Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  Meg had been only two when her father went to war and was nearly six when he returned. She remembered the first time the Lockwood bell rang and how she thought it was the most amazing sound in the world. She also recalled the tears in her mother’s eyes. It was the first time Meg understood that tears could be shed for joy as well as sorrow, though nothing good that happened to her had ever made her cry.

  Her father paused for a moment to adjust another clock. “Mine was the first bell in town after the war. We rang the bell for soldiers who returned and soldiers lost. The chime of clocks and ringing of bells that you find so objectionable brought people together then, and they bring people together now.”

  “And your ridiculous feud with Mr. Farrell is what tears them apart!”

  Her father’s hand froze on a regulator clock. “That’s Farrell’s fault. Not mine.”

  Shaking now, she fought for control. “Tommy told me his father wanted to go into business with you after the war, but you refused.”

  “Why do you keep harping on this, Meg?” He gazed at her over his shoulder. “Hmm?”

  “Why do you keep refusing to answer my questions?”

  “Questions, questions.” Her father tugged on the chains of the grandfather clock. “What time is it when ten dogs run after one cat?”

  Teeth gritted, she seethed. As a child she’d fallen for her father’s distracting tricks, but those days were long gone. “I don’t know, Papa, and I don’t care.”

  “Ten to one.”

  A footfall sounded, and Mama swept into the room. She took one look at Papa and then turned to Meg. “Is everything all right?”

  “No, Mama. It’s not all right.” Meg turned and fled from the room. Things would never be all right, not ever again.

  *

  Less than a week later, on New Year’s Eve, Josie saw Meg to the door. “Must you leave so early?” she asked, her forehead lined with worry. The chimes of the gold clock on the mantel rang out. It was only thirty minutes to midnight.

  “Can’t you at least stay to ring in the new year?”

  Meg pulled her cloak around her shoulders and tied the ribbon beneath her chin. “I’m sorry. I’m just not in the mood to celebrate tonight.”

  It had been hard enough to get through Christmas, but nothing compared to the depression that weighed her down now. Her sisters were so certain that ’81 would be better than the last year, but Meg was less optimistic. It was hard to think much past the reading of the verdict next week. However the judge ruled, there would be no winners, only losers.

  “I don’t want to spoil your fun,” she said.

  Josie’s expression softened. “You could never do that.”

  Meg forced a smile. She didn’t want her sister to worry. “It’s better this way.”

  “At least let Ralph walk you home.”

  She glanced at Ralph and Amanda sitting in front of a blazing-hot fire, playing cribbage. She didn’t want him out in the cold night.

  “No need. I’ll be fine,” she said, her confident voice belying her anxiety. Since being accosted by that inebriated man, walking alone made her nervous, especially at night. The gun in her cloak pocket gave her small comfort. Could she use it if she had to?

  “Happy New Year,” she called and stepped outside.

  The night was cool and clear and the sky bright with stars. Her breath came out in white plumes. After giving her sister a final wave good-bye, she shoved her hands into the cloak’s deep pockets for warmth.

  With a heavyhearted sigh, she started for home.

  Laughter wafted from a nearby house, along with snatches of a song. Someone was playing “Auld Lang Syne” on a piano, and in the distance she could hear the high-pitched sound of a fiddle. Someone anxious for the new year to start set off a firecracker. A bright light flashed overhead, followed by a loud boom that set off a chorus of barking dogs.

  The whole world seemed to be in a partying mood. Never had Meg felt so utterly alone, and her feet dragged as if attached to a ball and chain.

  Halfway down the block, a tall form stepped out of the shadows. Halting in her tracks, she slipped her hand into the cloak’s deep pocket where she kept her gun.

  “W-who’s there?” she called.

  *

  “Miss Lockwood, is that you?”

  Relief whooshed out of her, and she pulled her hand out of her pocket. She’d recognize that strong baritone voice anywhere.

  “Mr. Garrison!”

  She hadn’t seen him since the day he questioned her in court. He had only been doing his job, and she tried not holding that against him, but it was hard. Especially tonight when she felt so emotionally vulnerable. He knew things about her that few people knew, and worse yet, all unknowingly, he made her feel and think things that shook her to the core.

  “What…what are you doing here?” Somehow she managed to conceal her mixed emotions behind a calm voice.

  “I live here,” he answered, moving into the amber circle cast by the gas streetlight. She glanced at the imposing house behind him. It was the only structure on the block not blazing with light. “You live at Mrs. Abbott’s boardinghouse?” Why on earth? There were other boardinghouses on the street with less scandalous pasts.

  As if reading her mind, he flashed a smile. “Worried about my virtue, are you?”

  Feeling her face grow warm, she was grateful for the dim light. “Certainly not. I was just…wondering why you aren’t throwing your hat over the windmill like everyone else.”

  He tilted his head. “You’re not. Is your father—”

  “He’s fine health-wise. I’m just not in a celebratory mood.”

  “Guess that makes two of us.”

  She studied him. Rather than hide his good looks, the dim yellow light emphasized his fine chiseled chin and handsome broad forehead.

  “Why is that, Mr. Garrison?”

  “Grant,” he said.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “The trial’s over except for the verdict. We can stop with the formalities.” When she failed to respond, he added, “You aren’t still harboring ill feelings toward me, are you? For what happened in court? I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

  “Rough enough,” she said.

  “I only did what I had to do.”

  She bit her lip. She had every reason to be wary of him. Still, tonight she was in desperate need of someone to talk to, even one as suspect as him.

  “In that case, you can call me Meg.”

  “Meg.” He made her name sound more prominent, more significant than it really was.

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re not out celebrating,” she said. A handsome man like him wouldn’t have any trouble attracting female companionship. It was a wonder that Sallie-May hadn’t charmed him yet. She must be losing her touch.

  “I guess you could say I miss home and spending the holidays with my family back in Boston. Normally at this time of year, there’s snow on the ground. I miss that too.”

  Meg shot him a puzzled glance. What an odd thing to say. It had only snowed once in Two-Time that she recalled, and it had created a horrible, sludgy mess that took days to clear away. It was hard to imagine anyone missing snow.

  “I’ve never been outside Texas,” she said. Was that the source of her recent discontent? “Do you think I would like Boston?”

  Elbow on his crossed arm, he tapped his chin. “I’m afraid Boston would be too confining for you. The ladies there spend most of their time at tea parties and quilting bees. You’d probably be bored to death.”

  Surprised that he knew that about her, she studied him a moment before asking, “What family do you have there?”

  “Three brothers, two sisters, and more nieces and nephews than I can count.”

  “Yet, you came here to be with another sister.”

  “Mary was my twin. Unfortunately, by the time I got here…” A muscle clenched at his jaw. “I spent Christmas with my sister’s husband and three children. This was a hard year
for them. For all of us.”

  “It must have been,” Meg said, wishing she could think of something to say to ease the pain so evident in his voice.

  “Perhaps I should have studied medicine. Maybe then I could figure out a way to keep women from dying in childbirth.” His voice was thick, as if coming from the deepest part of him.

  His grief was like a magnet, drawing her hand to his arm. It was a bold gesture for a woman to make, but it felt as normal and right as reaching out to a child.

  “How old are the children?” she asked.

  “Jason’s nine, Michael’s six, and the youngest, Jennifer, is four.”

  Meg sucked in her breath. “I’m so sorry.” It was hard to imagine losing one’s mother so young.

  Grant covered her hand with his own, the warmth traveling up her arm. “They say time heals all wounds, but they never say how much time it takes.”

  She pulled her hand away, but only because his touch was doing strange things to her. “My mother said that each heart has its own clock.”

  He tilted his head. “If that’s true, I think mine must have stopped the day I learned of my sister’s death.”

  Meg let his words hang for a moment before asking, “What was she like? Your sister?”

  Grant gave her an odd look, and she feared having overstepped her boundaries.

  “You’re the first one to ask me that,” he said. “Thank you.” She heard his intake of breath. “Most people quickly change subjects upon learning of my loss.”

  Not sure what to make of this unpredictable man, Meg gazed up at him while he spoke lovingly about his sister and growing up together in Boston.

  “She was funny and clever.” He chuckled before adding, “Come to think of it, she would have probably given that dogcatcher a bad time too.”

  “I wish we could have met. I know I would have liked her.”

  Grant nodded. “My sister had a difficult pregnancy and wasn’t able to spend much time in town. She still wrote glowing letters about Two-Time. Talked me into coming here. Said it would be the perfect place to practice law.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I’ll be hanged if I can figure out what she found to like. Never have I looked so far to see so little.”

  Meg laughed. “Texas takes some getting used to,” she said. “But it has a big heart. You just have to know where to look.”

  He angled his head. “So tell me, what would I see if I did know where to look?”

  She thought for a moment. “In the spring, you’d see fields of bluebonnets blooming upon the rolling hills. You’d also see buffalo with orange calves and—”

  “Orange?”

  “That’s what color buffalo are at birth.”

  “Ah.” He tilted his head. “And in the summer? What would I see then?”

  Meg told him about her favorite swimming hole and the Independence Day dance at the Lazy M ranch. “In the fall, you’d see maple trees dressed in red and gold. And, oh yes, purple skies.”

  “Is that what you think my sister liked so much about Texas?” he asked. “Orange calves and purple skies?”

  “I reckon she liked those just fine, but I’d bet my boots it was the people she liked best.”

  Grant arched an eyebrow. “Would those be the feuding, opinionated people? Or the gun-toting people with short fuses?”

  She laughed.

  He gave her a crooked smile. “What’s so funny?”

  “Folks ’round here would be surprised to hear you describe them that way.”

  “Oh? And how would you describe them?”

  Meg thought for a moment. “I’d say we’re an independent lot with strong beliefs and hearts as wide and deep as the ocean. Actually, the name Texas is from an Indian word meaning friends.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “Are you sure it doesn’t mean feuds?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure it’s friends,” she said. “Maybe one day you’ll come to see us as we really are.”

  Grant opened his mouth to say something but then stopped, his head tilted toward the sound of bells pealing out the hour of midnight—Lockwood time.

  She’d offered to ring the bells so that her father wouldn’t have to, but he would have none of it. He’d rung in the new year for more than fifteen years and had no intention of stopping now, bad heart or not.

  Fireworks lit up the sky, and the sharp, popping sounds of gunfire rattled the air.

  “Happy New Year, Meg,” Grant said.

  She smiled up at him, amazed to discover her depression gone. Also gone was her earlier reserve. “Happy New Year, Grant.”

  He stepped away from the lamppost, and she caught the sweet fragrance of bay-rum hair tonic. “I don’t know how it’s done here, but in Boston, if you don’t kiss someone at midnight, it means a year of loneliness ahead. Would you mind if I kiss you?”

  Twenty-two

  Meg stared up at him. He wanted to kiss her?

  “On the cheek,” he explained.

  Her pulse quickened, and she swallowed hard. “Th-that would be fine,” she stammered. If a single kiss was thought to ward off loneliness, who was she to argue?

  Grant moved his hands to her waist, and she angled her face to the side. Just before his lips touched her cheek, she changed her mind and turned her head to tell him as much.

  “I don’t think—”

  Her words were crushed the moment his mouth found hers, the tolling bell and booming skyrockets urging them on like the crack of a whip on a team of horses.

  The warmth of his lips quickly melted the last of her resistance, and warm currents rushed all the way down to her toes. A knot of shivery feelings exploded inside, matching the fireworks overhead and shattering her calm.

  The hands at her waist were firm, his mouth insistent. Fingers pressed against his chest, she absorbed the impact of his hard muscles through her palms.

  Feeling suddenly emboldened, she rose on tiptoes and slipped her hands up his chest and around his neck. Pulling him closer, she ran her fingers through his hair and met his kiss with equal ardor.

  Did this man ever know how to kiss! Even more shocking was her own eager response. Where had this new brazen and passionate self come from? They were both out of breath by the time he pulled away.

  She wasn’t sure when the actual bells stopped ringing, but the deep gongs still seemed to echo through the pounding of her heart.

  “I-I didn’t mean for that to happen.” His whispered voice caressed the shell of her ear like velvet, sending warm shivers down her neck. “I just meant to kiss you on the cheek. Honest.”

  “Perhaps an anatomy lesson is in order,” she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion.

  He laughed, breaking the tension between them, and moved his hands away from her waist. “I told you I should have studied medicine.”

  They stood staring at each other for a moment before looking away, she to gaze at the smoke veiling the stars, he to pull out his watch. Holding it to the light, he thumbed the case open.

  “We have exactly thirty-eight minutes till midnight strikes again.” Snapping the lid shut, he slipped the watch back into his vest pocket. His heated gaze locked with hers. “So what do you say about celebrating New Year’s with me a second time?” His voice was husky and, more than anything, persuasive.

  Her mouth went dry. “A s-second time?”

  “If one kiss will ward off loneliness for the year, who’s to say what two would do?” When she hesitated, he added, “I think it only fair to warn you that next time I won’t be aiming for your cheek.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and her knees quivered. His eyes, his voice, his very essence beckoned. It was all she could do not to fly into his arms and start the second New Year early.

  Grant tilted his head. “So what do you say?”

  She wanted to say yes. Yes, I’ll celebrate a second New Year with you. But something held her back—a voice in her head. His voice. What about dancing, Miss Lockwood? Were you too heartbroken to dance?

/>   And what about kissing?

  She stepped back, a soft gasp escaping her parted lips. Had kissing her been a trick? Something to use against her? A way of persuading the judge to rule in his client’s favor?

  “I-I better go,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  He stepped forward, his hand extended as if he were asking her to dance. “Don’t go… If you prefer, we’ll just talk.”

  Meg’s heart knocked against her ribs. She wanted so much to stay—and not just to talk. She wanted to feel his lips again. To feel his closeness. To feel his heart beating next to hers as if they beat as one.

  If only the voice in her head would go away. And what about kissing, Miss Lockwood? Were you too heartbroken to kiss?

  “I-I have to go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She wasn’t sure of anything. Certainly not his motives. At the moment, she wasn’t even sure of her own feelings. “Yes.”

  “I’ll walk you home—”

  “No!” She shook her head and backed away. She didn’t trust herself with him another moment. “No need.” She turned and fled, her feet pounding the hard-packed ground and tears of confusion blurring her vision.

  *

  Grant called after her. “Meg, wait.”

  Even as he called her name, his mind was in a whirl. What in blazes just happened? What had come over him? And why did she run away?

  Had he been too forward? Too pushy? Too presumptuous?

  It wasn’t like him to lose control. He’d only meant to give her a genial peck on the cheek. A friendly gesture between two lonely souls on a night when everyone else seemed to be having a good time.

  Never had he intended to kiss her full on the lips. He could still smell the fragrance of her hair, her skin. Feel the softness of her breath. Recall in stunning detail the way she’d responded to him. The way she’d kissed him back…

  He grimaced. What was wrong with him? Where was his head? It wasn’t like he was new at this sort of thing. There’d been women in the past. Several in fact, thanks to his matchmaking mother and sisters. But none had been as intriguing as Meg, or as tempting. And none had made him break his previously rock-solid rule against mixing business with pleasure.