Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  He stared at her all funny-like. “Do you always cry when you’re happy?” he asked.

  “Nope. This is the first time.” And with that, the tears streamed freely down her cheeks.

  After a good cry on Grant’s shoulder, Meg returned his handkerchief. They stood only a foot apart, but even that short distance seemed too far.

  “I’m ready to dance now,” she said, feeling breathless with pleasure. Facing him, she dropped her arms to her sides.

  A brass horn joined the violins and guitars, and the music seemed especially sharp in the cool, clear air. Mariachi music was designed to celebrate the struggles and triumphs of the Mexican people, and tonight the music spoke to Meg’s heart in ways it never had before. It spoke of new beginnings.

  “I know my way around the dance floor in Boston,” Grant said, “but haven’t the slightest idea how to dance here.”

  “It’s easy,” Meg replied and demonstrated. Swaying her body from side to side, she hammered her heels into the hard-packed soil. Driven not by the music but the smoldering flames in his eyes, she felt as lighthearted as a butterfly.

  “Every time you strike with your feet, you must do a backswing like this,” she said.

  Grant was all arms, legs, and awkward moves. Soon they were both bent over in hysterics. Never could she remember having so much fun.

  Finally, after much trial and error, he pulled her into arms, locking her in his warm embrace. He then led her in a slow waltz, gently rocking her back and forth.

  Sallie-May giggled as she whirled by in the arms of her new beau, and Meg was happy for her. It was too early to tell, but it sure did look like Sallie-May had finally found herself a wealthy rancher.

  “I’m afraid this is more my style,” Grant whispered apologetically, giving Sallie-May and her partner a rueful look.

  “I like your style just fine,” Meg assured him and smiled.

  He grinned back. “Do you now?”

  Eventually the musicians drifted away, along with the crowd. Soon it was only the two of them. He led her in a slow dance down the middle of Main, accompanied by a big, bright moon peering through lacy clouds.

  Angry shouts wafted from a nearby saloon. The sheriff hauled a handcuffed man down the street toward the jailhouse. A group of rowdies roared out of town on horseback, shooting a barrage of bullets into the air. Madame Bubbles had a scream fest with one of her clients. Two dogs chased a cat into an alley. A drunk walked by, singing at the top of his lungs.

  “Glad to see things have returned to normal,” Grant teased. “I was afraid that Two-Time was becoming too civilized for my blood.”

  “No fear of that,” Meg replied. “We still know how to put on a good feud now and again.”

  At long last they stopped dancing, but Grant’s hands remained at her waist.

  He looked at his watch, and at the stroke of midnight, he asked, “Do you know what today is?”

  Head pressed on the strong expanse of his chest, she gave a happy sigh. “It’s the day Two-Time will become a one-time town,” she murmured.

  “It’s also January 29.”

  She looked up at him, not sure what he was saying. “Don’t tell me it’s your birthday.”

  “Nope. Better than that.” The moonlight had turned his eyes to gold. “I have it on good authority from my Chinese clients that today happens to be the start of the Chinese New Year.”

  Her heart pounded, and a rush of anticipation coursed through her. “Is…is that so?”

  “Yes, it’s so.” He grinned. “Happy New Year, Meg.”

  She grinned back. Well, what do you know? Two-Time would be a one-time town, but for tonight, it was celebrating the start of a new year twice.

  “Happy New Year, Grant.” She closed her eyes and puckered her lips.

  Laughing, he tightened his hold on her and gently cupped her face. “I like the way you Texas girls think.” He brushed his forehead against hers before capturing her mouth with heated lips.

  She kissed him back, wishing the moment could last forever. Papa would have a fit, of course. His negative opinion of lawyers in general and Grant in particular was secret to none. That would make this suitor even more objectionable than most.

  But tonight—tonight—she didn’t care. There would be time enough tomorrow to battle Papa. Tonight, it was all about love…

  Thirty-eight

  Two days later, Grant entered the jailhouse. “Got good news for you.” He stopped. Kidd was still in the cell that he had been occupying for some months now, and Meg’s sister Amanda was in the one next door.

  Grant doffed his hat. Here we go again. “What are you in for this time, Miss Lockwood?”

  “Voting in the election for mayor,” she said with an indignant toss of the head.

  “Ah.”

  “It’s not fair that only half of our citizens get to vote. The wrong half, I might add!”

  “Can’t argue with you there, ma’am.”

  Kidd rose from his cot and gave an impatient grunt. “You said you had good news.”

  “Yes, indeed. There’s no such thing as either Farrell or Lockwood time anymore. That means if you agree to drop the lawsuit against the county, your sentence will be commuted.” It had taken some wheeling and dealing on Grant’s part, but the judge finally agreed that leaving Kidd hanging, so to speak, with a rope around his neck constituted cruel and unfair punishment.

  “What’s that mean, commuted?”

  “It means you can forget the gallows. You’ll be serving the rest of your sentence in prison.”

  Kidd’s toothless smile split his face in two. “Well, if that don’t beat all.”

  “And there’s another choice—tell us where the loot is from your last robbery, and the judge agreed to commute your sentence to only seven years.”

  Kidd worked his chin up and down, grinding his toothless gums together. “Make it five, and he’s got hisself a deal.”

  Kidd was as predictable as a clock, which is what Grant had counted on. “You strike a hard bargain, Mr. Kidd.”

  “Yeah, but I coulda asked for four.”

  “And you would have gotten six.” Grant turned and stepped through the open doorway into the sheriff’s office. Stopping in front of Clayton’s desk, he reached into his coat pocket for his gold money clip and counted out five ones.

  “This is for the lady,” he said, tossing the bills onto the desk.

  “Why you keep doin’ that?” the sheriff asked, collecting the money and reaching for the cell key. “Why do ya keep bailin’ her out?”

  “Let’s just say I believe in taking care of family.” With that, Grant left the office. Amanda wasn’t his sister-in-law yet, but if he could persuade that crazy father of hers to let him court Meg, she would be soon enough. If posting bail for members of that family didn’t bankrupt him first.

  *

  Meg stood beneath the tall cottonwood tree and stared at the two yellow eyes glaring down at her from the uppermost branches.

  Next to her, the widow Rockwell wrung her hands together. “The poor thing’s been howling all night. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I see him,” Meg said and lifted her voice. “Come, kitty, kitty.”

  No amount of coaxing convinced Cowboy to come down this time, not even the bowl of milk his owner had set out for him.

  “See? What did I tell you?” The woman looked so upset that Meg felt bad for her.

  Someone had left a ladder propped against the trunk, probably the last person to come to the cat’s rescue. Meg grabbed hold of the side rails of the ladder to check for stability. She’d been in trouble many times for climbing this tree. In her younger years, she and Tommy often raced to the topmost branches, and nine times out of ten, she’d reached the top first. But that was when bodies were more flexible and fears something to laugh at.

  No laughing today. She placed a foot on the lower rung and began climbing.

  Mrs. Rockwell called, “Oh, do be careful, dearie. I don’t want you
falling.”

  Upon reaching the top of the ladder, Meg grabbed hold of a leafless branch and craned her neck. Cowboy stared back with a look of superiority. She should have known; the pitiful cries were nothing but a ruse.

  The only way to reach the cat was to climb to the uppermost branches, something Meg was reluctant to do. She had agreed to meet Grant in town for lunch and didn’t want to chance ruining her dress.

  She raised a hand. “Come on, Cowboy. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Cowboy flipped his tail and hissed, but otherwise stayed put.

  Stretching, Meg was able to reach the branch the cat sat on. She grabbed hold of it and gave it a good shake. Startled, Cowboy arched his back and yowled. He then pounced on her shoulder without warning, digging his claws all the way through her dress to her flesh beneath.

  Meg lost her footing and cried out. The ladder wobbled and slid sideways. It was only through fast action on her part that she was able to grab a tree limb to keep from falling.

  Cat and ladder hit the ground at the same time, leaving her dangling in the air.

  “Hold on,” Mrs. Rockwell called.

  I’m trying, I’m trying…

  The branch suddenly snapped in two. Arms windmilling, Meg dropped like a lead balloon.

  *

  “You can open your eyes now.”

  Her lashes flew up at the sound of Grant’s voice. She wasn’t dead, but she sure was in heaven. Or so it seemed, since she woke up cradled in Grant’s arms.

  “You…you caught me,” Meg stammered, heart pounding so hard she could hardly get the words out.

  “You’re lucky I happened to be passing by,” he growled.

  “You can put me down now,” she said.

  “Can’t do that,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you need a lawyer.”

  He carried her into one of Mrs. Rockwell’s Sunday houses and kicked the door shut with his foot. Only then did he set her down. The tiny parlor and kitchen area was empty except for a single chair.

  “What do you mean, I need a lawyer?”

  Gazing into her eyes, he pulled a twig from her hair. “Scaring a cat and damaging a tree. You know how touchy these Texans are.”

  Pressing her fingers to her mouth, Meg feigned concern. “Oh dear goodness.”

  “And as a witness, I’ll be called to testify.”

  Warming to the game they played, she said, “Whatever should I do?”

  “Well…” Grant raked his fingers through his hair. “There’s this little law that says a husband can’t testify against his wife.”

  Her already fast-beating heart practically leaped out of her chest. “Is…is that so?”

  He stepped closer and handed her a handkerchief.

  “What’s this for?” she asked.

  “I know how you cry when you’re happy. So I’m kind of hoping you’ll need it in the near future.” He paused. “That is, if you don’t think I’m jumping the gun.”

  Her heart stilled. “Why…why would I think that?”

  “I’m not sure how they do things here. But where I come from, a man wishing to ask a woman’s hand in marriage must first have a serious talk with her father. On the other hand, there is that little matter of the tree, not to mention a traumatized cat.”

  “I do believe you’re trying to blackmail me,” Meg said.

  Grant lifted his hands above his shoulders. “Guilty as charged. So what do you say? Will you marry me?”

  Her heart thudded, but before she could answer, he continued. “The day I fell in love with you”—his voice caught with emotion—“was the first time I saw you dragging your hope chest down the middle of the street.”

  “That’s strange,” she said, her eyes burning with tears of pure joy. “For I do believe that was the day I fell in love with you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, that’s so.” Her mouth curved.

  Beaming practically from ear to ear, he circled her waist with his hands. “Maybe you better give my handkerchief back, because you’ve just made me the happiest man alive.”

  “Are…are you sure you want me?” she whispered. A woman with two disastrous weddings under her belt couldn’t be too careful.

  “Oh, I’m sure. Never been surer of anything in my life,” he said. “The only thing I’m not sure of is how to get your father to approve…if you agreed to be my wife, that is.”

  “Maybe you should pose that question to Miss Lonely Hearts.”

  Grant chuckled. “Maybe so.” He lifted her chin tenderly. “I love celebrating New Years with you. But celebrating every day for the rest of our lives would be even better. That’s how much I love you.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Never had three words meant so much. “Oh, Grant!” And with that, Meg flung her arms around his neck. In case there were any lingering doubts of her intention, she bent her head back and yelled, “Yes, yes, yes, I’ll marry you!”

  *

  A short while later, Meg rushed into the house and found Papa in the parlor fiddling with the cuckoo clock.

  Grant wanted to talk to her father himself, had in fact insisted upon doing it the proper “Boston” way. With his fine persuasive skills, he might have succeeded in getting her father’s approval, but this was her battle.

  It wasn’t enough that Papa gave his approval; she wanted his promise that he would never treat Grant as he had treated Tommy. She hated that the happiest day of her life had to be spoiled, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Papa looked up as she approached. As if sensing something in her manner, he frowned. “Tommy get off all right?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes, he did.” She had gone to the train depot that morning to see him leave on the train bound for California. There he hoped to hop on a cargo ship headed for Asia.

  Papa arched a bushy eyebrow. “And you don’t mind?”

  “No, Papa. We’re friends, and that’s all we’ll ever be.”

  “You two sure took a roundabout way of figuring that out.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk, Papa. Look how long it took you to know how much Mama loves you. How much she’s always loved you.”

  This brought a smile to his face. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Your mother could have had anyone she wanted. Thank God she has terrible taste in men.”

  It wasn’t like Papa to disparage himself. “I’m afraid I may have taken after Mama in that regard,” Meg said carefully.

  He father poked at the insides of the clock. “You’re not talking about that jackleg lawyer, are you?”

  She moistened her lips. So Papa suspected. “That’s exactly who I’m talking about, and I want you to stop calling him that.”

  The bird popped out of its little house. Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.

  Papa adjusted the pendulum chains. “Did you know that cuckoos don’t bother raising their young?”

  Meg gritted her teeth. Oh, no you don’t, Papa. You’re not distracting me with bird talk—or anything else, for that matter. Not this time.

  “Grant is a wonderful, caring man.”

  For a long moment her father said nothing as he adjusted the chains of the Black Forest clock. “The mama bird lays eggs in the nests of other birds,” he said at last. “That way the parents don’t have to worry about raising them. They let others do all the work.”

  “And I love him, Papa. I do.” She couldn’t believe the relief she felt at finally being able to say those words aloud.

  Her father’s hand stilled, and he narrowed his eyes. “You sound like you really mean it,” he said. “Not like last time.”

  She stared at him. Was that why he had been so dead set against her marriage to Tommy? Had Papa doubted her love? Had he known her true feelings even before she did? Maybe Papa was better at subtleties than she gave him credit for.

  “No, it’s not like last time,” she said. “And he loves me too.”

  He turned back to the clock. “I’d make a terrible cuckoo bird.”
She heard his intake of breath. “I don’t like my fledglings leaving the nest.”

  She blinked. It wasn’t the first time of late that he’d admitted to faults, but his confession nonetheless surprised her. Was this new thoughtful and introspective side of him due to some inner milestone? Or had the series of recent scares made him take stock? Whatever the cause, Meg felt grateful.

  “Oh, Papa…is…is that why you chased away every boy who ever looked at me?”

  “Did I really do that?”

  “Yes, Papa, you did. You tried chasing Ralph away from Josie too, until Mama put her foot down. You did the same with Tommy, but he was too stubborn to leave.”

  He shrugged. “As your father, I have a prescriptive right to look out for your welfare. For the welfare of all my daughters.”

  “And does your prescriptive right extend to Grant Garrison?”

  “You’re serious about that scalawag, are you?”

  “Yes, Papa, I am.”

  “Even after the way he grilled you on the stand?”

  “He was only doing his job.”

  He studied her long and hard. “I should warn you that if you decide to marry him, I’ll…” He stopped when Mama walked into the room.

  Meg glanced at her mother with a beseeching look. “You’ll what, Papa? What will you do if I marry Grant?”

  “Yes, what will you do, Henry?” Arms folded, Mama tapped her foot, her gaze as sharp as her voice.

  Papa looked momentarily remorseful, like a child caught stealing cookies. He’d been on his best behavior since Mama moved back home, though his lapses were becoming more frequent as time went by. At the rate he was going, he’d be back to his usual self by next week.

  “I promise to behave myself and not mess up her wedding,” he managed at last, though judging by the pained look on his face, it caused him great anguish to say it.

  “And you’ll stop calling him names?” Meg persisted. “And you’ll make him feel welcome in our home at all times?”

  Papa glanced at Mama’s stoic face before splaying his hands. “Whatever you say.”

  With a cry of delight, Meg flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on his bristly cheek. “Oh, Papa. I want you to come to love him like I do.”