He let out a sigh. “If there is, let’s hope my lawyer finds it. But I have to be honest. It don’t look good.”
The mere mention of Grant made her ache inside, and she looked away. How she hated her traitorous heart, hated feeling so out of control. Why couldn’t she love the man she wanted to love? Why did her heart dictate that she had to love another?
For the longest while, neither of them spoke, each lost in their private thoughts.
Tommy broke the silence. “If I go to jail, will you visit me?”
“Of course I will,” she said. “I’ll even sneak a file to you.”
He laughed. “’Member the time I had to stay after school for truancy? You released a mouse in the classroom so that I could catch it and look like a hero in the teacher’s eyes.”
Meg did remember. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, and I never had to stay after school again after that.”
“No, and the other kids were mad because you practically got away with murder.”
The memory made her feel worse, because it only reminded her of the close friendship they’d shared through the years and had almost ruined with two ill-advised weddings.
“Papa sure did make a mess of things, didn’t he?”
“Not just your pa. Mine too,” Tommy said. “I only wish I knew what started the feud in the first place.”
Not wanting to betray her father’s confidence, Meg hesitated. She and Tommy had discussed that issue numerous times, and he was just as puzzled as she had been. It didn’t seem right to keep what she now knew to herself. Their fathers’ feud had affected him every bit as much as it had affected her, and he deserved to know.
“Papa thought my mother and your father…”
Tommy stared at her in astonishment. “Are you sayin’…?”
She shook her head. “He was wrong. There was never anything between them. Pa knows that now.”
“But all these years—”
“I know, Tommy. I know. They were once good friends, just like you and me.”
“Swear that nothin’ like that will happen to us,” he said with earnest intent. “That we’ll always remain friends, no matter what.”
Managing a weak smile, Meg patted him on the arm. “I promise.” She shivered in the damp night air. “I-I’d better go. It’s late, and we both need to get some sleep.” She climbed out of the wagon and dragged herself up the path to the porch.
“Meg,” he called, his voice a whip in the cold night air.
She turned. “What is it, Tommy?”
“You sure did make a fine-lookin’ bride.”
She smiled. “And you made a fine-looking groom.” With that, she turned and walked into the house.
Thirty-two
The morning following the train crash, Meg raced down the hall to Amanda’s room. Shoving her arms in the sleeves of her dressing gown, she grimaced with every move. Her muscles were sore, and it felt as if someone had stuck a knife in the small of her back. To top things off, she had a king-size headache. She’d hardly slept a wink, but her aching bones and sore muscles were the least of her worries. Every time she’d closed her eyes, the horrible images of the train wreck flashed into her head.
Not bothering to knock, she burst into the room. “Wake up, Mandy. We need to talk.”
Amanda lifted her head from the pillow and regarded Meg through buttonhole eyes.
Meg yanked open the draperies, and the early-morning light fell across the bed like a blazing sword.
Amanda groaned and reached for the mechanical clock on her bedside table, bringing it to her squinting eyes.
“It’s not even seven,” she said in a foggy voice. Amanda preferred nights to mornings.
“I know, but this is important.”
Replacing the clock, Amanda sat up and yawned. “It better be.” Her eyes widened as if something suddenly occurred to her. “Papa…?”
“He’s fine. At least health-wise, but Mama left.”
Amanda rubbed her forehead as if trying to make sense of Meg’s words. “What do you mean, left?”
“I mean she left Papa. She moved in with Josie and Ralph.”
Amanda blinked and suddenly looked wide awake. “But…but why?”
“Mama blames Papa for the train wreck.” Meg left out the part she had played in their parents’ problems. “It was a new engineer, and he got confused about the time.” According to the morning paper, his watch had stopped. When he asked a passenger for the time, he was given Farrell time instead of train time. “He was late leaving the depot.”
Amanda shook her head, and her tangled blond hair fell down her back. “I can’t believe it. I mean, Mama and Papa. They were meant to be together. Like…like oil and water.”
“Oil and water don’t mix,” Meg said, pulling the ties of her dressing gown together.
“You know what I mean.” Amanda threw back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. But we have to think of something.” She turned toward the door. “Get dressed, and we’ll see what Josie has to say.”
“What about you? Your wedding?”
Meg’s hand froze on the doorknob. Had it only been a day since that nightmare of a wedding? So much had happened since that it seemed like a lifetime ago.
“It’s over,” she said. “Tommy and I won’t be getting married.” She then left the room, her thoughts flying in a dozen different directions. What would happen to Mama and Papa? Tommy too? Would he really have to go to jail? If Grant had another rabbit in his hat, he better pull it out—fast!
*
Grant opened his eyes to a stream of sunlight and groaned. He felt like he’d been thrown from a horse and trampled. He couldn’t have hurt more if he’d actually been in that train wreck.
A half-dressed woman loomed over him. He rubbed the grit from his eyes and looked again. This time, the painting of Mrs. Abbott came into focus, releasing a flood of memories.
What seemed at first a nightmare had turned out to be true. The train crash. The injured. Meg…
He rubbed his bristled chin. His mouth was lined with cotton, and his head throbbed.
By the time he’d arrived at the boardinghouse, his landlady had already given his room to one of the train victims. She gave him a choice: bed down with her or take the brocaded sofa in the parlor. He picked the lesser of two evils. Though his aching back could probably argue the fact.
Grimacing, Grant stretched his cramped legs and almost knocked over a fringed lamp with his foot. He finally unwound himself enough to plant his feet on the floor. He reached into his carpetbag for a fresh pair of trousers and a clean shirt.
Hand on his back, he straightened his spine like an arthritic old man rising from a chair and then dressed.
No sooner had he buttoned his shirt than Mrs. Abbott entered the room, voice first. “Ah, you’re awake. Breakfast is almost ready. Would you like some hot coffee?”
“Yes, please.” His voice rattled in his throat. “The stronger, the better.”
Without bothering with shoes, socks, or combing his hair, he joined her in the dining room.
She tossed a nod toward the oak sideboard. “I emptied your pockets. Your clothes are soaking in a bucket of water, but I don’t know that we can get all that blood out.”
He glanced at his money clip, pocket watch, and unused train ticket. “Much obliged.”
He waited for Mrs. Abbott to fill his coffee cup before seating himself at the table. She tottered into the kitchen, her voice floating back to him.
“None of the other boarders have come down yet.”
The grandfather clock in the parlor told him it was a little after ten. On a normal weekday, most of the others would have left by now to open shops and other businesses, but no one got much sleep last night.
Realizing suddenly that his landlady was staring at him as if expecting him to say something, he nodded. “It’s just lucky no one died.”
; “I’ll say.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table opposite him. “It’s a cryin’ shame about the Lockwood weddin’ though.”
A stabbing pain shot through him. “You…you were there?”
“’Course I was. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. And I have to tell you, I never saw anything like it in my life.”
He took a long sip of coffee. He didn’t want to hear about Meg’s wedding. Didn’t want to think about it.
“Now the poor girl’s got to do it all over again.”
He lowered his cup. “Do what?”
“Why, get married of course.”
He froze. “Are you saying Farrell left her at the altar again?”
“Oh no, nothin’ like that. He was there all right. Lookin’ all spiffy and serious as a Baptist preacher. But…” She shrugged.
Grant set his cup on the saucer. “Go on.”
“When Miss Lockwood started down the aisle…” Mrs. Abbott clapped her hands to her chest. “I have to say, she was the most beautiful bride you ever set your eyes on. What a dress…”
She went into great detail describing the dress Grant was all too familiar with and forcing him to interrupt. “Are you saying that the train crash stopped the wedding?” He hated to be rude, but a man had only so much patience.
The question rendered her silent for a moment. “It wasn’t just the train crash. But not to worry. I’m sure they’ll have another weddin’. You know what they say? The third time’s the charm.”
Grant stared at her, not sure he’d heard right. “What do you mean it wasn’t just the train crash? Why didn’t they go through with the wedding?”
“I don’t rightly know. One minute she was walkin’ down the aisle…”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
“Then suddenly she stopped.”
Sitting forward, he grabbed hold of the table. “Why? What made her stop?”
“Beats me. All I know is that she and her pa started arguin’.” Mrs. Abbott rolled her eyes. “You won’t believe how they carried on. In church, no less. Mr. Farrell…” She shook her head.
For mercy’s sake, would she get on with it? “What about Mr. Farrell?”
“Why, he jumped into the fracas and so did the preacher. Have you ever heard anythin’ so shockin’ in your life? Before you knew it…” She rubbed her forehead as if the memory was too much for her to bear. “Haven’t seen a brawl like that since I was in my prime. You won’t believe the way men used to fight over me. I remember the time that this handsome Texas Ranger drifted into town… ’Course, back then, they didn’t call them Rangers. They called them minutemen or some such thin’. Anyway, as I was saying, this handsome man—”
“Let me get this straight. You’re saying that Miss Lockwood didn’t marry Mr. Farrell.”
Mrs. Abbott blinked. “How could she? Before the fight broke up, the train crashed.”
Grant sat back. His heart pounded, and hot blood shot through his veins. Meg isn’t married. It shouldn’t matter to him, but it did. It mattered more than words could say.
Meg isn’t married.
He jumped up and made a dash for the door.
“Aren’t you gonna to eat your breakfast?” Mrs. Abbott called after him.
He stormed outside without answering her.
Meg isn’t married…
*
Grant shot through the gate at the end of the walkway and barreled down the road. He stepped on a sharp rock and cursed himself for not putting on shoes and socks.
He hobbled past Mrs. Rockwell, who was dragging a chair across the street. Cowboy streaked by chasing Mr. Ferguson’s dog. Mr. Crawford hung out of his upstairs window shouting at his neighbor.
“Dad-blame it. Do you know what time it is? I’ll kill you dead. I swear I will!”
One would never guess that the two men had worked side by side the previous night in perfect harmony.
Grant made a beeline straight down the middle of the narrow lane. He didn’t even flinch when gunfire rent the air. Nor did he slow when Mr. Sloan crossed his path chasing the Johnson boy.
“You come back here, you young whippersnapper. Those are my carrots you stole…”
Reaching the end of the block, Grant jogged up the two steps leading to the Lockwood front porch and pounded on the door.
Seconds later, Meg opened the door and his already-racing heart skipped a beat.
“Grant.” Her luminous eyes rounded. “What…what are you doing here?”
After a halfhearted effort to tuck his shirt inside his trousers, he raked his hand through his hair but doubted it did any good. He looked anything but his usual conservative Boston lawyer self. He hadn’t even shaved, for crying out loud.
Meg glanced over her shoulder and stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She stood so close he could see the gold flecks at the tips of her lush eyelashes. She couldn’t possibly know what she was doing to him, how her nearness made his heart turn over and made every part of him ache to take her in his arms.
She was dressed in a floral print skirt and white lace shirtwaist tied at the neckline with a pretty blue bow, but she looked pale and distraught.
Alarmed, Grant stepped forward. Had she been crying? “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Just…a family problem,” she said, though her voice, her face, suggested much more. Her forehead creased, and her gaze dropped the length of him. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” No, nothing’s wrong. Not now that he knew she wasn’t wed. Except that I’m standing here in bare feet and feeling perfectly ridiculous. “I’m here on…on business.”
He couldn’t bring himself to tell her why he was really here. Not till he knew the full story. Knew why she had stopped her wedding, and if he had even the remotest chance of winning her heart.
She pulled her gaze away from his feet. “Business?”
Grant rubbed his bristly chin and groaned inwardly.
She moistened her lips. “Did anyone…” Her forehead furrowed. “Did everyone make it through the night?”
He nodded. “Far as I know.”
“That’s good news.” Meg pressed a hand to her chest. “You said you were here on business. Is it about Tommy?”
“Tommy?” It took a beat for him to remember who the heck Tommy was. “Oh, you mean Tommy Farrell.” His client. And the man she didn’t marry.
“None of what happened was his fault,” she said. “Surely the judge will take that into account.”
“Before I talk to the judge, I need to know what you plan to do.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry…”
Grant momentarily lost himself in the turquoise depths of her eyes. “When do you plan to reschedule your wedding?”
She shook her head. “It’s over. We won’t be getting married.”
His heart practically leaped out of his chest. “Why? Why won’t you marry him?” Is it because of me? Is it because our kiss still haunts you as it haunts me?
“Tommy has other things he wants to do, and so do I.”
He stepped forward. “Like what? What other things?”
“Just…things,” she said vaguely.
He stopped short of taking her in his arms, but only because a horse and wagon drove by. A man seen hugging an unmarried woman in broad daylight would appear ill-mannered, even by Texas standards, and wouldn’t the editor of the Two-Time Gazette have a field day with that! Grant could see the headline now: BAREFOOTED LAWYER ACCOSTS JILTED BRIDE.
Meg gave her head a slight toss. “So, you see, your plan didn’t work.”
“Plan?” He stared at her, trying to make sense of the hurt he heard in her voice and saw in her eyes. What plan? Before he could make sense of it, she confused him further by placing a beseeching hand on his arm.
“Please…you mustn’t let Tommy go to jail.” She pulled her hand away, leaving behind the burning memory of her touch. “I won’t marry him, and I don’t want his money.”
It shamed Grant to real
ize that he hadn’t given a thought to how her decision would affect his client. “I can probably talk the judge into giving Tommy more time to meet the demands of his sentence, but…I’m afraid that’s all I can do. Lynch’s mind is made up.”
He heard her intake of breath, but she said nothing.
“May I ask you something?”
Her chin inched up a notch. “Of course.”
“You said something in the cemetery…about New Year’s. That you almost came back to celebrate a second time.”
Her cheeks reddened, and she looked away. “I felt sorry for you. Your sister…and you being away from home and all.”
He stared at her, stunned. “You…you felt sorry for me?” Was that all it was? Pity?
There were many reasons for kissing someone, but pity had to be the least desirable.
Her gaze met his. “I can’t imagine being away from family,” she said. “Especially during the holidays.”
The dogcatcher’s wagon rumbled by. Another gunshot sounded. A dog barked. The earth continued to turn, and yet…it felt like the end of the world. His world.
“I better go.” He turned abruptly.
Meg called after him. “Please, Grant. Don’t let Tommy go to jail. I do love him, you know.”
With those crushing words ringing in his head, he stalked away.
*
Meg watched Grant stride down the middle of the street. Not even his unkempt appearance could hide his male appeal.
She should never have said she’d felt sorry for him. She knew it even before she saw the stricken look on his face. What she’d really wanted to say was that she’d felt the depth of his grief and loneliness that New Year’s Eve and had wanted to soothe his pain.
That was the God-honest truth as far as it went, but there was more. Much more. The moment their lips met, it was as if the whole world had been created for the sole purpose of bringing the two of them together.
But she couldn’t say that, not quite that way. It seemed too personal. Too intimate. Too close to the heart.
She forced herself to breathe, but it did nothing to relieve the pain. How was it possible to hurt so much without a physical wound? Nothing written in the Miss Lonely Hearts column compared with the misery that cloaked her like a shroud. This only added to her guilt.
Left at the Altar Page 21
