“What can I do for you, Lockwood?” the gunsmith, Mr. Walker, called from behind the counter. A blunt-jawed man with a thick nose and receding gray hair, he smelled of linseed oil and stale tobacco.
Her father waved his watch and tossed a nod at the clock on the wall behind the shop’s owner. “You can set your clock to the right time. It’s four minutes slow.” He pocketed his watch and turned to Meg. “Come along. We’ve got work to do.” He turned to leave just as the marchers began to pass by the front of the store.
“For me,” Meg cried out. “I want a gun for me.”
Her father stiffened momentarily before whirling about, a look of astonishment on his face. “You want a gun? What in the name of Sam Hill for?”
She tried to think of an answer and then remembered the fear that had run through her when she’d been accosted by that awful man. Who knew what might have happened if she hadn’t been able to bash him over the head with her parasol!
“To protect myself.”
Her father’s eyebrows arched. “Protect yourself? From what?”
“From…from…” She cleared her voice. “Men who think I’m damaged goods and that they can have their way with me.”
“Oh, for the love of Pete.” Her father threw up his hands and called over to Walker, who was listening to their conversation with wide-eyed interest. “Help my daughter select a gun. And make it quick. I haven’t got all day.”
“Will do.” Walker scurried over to a corner cabinet where an array of small pistols was displayed. He pulled out a single-barrel derringer and held it up for her to examine.
“This here’s a fine gun for your purposes,” he said.
“Are you sure it will work?” she asked. “It seems awfully small.”
He drew back, waving his hands like a man trying to hold back a stampede. “I’m not making any promises here, mind you.”
“Oh dear goodness.” She sighed. “I’m not going to sue you.”
Every man in town walked on eggshells around her now, even Reverend Wellmaker. During a recent sermon, he’d looked directly at her and, after promising life everlasting, qualified his statement. “Of course, there are no guarantees…”
Walker explained the merits of the weapon and how to carry it safely. He then showed her how to load it.
By the time Meg and her father left the shop fifteen minutes later, the marchers were nowhere in sight. Either they had returned to the hotel or were now in jail, heaven help them.
Her sister owed her big time. In her purse was a derringer she was now obliged to carry.
*
The following morning, Meg finished dressing and reached for her purse, the heavy weight an unpleasant reminder that she now owned a gun.
Grimacing, she pulled out the weapon and glanced around the room for a place to hide it. Did Walker accept returns? Not all shop owners did.
Without warning, her bedroom door flew open and Amanda burst inside waving a newspaper.
Upon seeing the gun in Meg’s hand, she froze, a look of horror on her face. “Oh!” She closed the door behind her. “Where did you get that?” she asked, her voice hushed. “You know how Papa feels about guns.”
Meg stuffed the gun in her purse and struggled to close the clasp. “He knows I have it.”
“What?”
“And it’s all your fault.” Meg explained about dragging Papa into the gun shop. “I saved your hide. Again.”
Instead of thanking her, Amanda grimaced. “You better have another trick up your sleeve. I’m gonna need all the help I can get.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “Now what have you done?”
For answer Amanda held up the Two-Time Gazette. The bold headline read JILTED BRIDE’S SISTER MARCHES DOWN MAIN.
Meg’s jaw dropped. “Oh no!”
“Meg, I’m sorry. I never dreamed they would use your name. Not with a real celebrity in town. They didn’t even mention Lucy Stone.” Amanda looked as indignant as a newly shorn sheep. “Imagine ignoring a fine woman like that!”
Meg stared at her sister in disbelief. She was the one who needed pity, not Lucy Stone. “That fine woman could have gotten you arrested.” What a field day the editor would have had with that!
“It would have been for a good cause,” Amanda said and frowned. “What am I going to do? If Papa sees the paper…” She shuddered.
Meg sighed. She could never stay irritated or angry at her sister for long. “We’ll hide it from him.”
“Do you think that will work?”
“No, but we can try.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the sound of a slamming door shook the very walls, followed by Papa’s booming voice.
“Amanda! Come here. Now!”
*
Two bodies came shooting through the batwing doors of the Last Chance Saloon and onto the boardwalk, missing Grant by mere inches. Grunting like bears, the two men rolled off the wooden sidewalk with pummeling fists and landed next to a brown horse tied to the hitching post in front.
“Hey!” Grant yelled. “Quit it. Both of you.”
The two men raised their heads from the ground to stare at him, fists pulled back ready to do bodily harm to each other.
Grant regarded them with disgust. “That’s no way to settle your differences.” He pulled two white cards printed with his name from his coat pocket. Leaning over, he handed one to each man. “We can settle this dispute in my office.”
“Well now…” one man said, pocketing the card. “That’s mighty nice of you to offer your services.”
“Glad to help,” Grant said. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Lip curling, the second man wiped the blood from his jaw with his shirtsleeve. “Don’t know where you hail from, mister, but out here the quickest way to settle differences is this.” With that, he let his fist fly, the knuckles making contact with his foe’s face with a sickening crunch.
“Take that, you son of a…”
“Why, you—”
Shaking his head, Grant shoved his hands in his pockets and continued on his way to the Silver Spur Saloon and Dance Hall. He pushed his way through the swinging doors, pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light.
As far as the town’s saloons went, the Silver Spur was the most respectable. That was partly because of the posted sign forbidding floozies, suffragettes, Methodists, and other troublemakers from entering its hallowed doors. Someone, probably the proprietor, had written Amanda Lockwood’s name at the bottom of the sign.
The bartender was a giant of a man standing well over six foot six. His friends called him Stretch. His enemies called him Stretch too, preceded by an expletive.
Grant’s gaze zeroed in on a corner table where the newly arrived circuit judge currently sat. Rumor had it that this was the judge’s favorite watering hole, and that had proven to be true. His name was Judge Thomas Lynch. He was known for being firm but fair. Today he sat alone and looked like he wanted to keep it that way.
Grant walked over to the table. “Your Honor.” He introduced himself and pulled out a chair. “Do you mind?”
“What? What did you say?”
Grant had been warned that the judge was hard of hearing. He repeated his request, this time a little louder.
The judge lifted his glass to his lips and tossed back the contents in a single gulp. He set it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Does it matter to you whether I mind or don’t mind?”
Accepting that as an invitation to join him, Grant sat.
“If this is about the jilted bride case…”
“Not entirely.”
“Ay? What did you say?”
“I said not entirely,” Grant said loud enough to draw the bartender’s attention to their table.
“Well, get on with it then,” the judge said with an impatient wave of his hand. “What’s on your mind?”
“A last wish from a condemned man.” Grant emphasized each word. If he spoke any louder, everyone in the salo
on would be privy to the conversation.
Judge Lynch made a face. “What does Kidd want now?”
“To change the time of his sentence.”
The judge signaled to the bartender for a refill. “So the man’s finally showin’ repentance.”
“Sentence,” Grant repeated, this time louder. “He wants to change the time of his sentence.”
“Why? What better time to meet one’s maker than high noon?”
“Noon’s not the issue.” Grant leaned forward so he could speak directly into the judge’s ear. “He wants to meet his maker on Farrell time instead of Lockwood’s.”
“Well, I got news for him. Once he hangs, he’ll be judged on his deeds. Which time he keeps won’t get him any special favors at the golden gate.”
Grant shrugged. “I don’t think he’s looking for heavenly favors. Only one earthly one. We’re talking forty minutes.”
“You’re right about that. The man knows no limits. I’ll grant his request this time, but he better not ask for anything more.” The judge paused for a moment. “Is that all?”
“Not exactly.” Grant hesitated. “Mr. Lockwood is having health problems. His daughter would rather that he not testify.”
“Is he able to sit up and take nourishment?”
“I believe so. He’s already back to work.”
“Then he testifies. Anything else?”
Grant hesitated again. Usually he looked forward to trial, but he was beginning to have grave reservations about this case. As if Lockwood and his intriguing daughter didn’t offer challenge enough, he now had a tin-ear judge to contend with. Would he have to shout his opening and closing statements?
He cleared his throat. “Barnes wants to put the defendant and plaintiff on the stand, and I have no objection.” After repeating this sentence three times, Grant drew a notebook and pencil out of his portfolio and wrote it down.
The judge stared at Grant’s bold handwriting for several moments. “You do realize that letting the parties testify might tempt me to take sides.”
“I have no problem with that,” Grant said and added too quietly for the judge to hear, “As long as you take my side.”
“All right, but no tears. I won’t have anyone weeping in my courtroom. Nothing tilts the scales of justice faster than tears, and we can’t have that. Understood?”
Grant stood and pushed in his chair. “You have no fears in that regard.” With a tip of his hat, he walked away.
“Tears!” the judge shouted after him. “I said tears!”
Seventeen
The handwritten sign hanging on the door of the courthouse was designed so that everyone, except the pastor who favored God’s time, would arrive in an orderly fashion. It read:
The JILTED BRIDE trial will begin promptly at the following posted times.
Lockwood time: 9:20 a.m.
Farrell time: 10:00 a.m.
Upon reading the sign, Meg gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on her purse. The gold clasp wouldn’t stay closed. She should have left the gun at home, but that wasn’t the only thing that irritated her.
“I wish everyone would stop calling me the jilted bride.”
Her mother smoothed a stray hair away from Meg’s forehead with a gloved hand. “This will soon be over, Pet. You’ll see.”
“I know.” Meg forced a smile. She didn’t want Mama worrying about her. Heaven knew Mama had enough on her plate worrying about Papa. Despite the doctor’s warning, he refused to curtail either his deportment or his activities.
Rising on tiptoes, her mother craned her neck. “Have you seen your sisters?”
“No, Mama.”
Amanda had sworn Meg to secrecy about both the suffragette school and Lucy Stone. She was already in trouble with Papa for marching down Main. Meg’s only hope was that her sister didn’t land in jail—again. Poor Mama. What did she ever do to deserve the trouble her family put her through?
“Wait here, and I’ll go and look for them.”
No sooner had her mother vanished into the crowd than Sallie-May appeared by Meg’s side, her tight corset making her sound breathless, as usual.
“Oh, you poor dear. You must be petrified. I know I would be.”
“It is a bit scary,” Meg admitted. Who would have thought that a court case could attract so much attention?
“Just wanted you to know that me and the others are rooting for you.” Sallie-May pointed to a knot of Meg’s friends from school who waved back.
“Thank you,” Meg said. Right now, she needed all the friends she could get.
Sallie-May shook out a white glove. “Lord knows, there’re a few men I’d like to sue. Is he taking on new clients, do you know?”
“Who? Mr. Barnes?”
“No, silly. Mr. Garrison.”
“I have no idea,” Meg said. Just then, she spotted the newspaper editor, Mr. Buckham, heading her way. He looked like a hound sniffing out fresh meat.
Meg held nothing but contempt for the man, and for good reason. The editor avoided facts like a boy avoided soap. Such was his imagination that every newsworthy event read like a piece of yellow journalism, even something as innocuous as a cat in a tree. Meg shuddered to think what lamentable press was in store for the trial.
“I better go,” Meg said. “Talk to you later.”
In an effort to escape, she quickly ducked into the courtroom and bumped headlong into Mr. Garrison.
She dropped her purse, and the gun shot across the floor, spun around like a bottle in a kissing game, and stopped. As luck would have it, the muzzle pointed directly at the toes of the lawyer’s shoes.
“Oh!” Meg took a step back. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. She’d thought she was ready for today, but the mere sight of Tommy’s lawyer made her feel like a bumbling schoolgirl.
Mr. Garrison picked the weapon off the floor with his thumb and forefinger and examined it before handing it to her grip first. “I see that you came armed. Does that mean you aren’t willing to let justice run its course?”
“Oh, I’m willing, Mr. Garrison. I just want to make sure that it does.”
“I see,” he said, his tone coolly disapproving.
He swooped her purse off the floor and handed it to her, his gaze never leaving her face.
“Much obliged.” She dropped the weapon into her purse’s satiny depths. “I also thank you for the other day.”
“The other day?”
“I understand you informed my father of my”—she searched for an appropriate way to soften her shameful incarceration—“predicament.”
“I thought he should know.” Mr. Garrison held her gaze. “I trust your…predicament didn’t cause you any inconvenience.”
“It did not.” She studied him. “Are you planning to use my jail time against me in court?” Her father was convinced that Tommy’s lawyer would.
Mr. Garrison arched a brow. “Should I?”
“A gentleman would not.”
“Perhaps, but a lawyer wouldn’t hesitate if he thought it would help his client.” He slanted his head. “You did say that I could be as rough with you as I like. On the stand, that is.”
“Yes, but only because I believed you were indeed a gentleman.”
“Don’t feel bad, Miss Lockwood. I made a similar error in thinking ladies didn’t end up in jail for assault. Or carry guns on their persons.”
She lifted her chin, conveying more confidence than she felt. How could a small-town girl like her expect to hold her own against a sophisticated man like him? “Let that be a warning, Mr. Garrison.”
He afforded her a brief flash of a crooked smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” With a sweep of his arm, he stepped aside to let her pass. “Have a good day.”
Not missing the irony, Meg gave her head a slight toss. “You too, Mr. Garrison. You too.”
*
The courtroom was packed and the air as heavy as wet wool. The building had previously been used as a schoolhouse, but only two things
remained from its former function: the bell tower on top of the building and the blackboard on the wall behind the judge’s bench.
A railing served as the bar separating the defense’s side from the plaintiff’s. The court recorder sat hunched over a small desk in front of the bench, his spectacles clinging to the tip of his nose.
To the right of the blackboard stood a flagpole displaying the American flag with its thirty-eight stars. On the opposite side hung the Lone Star flag of Texas.
Meg took her place at the plaintiff table between her father and Mr. Barnes. Though she’d taken pains with her appearance, her bright-red skirt seemed wrong for the seriousness of the occasion. She had never been in a courtroom and hadn’t known what to expect. She just wanted the trial to be over quickly with a minimum of pain or embarrassment.
Her father nudged her arm. “Look at that.” He pointed to the display of hourglasses on the judge’s bench. “I ask you, what kind of man still keeps time with an hourglass?”
“Maybe he just collects them, Papa.”
“Hmm. Maybe I should give him a watch.”
“Not a good idea. That would look like you’re bribing the judge—”
“Bribing the judge?” her father exclaimed, his voice rolling like thunder from the front of the courtroom to the back. All eyes turned to him, including the bailiff’s.
Barnes frowned, his forehead creased all the way to his bare head. Before he could caution her father to keep his voice down, Meg had already tugged on his arm.
“Shh, Papa.”
Tommy sat at the defense table across the aisle, but it was his lawyer who commanded everyone’s attention. Mr. Garrison had dressed for court in a dark coat and striped trousers, and his unfeigned confidence and dash of arrogance left a strong impression. He looked far more polished and capable than Barnes, and Meg’s heart sank. If the case was judged on appearances alone, Garrison would win hands down.
Tommy was dressed more casually, but apparently his lawyer had insisted he exchange his usual overalls for conservative trousers, a boiled shirt, and a bow tie. Even his normally unruly red hair had been combed back neatly and plastered down.
He didn’t so much as glance at Meg, but Mr. Garrison certainly did and made no bones about it. Then he did the most unbelievable thing imaginable—he winked!
Left at the Altar Page 11
