Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  “For the love of…”

  While Meg and Papa stood arguing, the organist played louder, as if trying to drown out their escalating voices. Wedding guests craned their necks, and a buzz of whispers rippled from the front of the chapel to the back.

  What is it? What could be wrong?

  Josie and Amanda, standing on either side of Tommy, glanced at each other and shrugged. Seated in a front pew, Mama whispered something to Ralph. Finally, the minister hurried up the aisle to see what was causing the delay.

  Reverend Wellmaker’s eyes looked grave behind his spectacles. “Is there a problem?”

  “My daughter wishes to speak to her fiancé,” Papa explained, his tone edged in exasperation.

  The minister’s eyebrows knitted. “Now?”

  “Yes, now,” Papa said, forgetting to lower his voice.

  The preacher looked a bit startled but nodded. “Very well.” He motioned for the anxious-looking bridegroom to join them.

  Tommy hurried up the aisle. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  Meg resisted the urge to straighten his crooked bow tie. “I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing,” she said, keeping her voice low so the guests couldn’t hear.

  He grimaced as if in pain. “You know I have to marry you. The judge—”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “I know, but it’s not just the money. You know everyone is dependin’ on us to end that stupid feud. If we don’t get married, the town will always be divided by time, and you know what a mess that is.”

  Meg curled her hands by her side. He’d only confirmed what she already knew; there was no way out. “It’s just that…you want to do other things, and so do I.”

  “Are you saying you don’t want to marry me?” he asked, forgetting to whisper.

  His shocked reaction surprised her. Apparently, he’d forgotten that the whole mess started because he didn’t want to wed her.

  “Is that what you mean?” he asked when she failed to answer.

  Meg reminded him to keep his voice down with a quick glance at the curious onlookers.

  Oh God, she mustn’t think of Grant. Not now. Not ever. “But of course I’ll marry you,” she said too quickly and looked away.

  He hesitated. “Meg, I know this has been really hard on you. I’ll make it up to you, I swear—”

  Tommy’s father shot up from the front pew. “What’s going on?” he demanded, storming up the aisle toward them.

  The organist stopped playing, and all eyes were fixed on the little knot of people in the center aisle.

  Papa glared at Farrell. “My daughter has something she wants to say to Tommy.”

  Farrell glowered back. “This better not be one of your tricks, Lockwood. You made a deal, and I expect you to stick to it.”

  Papa’s face flushed furiously. “This is between the bride and groom, so don’t go dragging your lariat where it don’t belong.”

  Mr. Farrell’s nose was practically on Papa’s chin, his balding head shaking with righteous indignation. “I’ll put my lariat any danged place I please. And furthermore—”

  Tempers rose along with heated voices. Meg tugged on her father’s coat. “Papa, please!”

  Oh dear goodness! What had she done?

  Mama raced up the aisle, followed by Josie and Amanda.

  “Henry!”

  With Josie’s help, Amanda tried pulling Papa away. Refusing to budge, Papa and Farrell continued to spew insults as if competing in a one-upmanship contest.

  “You’re nothing but a dang—”

  “Why, you—”

  Mr. Farrell advanced. Tommy grabbed his father’s arm, but it was too late. Mr. Farrell’s fist shot out, missing Papa by a mile and Reverend Wellmaker by mere inches.

  Papa staggered backward, a surprised look on his face.

  Meg covered her mouth in horror and turned to her brother-in-law. “Please make them stop.”

  Affording her a sympathetic look, Ralph laid a firm hand on Papa’s shoulder. “Let’s all go outside and discuss this calmly…”

  His unruffled manner and reasonable voice was no match for the years of pent-up emotions that had suddenly come unleashed. Paying him no heed, Papa pulled away and barreled toward Farrell headfirst.

  The moment Papa made contact, the wind whooshed out of Farrell. “Oomph!” The two of them fell to the floor in a hopeless tangle.

  “Oh no!” Meg cried. She grabbed hold of Tommy’s arm. “Do something. Make them stop!”

  Before Tommy had a chance to act, a loud boom shook the building to its foundation. The explosive sound rattled the stained glass windows, and a gas light fixture crashed to the floor.

  Panic filled the church. Women screamed, and some guests fell to their knees in prayer. Others scrambled to climb over pews and each other.

  Ralph whirled around to face the double doors in back, along with several other men. “Sounds like it came from the train depot.”

  Meg’s heart flew to her throat. Oh no! Grant…

  Dropping her bouquet, she ripped off her veil and joined the throng racing out of the church.

  Twenty-nine

  Unbelievable chaos greeted Meg and the others at the train depot. People ran in every direction, doctors carrying black bags converging on the center of the mess.

  Eyes burning from the smoke, Meg stared at the tangled mass of steel in horror. Two trains had collided, one rear-ending the other. The first locomotive remained upright, but several carriages tilted at sharp angles. The back of the train, including the caboose, coiled around itself like a snake about to strike.

  The second train had fared worse. The engine lay completely on its side, and the rest of the train fanned into a tangled heap parallel to the twisted tracks. Smoke poured out of its collapsed smokestack, and men rushed by with buckets of water.

  “Grant!” Meg picked her way through the confusion, stepping over pieces of steel and broken glass. Steam blasted out of a toppled black dome. Already, dazed passengers were being pulled out of the wreckage. Some victims were able to walk; others had to be carried out. Many had head injuries, while several had bloody arms and other wounds. One poor man’s leg was bent into an L shape.

  Shouts rang out. “Over here! Over here.”

  Children’s cries mingled with the excited voices of rescuers and the hollow groans of the injured.

  “The train came too early,” someone shouted.

  “No, the other one left too late.”

  Seeing Grant sitting on the side holding his head, Meg let out a cry of relief and ran to him, calling his name.

  But the man looking up at her wasn’t Grant. Didn’t even look like him. He was much older and had a full beard. He clutched at her satin skirt, leaving a smear of blood behind. A wide gash gaped open across his forehead.

  Meg looked for someone to help him, but the rescuers were all occupied elsewhere. Forcing herself to remain calm, she glanced around for something to stem the flow of blood. Unable to find anything, she tried tearing a piece of fabric from her wedding gown, but it wouldn’t give. She had better luck tearing a square of cotton off her petticoat.

  Ever so gently, she pressed it against the man’s head. “Hold this,” she said.

  Eyes glazed, he lifted his hand to the soft fabric.

  After making him as comfortable as possible, Meg stared at the horror around her. It was a nightmare, like a war zone.

  “Help me, miss,” someone called. It was an elderly man with blood-soaked trousers.

  Meg dropped to her knees by his side. “Do you have a knife?”

  He gave a weak nod of the head. “Boot.”

  His knife was what was commonly called an Arkansas toothpick. Gripping it in her hand, she carefully cut away his trouser leg, revealing a deep gash. He was losing a lot of blood, so she cut a thin strip of fabric from her petticoat and tied it high around his leg as a tourniquet.

  Spotting a doctor, she waved him over. “We need you over here.”<
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  One by one, she helped make dazed and wounded passengers as comfortable as possible. She calmed small children and their traumatized parents. She cut bandages and tourniquets from her petticoat with the knife and, when she ran out of fabric, started on her wedding dress. Soon her skirt hung about her in tatters, the bodice smeared with blood. Still, she kept going while she searched the crowd for Grant. But there were too many people and too much confusion to see beyond a few feet.

  Somewhere she’d lost a satin slipper and didn’t even know it until she stubbed her toe.

  “Meg, over here!” Amanda called, waving both hands above her head. She and Josie were frantically helping a young woman heavy with child.

  “I think the baby is coming,” Amanda cried. The woman’s anguished face confirmed it.

  Meg felt a moment of panic. She knew nothing about birthing, and neither did her sisters. “I’ll fetch a doctor.”

  She hastened away. The entire town seemed to have turned out to help. Friends, neighbors, and enemies worked side by side. She caught a glimpse of Tommy and his pa atop a carriage car lying on its side, struggling to pull an injured man out of a train window.

  The doctors were all occupied with the injured and too busy to respond to her pleas for help. Finally, Meg spotted Mrs. Connor, the town midwife, rocking a crying baby.

  Jostling through the crowd, she reached the woman’s side. “Please,” she shouted to be heard above the infant’s wails. “There’s a woman about to give birth. Over there by the baggage room.”

  Mrs. Connor shoved the baby into Meg’s arms and hurried away.

  Meg looked down at the tiny red face. Girl or boy? She couldn’t tell. “Where’s your mama, eh?” She placed the infant on her shoulder. Rocking the child back and forth, she talked in a soothing voice. The infant stopped crying and fell asleep.

  Sometime later, a woman’s shouts reached Meg’s ears. “Where’s my baby! Anyone seen my baby?”

  The woman was pretty badly bruised, with one leg in a splint, but when Meg gently placed the child in her arms, she managed a cry of pure joy.

  “Thank you, thank you,” the woman whispered in an emotional voice and promptly burst into tears. “Thank you.”

  Leaving mother and child, Meg turned just as a doctor finished putting a victim’s arm in a splint. Only the top of the man’s head was visible, but the sight of blond hair was enough to tell her it wasn’t Grant.

  The smell of oil, coal, and creosote ties made Meg feel dizzy, and her stomach churned. The early throes of panic that had swept the station had now given way to confusion.

  Hours passed. Dusk fell, and the cool air turned frigid. A wagonload of blankets arrived, and Meg gathered an armful to distribute to the victims, saving a couple for the woman in labor.

  When it looked as if that time had arrived, Meg and Amanda held up a blanket to provide a measure of privacy for the expectant mother while Josie assisted the midwife.

  “Push,” Mrs. Connor ordered. Amazingly she was able to stay calm, as if delivering a baby under such dire circumstances was a normal occurrence.

  The young woman’s screams could be heard over the shouts of rescue workers, sending chills down Meg’s back. Nearby, the woman’s injured husband struggled to sit up, and Meg rushed to his side. The young father’s leg was wrapped in a blood-soaked kerchief. He looked in worse condition than his laboring wife. His face was pale, and his eyes were round in fear.

  “Is she gonna—”

  Meg assured him with a nod and a smile. “She’s in good hands.”

  After what seemed like forever but was really only minutes, Mrs. Connor sang out, “You have a baby boy.” The happy news was followed by a baby’s thin cry, which brought smiles all around.

  “A son?” The father looked like he never heard of such a thing.

  “Yes, yes,” Meg assured him. “You have a beautiful son.”

  Tears filled his eyes. “Is…is he all right?”

  Meg laughed. “I’d say anyone with lungs like that is more than all right.”

  The father’s wide smile warmed Meg’s heart. “Well now…”

  While the midwife attended the needs of the child’s weary mother, Josie wrapped the infant in a blanket and placed the small bundle in his father’s arms.

  Meg watched with a worried frown. Josie’s and Ralph’s three-year marriage had failed to produce a child, but nothing in her sister’s manner suggested anything but delight for the young couple. Josie’s ability to put her own feelings aside to embrace another’s happiness was something to be envied.

  Meg stared at father and son through misty eyes. Their new connection was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. Even Amanda had a suspicious gleam in her eyes. Never had Meg seen her younger sister look so fiercely engrossed without holding a picket sign.

  Since Mrs. Connor had everything under control, Meg walked the length of the depot, winding around the wounded and dodging carts and workers, stopping to help anyone in need. The whole time she worked, her eyes, her heart, her soul searched for Grant.

  God, where is he? She’d seen many miracles here today. Was it too much to hope for yet another?

  Thirty

  Meg couldn’t remember ever feeling so exhausted. Her muscles were sore from helping to lift the injured into wagons. Her eyes watered from the smell of smoke and heated steel. She was cold, so very, very cold, her fingers frozen to the bone.

  Her wedding gown was completely ruined. Not only was it ripped to shreds, but it was also splattered with blood. Even Mama’s expert sewing skills couldn’t repair the damage this time. Several inches of fabric were missing from her hem. The bow from the top of her bustle had been made into a splint for a young man’s injured leg. The sleeves of her dress had become bandages.

  Shivering, she blew on her hands, praying she’d find Grant at last. And then she saw him on the other side of the depot. Just like that, her misery disappeared.

  All at once, she was moving, her frozen feet barely skimming the wooden platform. She called his name and he turned, his face seeming to light up at the sight of her. Or maybe it was just a trick of the eye.

  She was tempted, so tempted, to toss propriety to the wind and throw her arms around him. Instead, she touched his bloodied hand. He was coatless, his shirt splattered with blood and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “No.” His fingers encircled her wrists, stopping her probing search for his injury. “I wasn’t on the train.”

  She gazed up at him, her heart so full of relief and thanksgiving that she thought it would burst. “What?”

  “It’s not my blood. I wasn’t on the train—”

  A million questions flitted through her mind, but before she could get the words out, a male voice called, “We need help!”

  Grant glanced over his shoulder. “Be right there.” He turned back to her, his face suffused with concern. “Your dress…”

  Suddenly aware that his fingers were still pressing into her flesh, she pulled her hand away. Blushing beneath his steady gaze, she lowered her eyes.

  “I-I must look dreadful.”

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she regretted them. How could she worry about appearances when so many people were hurting? Nevertheless, she reached up to smooth her hair. The pins had fallen out, and locks tumbled down her back in tangled curls.

  “You look—” He wagged his head as if shaking away whatever he had been about to say. “You’re cold,” he said instead, his voice husky.

  Arms crossed in front, Meg hugged herself to ward off the chill. “It doesn’t matter.” Knowing he wasn’t injured put her mind at rest so she could concentrate fully on the wounded passengers.

  “Here.” Grant pulled off his vest and wrapped it around her shoulders. “It’s not much, but every little bit helps.”

  “Thank you.” The manly smell of bay-rum hair tonic, sweat, and leather all but erased the metallic odor of blood. But it was the
warmth left by his body that made her limbs tremble and her emotional barriers waver.

  “Meg…” His gaze clung to her face. “Your wedding day. It was ruined…”

  The reminder of his courtroom trick slammed into her, and she sucked in her breath. There wouldn’t have been a wedding had he not done what he did, told Tommy what he had. Hurt unlike anything she’d ever known threatened to overwhelm her. Balling her hands into fists by her sides, she fought for control. This was neither the time nor the place to vent such thoughts.

  “Go,” she said, her muffled pain sounding like bitterness. “They need you.”

  Grant tilted his head in a frown. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Refusing to give in to tears, she looked away. “Just go.”

  He hesitated for a moment before vanishing into the milling crowd.

  *

  Meg immediately recognized the young boy lying on the platform, and the shock of icy fear gripped her. Dropping to his side, she shook him gently on the shoulder.

  “Tucker,” she cried. “Tucker, wake up!”

  He was one of the injured still waiting for medical attention. He wore no coat and only a thin shirt.

  She shook him again, and this time, his eyes fluttered open. Air rushed out of her lungs. He was still alive. Thank God. He’d lain so still and looked so pale that for a moment she thought…

  She pushed his hair away from his face and felt a lump on his forehead.

  His newspaper bag was still slung across his body. It was common practice for local newsboys to sell papers on trains during depot stops.

  Ever so carefully, Meg lifted the canvas bag over his head and pulled out a single newspaper, all he had left. She then folded the bag to make a pillow for his head.

  “There you go. How’s that?”

  Tucker’s eyelids drifted downward.

  She glanced around, hoping to spot someone passing out blankets, but no such luck. Some of the poorer families in town placed newspapers in shoes and coat linings for warmth, and this gave her an idea. Spreading the newspaper over him, she tucked the ends beneath his small, still frame. She pulled the vest from her shoulder and placed it over the newspaper.