At nearly thirty, Grant didn’t feel all that young. “Old enough to know the law.”

  The prisoner frowned. “’Round here that could be a hindrance. Case you’re wonderin’, name’s Kidd. Jacob Kidd.”

  “I know who you are.” Kidd was a notorious stage robber who had managed to avoid the law for a good many years. For a man with such a bad reputation, he sure was small in stature. If he stretched, he might reach all of five feet tall. He had a drooping mustache and wore his shoulder-length hair pulled back like a donkey’s tail and tied with a piece of rawhide.

  “You asked to see me.”

  “Shore enough did.” Kidd looked him up and down, and Grant felt like a horse on the auction block. “Heard that you were handlin’ the jilted bride case.”

  The image of a pretty, round face flashed through Grant’s mind, and he was momentarily jolted by the clear vision.

  “Well, is you or ain’t you?”

  “I’m sorry. Yes, I am. But I prefer to call it the Farrell versus Lockwood case.”

  Business had indeed picked up since his name had appeared in the newspaper, mostly from people unable to get any other representation. Like the two Chinese men who had smelled a need and decided to start a laundry in town. Victims of the anti-Chinese movement, they faced community objection to their plan, which is why they hired Grant.

  “The judge found me guilty.” Kidd made a face. “Dadgummit. If my blasted horse hadn’t thrown a shoe, I would never have been caught.”

  Grant shrugged. “So what can I do for you?”

  “Well, here’s the thing. I’ve been sentenced to hang next Friday at noon, Lockwood time.” He paused.

  “Go on.”

  “I wanna be hung on Farrell time.”

  Grant frowned. He’d heard a lot of requests from condemned men, but this was the first he’d heard of one wanting to change the time of execution.

  “May I ask why?”

  “Farrell time lets me live a whole forty minutes longer. A man can accomplish a lot in forty minutes. In my younger days, I coulda robbed both a bank and a stage in that amount of time—and don’t forget it took only an eighteen-minute battle with Mexico for a third of what is now the good ole USA to change ownership.” Kidd fell silent for a moment. “Heck, forty minutes is even enough time to fall in love.”

  Grant glanced around the dismal area with its empty cells and rough adobe walls. Didn’t seem like the place offered much chance for falling in love—or anything else for that matter.

  “Have you talked to your lawyer about this?”

  Kidd made a face. “Why would I do that? The fool man couldn’t even keep me from bein’ sentenced to hang.”

  Grant hesitated. His top priority was the Lockwood trial, but requesting a time change shouldn’t take too long. Less than an hour was in question, after all. “I’ll talk to the judge, but I can’t promise anything.”

  Kidd nodded. “You get me more time, and I’ll tell you where I stashed the loot from the last holdup.”

  “I’m sure that would make the sheriff very happy.”

  “The sheriff?” Kidd chuckled. “Well, what do you know? My last week on earth, and I finally find me an honest man.”

  “Maybe you were just running with the wrong crowd.”

  Kidd shrugged. “Maybe so.”

  A sudden commotion rose from the adjacent office, followed by loud voices, but it was the high-pitched one that caught Grant’s attention. The woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar.

  “Looks like I’m about to git me some company,” Kidd said.

  “Sounds like it.”

  “A petticoat by the sounds of it. I might have more need for that extra forty minutes than I thought. I’m in love already.”

  “Sounds like you’re asking for more trouble than you already have.”

  Kidd shrugged. “Get me those forty minutes, and I’ll take my chances.”

  *

  Grant stepped into the open doorway separating the cells from the sheriff’s office and tried to make sense of the scream-fest in front of him.

  A man and woman were going at it tooth and nail, but Grant couldn’t make hide nor hair of what they were carrying on about. The citizens of Two-Time were a passionate lot, that’s for sure. He’d witnessed more verbal disputes, fistfights, and shoot-outs during his short time in town than a dog had fleas.

  Looking m
ore befuddled by the moment, the sheriff was trying to calm the fighting couple, but his efforts went unnoticed. Clayton seemed more suited to restoring order at a church meeting than in a town as wild as Two-Time.

  The undersheriff finally had enough. “Quiet!” he snapped, leaving no room for argument.

  Taking advantage of the blessed silence that followed, Grant stepped through the doorway. Though her back was turned, he recognized the woman at once as Miss Lockwood. No wonder her voice had sounded familiar. Holding herself ramrod straight, hands planted firmly on her hips, she looked and sounded fit to be tied.

  “May I be of service?” Grant asked.

  He addressed the sheriff, but Miss Lockwood replied. “Not unless you’re offering to conduct a funeral service.”

  “I’m afraid that’s outside my job description.”

  She spun around, and her eyes widened. “Mr. Garrison.”

  Grant doffed his hat. “Miss Lockwood. Didn’t expect to see you here.” The target of her fury was a thin man holding a handkerchief to the back of his head.

  She lifted her chin in an act of self-righteousness, a far cry from the cool, reasonable woman who had graced his office on her father’s behalf a couple of days earlier.

  The sheriff lifted a key ring off a hook on the wall. “Suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

  “She—”

  “He—”

  “One at a time!” the undersheriff snarled. He pointed at the skinny man. “Since you’re the injured party, I’ll let you go first, Mutton.”

  The man named Mutton drew himself to his full height. “I was mindin’ me own business and this…this pit bull of a woman attacked me.”

  Pit bull? Grant kept his gaze firmly on Miss Lockwood’s indignant face but remained silent.

  The sheriff’s head swiveled toward her. “Is that true?”

  Miss Lockwood glared at the man. “I did not attack him.”

  Her denial bought an immediate response from Mutton, and the argument escalated again from there. Try as he might, Grant couldn’t understand the crux of the problem. The number of references to donkey’s anatomy flying back and forth did nothing to unravel the mystery.

  It wasn’t until after the sheriff locked both parties in jail for disturbing the peace that he filled Grant in on the details. It seemed that Miss Lockwood was protecting the blacksmith’s dog.

  “Are you representing Miss Lockwood or Mr. Mutton?” the sheriff asked.

  “Neither,” Grant said. Representing Miss Lockwood would be a conflict of interest. Even paying her bail might be considered suspect, and he couldn’t take the chance. As for the dogcatcher, if indeed he was snaring tagged dogs as the lady proclaimed, jail was too good for him.

  Clayton tossed the keys to the cells on his desk. “I was a-hopin’ you’d handle Lockwood. He don’t take kindly to me lockin’ up his daughters.”

  Grant wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “You mean this isn’t the first time?”

  The sheriff’s eyebrows lifted like a hot-air balloon. “Heck no. Though usually it’s her sister Amanda that I have to jail. Just last month, I had to lock her up for causin’ a riot at the Golden Spur Saloon. And then there was the time…”

  Listening with growing disbelief, Grant rubbed the back of his neck. He’d met the sister only once, and that day on the train she had acted perfectly sensible and sane. Looks could sure be deceiving. Was there no one in this town who knew how to behave in a civilized manner?

  “The only one of the three sisters who hasn’t given me trouble is the oldest one, Josie.”

  Grant had yet to meet her. “Barnes represents the family. I’ll let him know that Miss Lockwood requires his assistance.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Much obliged.”

  Grant glanced through the open door separating the office from the cells in back. He couldn’t see the lady, but it sure did look like Kidd was counting on those extra forty minutes.

  Sixteen

  Grant read the sign on Miss Lockwood’s lawyer’s door. Barnes had gone to San Antone, and the note gave no indication of when he would return.

  That left Grant with only one option, and not a pleasant one at that. He hated having to break the news to Lockwood himself, but he didn’t want to leave the man’s daughter in jail. It was no place for a lady, not even one as unconventional as her.

  Grant swung back into the saddle with a grimace and moments later reached the Lockwood Watch and Clockworks shop. He dismounted and wrapped the reins around the hitching post.

  “If I don’t come back in ten minutes, Chester, you better fetch the sheriff,” he said half-jokingly.

  The wind was cold and the sky thick with dark clouds. The locals claimed Texas had no climate, but it did have weather—though supposedly it seldom snowed in Two-Time. The most Grant had been told to expect was an ice storm or two before winter’s end, but it sure did smell like snow now.

  He blew on his cupped hands and rubbed them together before reaching for the brass doorknob. A clamor of bells announced his arrival.

  Lockwood was adjusting one of the tall clocks. At the sound of the bells, he turned toward the door with screwdriver in hand. “Mr. Garrison.” His voice as cold as the expression on his face, Lockwood closed the clock’s glass door and walked behind the counter. “If you’re here about the trial, you’d best speak to my lawyer.”

  Grant pulled off his hat. “That’s not why I’m here,” he said. “I came to tell you that your daughter has been arrested.”

  Had Grant expected Lockwood to show surprise or even dismay, he would have been sorely disappointed.

  Instead, Lockwood only shrugged. “What has Amanda done this time?”

  “Nothing that I know of. She’s not the one in jail.”

  This time Lockwood did look surprised. “You’re not saying that Meg…”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Lockwood rubbed his chin. “Hmm. What do you know? What’s she doing there?”

  “I believe she assaulted someone.”

  “Really?” Lockwood’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline. “Who’d she assault? Tommy Farrell, I hope.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but I believe it was the dogcatcher.”

  Lockwood pondered this for a moment. “Wonder what beef she has with him. Far as I know, he’s on Lockwood time.”

  Grant ran a finger along his upper lip. Did everything in this town have to be about time? “Not anymore,” he said wryly. “He’s now on jail time.”

  Lockwood blew out his breath. “How much is that mercenary sheriff gonna charge me this time?”

  “I believe the customary bail is five dollars.”

  “Harrumph.” Lockwood pulled five singles out of the cashbox and locked it. He reached for his hat, plucked his keys off a hook, and stormed around the counter, stopping only to turn the sign in the window to Closed.

  Recalling that Lockwood had had a recent health scare, Grant followed him outside and waited for him to lock the door. The man certainly looked robust enough. Was it possible that Miss Lockwood had exaggerated her father’s condition?

  “Do you have daughters, Mr. Garrison?” Lockwood asked.

  “No, sir. I’m not married.”

  Lockwood pocketed his keys. “Well, if you’re smart you’ll keep it that way and raise chickens instead.” With that, he turned and headed for the jailhouse.

  *

  Meg hurried to keep up with her father’s long strides. For a man who had recently suffered a health scare, he was in rare form. “Papa, do slow down. Your heart…”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my heart,” he insisted, but he slowed his pace. “It’s bad enough that Amanda gets herself arrested with clocklike precision, but I thought you had more sense.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa, but—”

  “But, but.” He threw up his hands. “There’s always a but.” He stopped abruptly in the middle of the boardwalk and faced her. “In my day and time, a woman knew her p
lace, and it certainly wasn’t jail!”

  “It wasn’t my fault—”

  “Then whose fault was it? You girls carry on like you’ve been raised by wolves.”

  “That’s not true, Papa—”

  “Isn’t it? If Amanda spent half as much time learning domestic skills as she does chasing trouble, she might get somewhere. As for you, young lady…”

  Her father was so busy ranting that he failed to notice the group of protestors marching down the middle of the street. There were close to twenty in all, each carrying a sign urging people to join the American Woman Suffrage Association. Leading the parade was a hefty woman dressed in black. The only bits of color on her person were a white band on her ample chest that read Votes for Women and a large, red plume on a hat that stood three stories and an attic tall—Amanda’s work, no doubt.

  Amanda followed at the rear of the small procession, waving an American flag and holding up traffic. Meg groaned. No doubt the group was purposely trying to get arrested to earn sympathy for their cause.

  Papa had handled bailing one daughter out of jail with no apparent injury to his health, but Meg doubted his heart could handle two on the same day.

  “And furthermore,” Papa was saying, oblivious to his youngest daughter’s latest endeavor, “your misconduct could be used against you in court and—”

  “Oh, look, Papa.” Meg grabbed him by the arm and all but hauled him into the nearest shop.

  Her father pulled away from her clutches and glanced around like a man who had suddenly found himself on the moon. “What are we doing here? I have work to do, and so do you.”

  “Don’t be so serious, Papa,” she said, giving his arm a playful tug. “I wish to pick out a Christmas present for you.”

  “For me?” His lip curled. “Here?”

  Meg looked around and her heart sank. Oh no! Of all possible places, she had inadvertently dragged her father into Walker’s Gun Shop.

  Rifles and shotguns hung from the walls between shelves of ammunition, and handguns were displayed in a glass case. Walking into Madam Bubbles’s parlor couldn’t have been more ill advised. Having served in that terrible war, Meg’s father had sworn off guns forever. No wonder he looked so utterly affronted.