Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  “Let’s not get carried away,” he said in a gruff voice.

  “All right, not love him. Like him.”

  “Hmm. We’ll see.”

  Knowing that was about as much as he was willing to concede, at least for now, Meg pulled away. “I’ve got to go.”

  She could hardly wait to tell Grant that they could now shout the news of their betrothal to one and all.

  “Okay, but I’m warning you, Meg,” Papa said, determined as always to have the last word. “This better be your last wedding.” He looked at Mama and shrugged. “We sure as blazes can’t afford another.”

  Epilogue

  There was nothing peaceful about Peaceful Lane that Saturday morning as Meg rushed to keep up with Grant’s long strides. He pushed the cart with her hope chest down the center of the dirt road.

  The whining sound of bagpipes was met with Mr. Crawford’s angry shouts.

  Mr. Sloan chased the Johnson boy out of his yard. “Come back! You have no right stealing my carrots!”

  Mrs. Conrad was screaming at the goat that had chewed a pair of long underwear off her clothesline.

  The big, yellow hound stood with its front paws against a tree barking at Cowboy, who hissed back from the upper branch. Sneaking up behind, the dogcatcher lowered the loop of his snare around the hound’s neck. The hound took off running, yanking the dogcatcher clear off his feet.

  Farther along, Mrs. Rockwell dragged a table out of one house and headed across the street to the other. Two doors away, Mr. Quincy was yelling at the paperboy, and Grant’s own landlady was arguing with the next-door neighbor who had driven his carriage over her flower bed.

  “I still don’t know why you wanted my hope chest,” Meg said. Their wedding was a month away.

  Grant made no attempt to enlighten her until he stopped in front of one of the Sunday houses. “What do you think?”

  She gazed up at him in confusion. “Think?”

  “I’m now the official owner,” he said, “and I was hoping you would agree to us making this our first home.”

  She stared at him in total disbelief. “You bought this house?”

  “Had to.” He grinned. “It’s the only way I could think to save my back. Mrs. Rockwell now owns only a single house. Once she finishes moving into the one across the street, she’ll have to stay there. We’re not taking in any boarders.”

  “Oh, Grant!” Meg’s heart swelled with joy, and it was all she could do to keep the tears of happiness at bay. “I think this would make a lovely home,” she said. “Just as soon as I decorate it with the household goods from my hope chest.”

  Grant’s grin practically reached from ear to ear. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  He stopped right there in the middle of that not-so-peaceful lane and, in a shocking display of affection, showed her exactly how much he liked her decorating ideas.

  Order Margaret Brownley’s next book

  in the A Match Made in Texas series

  To Win a Sheriff’s Heart

  On sale June 2017

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed Meg and Grant’s story.

  Whether we like it or not, our lives are dictated by time. As irritating as that might seem, it wasn’t that long ago that no one really knew what time it was. Early settlers depended on the sun to tell time. When the sun cast the smallest shadow, they knew it was noon or at least thereabouts. The problem was that solar time varies throughout the year. That’s because the earth sometimes moves slower or faster around the sun, which meant that sundials had to be constantly adjusted, in addition to being worthless at night or on cloudy days.

  It took thousands of years for man to wrestle time away from the sun with the invention of clocks. Clocks solved some of the problems but then created problems of another kind.

  Townsfolk often set their clocks and watches by local jewelers. This worked fairly well until a second jeweler moved into town. As stated in the story, some towns did indeed have several jewelers, and no one could agree as to who had the right time.

  Noting the problem, an astronomer named William Lambert was the first man in the United States to suggest standard time. He presented his idea to Congress in 1809, but the idea was not adopted.

  If you think living in a town with several different time zones was confusing, imagine the chaos for train passengers. If several railroad lines used the same depot, they all installed their own clocks with different times.

  Prior to 1883, an estimated hundred different railroad times existed in this country. Train engineers couldn’t remember all the different time changes and would often pull out of the depot too soon, causing passengers to miss connections. But that was a lot better than pulling out too late and risking being hit by another train.

  Things got so out of hand that railroad officials finally met and came up with the idea of dividing the country into time zones. On November 18, 1883, at precisely noon, all railroad clocks changed to standard time. At first, some objected, and many towns stubbornly held on to the old way of doing things, but eventually the advantages of standard time became clear.

  Worshippers arrived at church on time, employees reached counters or desks when they were supposed to, and shops opened and closed on schedule. Order reigned.

  It wasn’t until 1918 that Congress finally adopted standard time laws based on railroad time (thirty-five years after the fact and more than a hundred years after Lambert’s proposal). The act also included daylight saving as a way to save electricity during World War I. Congress rescinded daylight saving in 1919, and it was reinstituted during World War II. The Uniform Time Act of 1966 standardized the start and end dates of daylight saving but allowed local exemptions.

  Hawaii and Arizona (except on the Navajo reservation) do not observe daylight saving time. The last thing residents need in these states is another hour of hot sun.

  As for breach-of-promise suits, some states have formally outlawed the practice, but such claims are still valid in nearly half the states. So, bachelors and bachelorettes, do beware.

  As for Two-Time, Texas, it’s now on standard time, but the story is far from over. There are surprises in store for Meg’s sister Amanda, and you won’t believe what they are.

  Until next time (oops, there’s that word again),

  Margaret

  Read on for an excerpt from

  To Win a Sheriff’s Heart

  The next book in the A Match Made in Texas series by Margaret Brownley

  One

  Two-Time, Texas

  1882

  Could she trust him? Dare she trust him?

  The man—a stranger—looked like one tough hombre. Perched upon the seat of a weather-beaten wagon, he sat tall, lean, and decisively strong, his sunbaked hands the color of tanned leather. The only feature visible beneath his wide-brimmed hat and shaggy beard was a well-defined nose. The beard, along with his shoulder-length hair, suggested he had no regard for barbers. From the looks of him, he wasn’t all that fond of bathhouses either.

  He’d stopped to ask if she needed a ride. It wasn’t as if she had a lot of choices. If she didn’t accept his offer, she might have to spend the rest of the day, maybe even the night, alone in the Texas wilderness with the rattlers, cactus, and God knows what else. Still she hesitated.

  “Where you headin’?” he asked.

  “Two-Time.”

  “Same here,” he said with a gruff nod, as if that alone was reason to trust him.

  His destination offered no surprise. Two-Time was the only town within twenty miles. “Why there?” she asked.

  Her hometown had grown by leaps and bounds since the arrival of the train but still lagged behind San Antonio and Austin in commerce and population. Most people, if they ended up in Two-Time at all, did so by mistake.

  He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Good a place as any.”

  Moistening her parched lips, she shaded her eyes from the blazing sun as she gazed up
at him. No sense beating around the bush. “You don’t have a nefarious intent, do you? To do me harm, I mean?” A woman alone couldn’t be too careful.

  The question seemed to surprise him. At least it made him push back his hat, revealing steel-blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. What a strange sight she must look. Stuck in the middle of nowhere dressed to the nines in a stylish blue walking suit.

  “Are you askin’ if your virtue is safe with me?”

  She blushed but refused to back down. The man didn’t mince words, and neither would she. “Well, is it?”

  “Safe as you want it to be,” he said finally. His lazy drawl didn’t seem to go with the sharp-eyed regard, which returned again and again to her peacock feathered hat, rising three stories and a basement high above her brow.

  It wasn’t exactly the answer she’d hoped for, but he sounded sincere, and that gave her a small measure of comfort. Still, she cast a wary eye on his holstered weapon. The Indian Wars had ended, but the possibility of renegades was real. The area also teemed with outlaws. In that sense, it wouldn’t hurt to have an armed man by her side. Even one as surly as this one.

  “If you would be so kind as to help me with my…um…trunk. I’d be most grateful.”

  He sprang from the wagon, surprising her with his sudden speed. He struck her as a man who spoke only when necessary. Even then he seemed to parcel out words like he was divvying out food at a county poor farm.

  For such a large man he was surprisingly light on his feet. He was also younger than he first appeared, probably in his early thirties. He would have towered over her by a good eight inches had she not been wearing a hat gamely designed to give her height and presence.

  Gaze dropping the length of her, he visually lingered on her small waist and well-defined hips a tad too long for her peace of mind.

  “Name’s Rennick,” he said, meeting her eyes. “R. B. Rennick.”

  A false name if she ever heard one but for once decided to hold her tongue. He was her best shot for getting back to town. He might be her only shot.

  “I’m Miss Amanda Lockwood.” She offered her gloved hand, which he blithely ignored. Feeling rebuffed, she withdrew it.

  The man was clearly lacking in manners, but he had offered to help her, and for that she was grateful.

  Thumbs hanging from his belt, he gazed across the desolate Texas landscape. “How’d you land out here, anyway? Nothing for miles ’round.”

  “I was on my way home from Austin when I…had a little run-in with the stage driver.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of run-in?”

  “He was driving like a maniac,” she said with an indignant toss of the head. “And I told him so.” Not once but several times, in fact.

  Hanging out the stage window, she’d insisted he slow down in no uncertain terms. When that didn’t work, she resorted to banging on the coach’s ceiling with her parasol and calling him every unflattering name she could think of. Perhaps a more tactful way of voicing her complaints would have worked more in her favor, but how was she supposed to know the man had such a low threshold for criticism?

  She gritted her teeth just thinking about it. “Thought he would kill us all.” He pretty near did. The nerve of him, tossing her bag and baggage out of the stage and leaving her stranded.

  Mr. Rennick scratched his temple. “Hope you learned your lesson, ma’am. Men don’t like being told what to do. ’Specially when holding the reins.” It sounded like a warning.

  Turning abruptly, he picked up the wooden chest and heaved it over the side of the wagon like it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. It hit the bottom of the wagon with a sickening thud.

  She gasped. “Be careful.” Belatedly, she remembered his warning. “It’s very old.”

  The hope chest was a family heirloom, and if anything happened, her family would never forgive her. The chest had been handed down from mother to daughter for decades. She inherited the chest after the last of her two sisters wed. Since she had no interest in marriage, she used the chest mostly to store books. Today, it contained the clothes needed for her nearly weeklong stay in Austin.

  He brushed his hands together. “Sure is heavy. You’d have an easier time haulin’ a steer.”

  “Yes, well, it’s actually a hope chest.” While packing for her trip, she discovered the latch on her steamer trunk was broken. The hope chest was a convenient though not altogether satisfactory substitute. For one, it was almost too heavy for her to handle alone—the most she could do was drag it.

  “Don’t know what you’re hoping for, ma’am, but you’re not likely to find it out here.”

  He spun around and climbed into the driver’s seat without offering to help her. “Well, what are you waitin’ for?” he yelled. “Get in!”

  Startled by his sharp command, she reached for the grab handle and heaved herself up on the passenger side.

  No sooner had she seated herself upon the wooden bench than Mr. Rennick took off hell-bent for leather.

  Glued to the back of the seat, she cried out, “Oh dear. Oh my. Ohhh!”

  What had looked like a perfectly calm and passive black horse had suddenly turned into a demon. With pounding hooves and flowing mane, the steed flew over potholes and dirt mounds, giving no heed to the cargo behind. The wagon rolled and pitched like a ship in stormy seas. Dust whirled in the air, and rocks hit the bottom and sides.

  Holding on to her hat with one hand and the seat with the other, Amanda watched in wide-eye horror as the scenery flew by in a blur.

  The wagon sailed over a hill as if it were airborne, and she held on for dear life. The wheels hit the ground, jolting her hard and rattling her teeth. The hope chest bounced up and down like dice in a gambler’s hand. Her breath whooshed out, and it was all she could do to find her voice.

  “Mr. R-Rennick!” she stammered, grabbing hold of his arm. She had to shout to be heard.

  “What?” he yelled back.

  She stared straight ahead, her horrified eyes searching for a soft place to land should the need arise. “Y-you sh-should s-slow down and enjoy the s-scenery.”

  Her hat had tilted sideways, and he swiped the peacock feather away from his face. “Been my experience that sand and sagebrush look a whole lot better when travelin’ fast,” he shouted in his strong baritone voice.

  He made a good point, but at the moment, she was more concerned with life and limb.

  He urged his horse to go faster before adding, “It’s also been my experience that travelin’ fast is the best way to outrun bandits.”

  “W-what do you mean? B-bandits?” It was then that she heard gunfire.

  She swung around in her seat, and her jaw dropped. Three masked horsemen were giving chase—and closing in fast.

  Two

  “Oh no!” she cried.

  “You better get down, ma’am,” Mr. Rennick shouted. “They look like they mean bus’ness.”

  Dropping off her seat, Amanda scrunched against the floorboards. Her body shook so hard, her teeth chattered. “G-give me your g-gun,” she cried.

  “Know how to use it?” he yelled back.

  “N-no, but I’m a f-fast learner!” She pulled off her gloves, which flew out of the wagon like frantic white doves.

  Holding the reins with one hand, he grabbed his gun with the other. After cocking the hammer with his thumb, he handed it to her. The gun was heavier than she expected, requiring both hands to grasp. Keeping her head low, she balanced herself on wobbly knees and rested the barrel on the back of the seat. She held on to the grip with all her might. Still, the muzzle bobbed up and down like corn popping on a hot skillet.

  Aiming at a specific target was out of the question. The jostling wagon made control impossible. The best she could do was keep from shooting the driver. She wasn’t all that anxious to shoot the bandits either. She just wanted to scare them away.

  Eyes squeezed shut, she pulled the trigger. The blast shook her to the core, and her arm flung up wi
th the recoil. She fell back against the footrest and fought to regain her balance.

  “Good shot!” he yelled, looking over his shoulder. “You stopped your hope-a-thingie from attackin’. Now see if you can do the same with the bandits.”

  Her heart sank. Oh no. Not the hope chest. Her family would kill her. That is, if the bandits didn’t kill her first. Forcing air into her lungs, she fought to reposition herself. The horsemen kept coming. They were so close now she could see the sun glinting off their weapons.

  Bracing herself against the recoil, she fired again, this time aiming higher. The wagon veered to the right, and she fell against the side, hitting her shoulder hard. Her feathered hat ripped from its pins and flew from the wagon in a way that no peacock ever did.

  “Oh no!” That was her very best hat, and the fact that it landed on the nearest highwayman gave her small comfort. His horse stopped, but the bandit kept going.

  “Stay down!” Rennick yelled.

  “But my hat…” It was one of the most elaborate hats she’d ever created. The peacock feathers matched the color of her eyes. “I loved that hat!”

  “Yeah, well, too bad it didn’t return your affection.”

  Of all the rude things to say. Blinking away the dust in her eyes, she hunkered close to the floorboards and struggled to catch her breath.

  The wagon continued to race over uneven ground, jolting her until she was ready to scream. Just when she thought her battered body could take no more, the wheels mercifully rolled to a stop.

  She shot Rennick a questioning look. “W-what are you doing?”

  “Seems like our friends deserted us.”

  She raised her limp body off the floorboards on shaky limbs and flung herself onto the seat, breathing hard. All that was visible in the far distance was a cloud of dust that seemed to be moving in the opposite direction.

  Relief rushed through her like a blue norther. “W-why do you suppose they gave up the chase?”

  He lifted the gun from her hand and holstered it. “Guess the hat was enough to convince them that whatever chunk change we might have wasn’t worth the trouble.”

  She glared at him. He didn’t seem to notice.