Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  Her father’s eyebrows lifted. “Now you sound like your sister.”

  “Maybe Amanda has the right idea.”

  “In time you’ll change your mind.” Regret edged his voice as he said it, as if he dreaded to think of such a thing. He was funny that way. He talked about his daughters marrying but disapproved of any suitor who happened to come along. He hadn’t even approved of poor Ralph. It wasn’t until Mama put her foot down that he finally gave Ralph permission to court Josie, albeit with utmost reluctance.

  “Amanda will change her mind about marriage one day. All it will take is for a certain man to come along. The same will be true for you.”

  Maybe her father was right about her, but Meg doubted a man existed who could change Amanda’s mind.

  She joined her father at his workbench and slid onto a stool next to his. How she loved watching him work! For such a large and expansive man, he had a surprisingly gentle touch. He could repair the most delicate of mechanisms, even the ones in women’s pendant watches.

  If only he was as good at repairing relationships. “What happened between you and Mr. Farrell?” She’d asked her father this before but never got an answer. At least not one that made sense. “What happened to make you hate each other?”

  “Nothing happened,” he said in a voice that signaled the matter was not open for discussion. Normally, she would take the hint and change the subject, but not today.

  “Mama said you two were once the best of friends and inseparable all though school.”

  His hand stilled. “You know your mother. She only sees what she wants to see. I still can’t believe she actually approved of your marriage to that scalawag’s son.” He shook his head. “She has no idea what Farrell is really like.”

  “Oh?” The bad blood between the families had prevented Meg from getting to know Mr. Farrell personally. All she knew was that Tommy held his father in high esteem and was as puzzled by the feud between the two families as she was. “Tell me, what is Mr. Farrell really like?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  He turned his attention back to the watch he had been working on, relieving her of any hope she would find out more.

  He lifted the watch to his ear. His mouth curved upward, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. He pulled the timepiece away and held it toward her. “Listen.”

  “I know what a watch sounds like, Papa.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “That’s like saying you know what every songbird sounds like based on hearing but a few.”

  Knowing she would never win such an argument, she took the watch from him and held it to her ear.

  “Hear that?” he asked excitedly. “Six ticks to the second.”

  The ticktocks sounded like all the others he had made her listen to through the years.

  “That’s the sign of a good watch.” His eyes shining, he followed her gaze to the wall of clocks. “After the Declaration of Independence was signed, the bells rang out in Philadelphia announcing America’s freedom. But do you know what amazed John Adams the most? The fact that thirteen clocks had been synchronized to chime at the same precise moment. He didn’t think such a thing was possible.”

  He waved his arm to indicate the myriads of timekeepers that filled the walls from baseboard to tin ceiling. “What would Mr. Adams think about all this, do you suppose? Hmm?”

  “He would think you overdid a good thing, Papa.”

  Her father laughed. “Would he also think I’m just an addlepated old man like you do?”

  “I never said that, Papa. I never even thought it.” Old was not how anyone could describe her father. Stubborn. Obsessed. Opinionated. But never old.

  “Did you know that when I was a young man, I wanted no part of the family business?”

  “That’s hard to believe, Papa,” Meg said. “What made you change your mind?”

  “The war.” The sparkle in his eyes had now been replaced by a more somber expression. His “war look,” as Meg called it. “Do you know what soldiers requested most in their letters back home? Pocket watches. The war was rough on watches. Windup keys were lost. Rain and mud gummed up the works. Suddenly your father was in high demand as a watch repairman.” He laughed. “There are many ways to fight the war, and I did it with this.” He held up a pair of needle-nose pliers. “Time is the ruler of all things.” He winked. “He who controls time has the power. He also helps to win wars.”

  She studied her father’s profile. “Is that why you and Mr. Farrell are always fighting about time? Because of power?”

  Her father’s expression darkened, and she immediately regretted bringing up Mr. Farrell a second time.

  “Power has nothing to do with it. He knows nothing about the art of clock making. He uses olive oil to lubricate the works. Can you imagine?” Papa would never think of using anything in his shop other than the more expensive sperm oil.

  “I set my clocks by the sun, which is the way the good Lord intended. Farrell sets his by some convoluted planet configuration known only to himself.”

  “What about the trains?” Meg asked. There had been talk about coordinating zones across the country to railroad time like on the East Coast, but so far only a few towns had seriously considered it.

  Her father pursed his lips in disapproval. “That’s all we need. To eat, sleep, and work at the whim of an iron horse.” He handed her the watch. “Wrap this up. Thomson is stopping by later to pick it up.”

  Mr. Thomson owned the shoe-repair shop on the other side of town. Meg stared down at the heavy, ornate watch in her hand. “Papa, is there a way we can settle out of court?”

  The question hung between them for a moment before he opened his mouth to answer.

  Then, all at once, the hands of every clock reached the quarter-hour mark. A short but impressive symphony of gongs and chimes drowned out her father’s reply, but did nothing to erase the stubborn expression on his face. It was a look with which Meg was all too familiar.

  If he were a clock, he would tick to the tune of no, no, no—six beats to the second.

  Eight

  Grant stood in the front of the post office staring at his watch.

  It was after ten. Why was the post office still closed? In Boston, stores and businesses posted business hours, a tradition he’d taken for granted until coming here. No such helpful signs existed in Two-Time. Shopkeepers opened their shops seemingly at will and closed them likewise. Still, he had expected more from the United States Post Office Department.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he called to a cowpoke who was leaning against a post while he rolled a cigarette. “Could you tell me when the post office opens?”

  The man peered at him from beneath a floppy felt hat. His cratered face was as brown as old leather, and the knees of his bowlegs spread wider than his shoulders.

  “What week is this?”

  “Week? I believe it’s the last week of November,” Grant said.

  “The second or fourth week means the post office is on Farrell time. The rest belongs to Lockwood. The U.S. Post Office don’t like to show favoritism.”

  Grant grunted as he calculated in his head. Farrell time meant that the post office wouldn’t open for another forty minutes or so. “That’s right nice of them. I guess we should be grateful for having only two time zones in town.”

  “You got that right. Heard tell that a town in Kansas has seven.” The cowhand gave the cigarette paper a dab of his tongue. “By the way, name’s Jackson. Ain’t seen you ’round these parts.”

  “That’s because I only recently moved here. Name’s Garrison. Grant Garrison.”

  Jackson stuck the cigarette in his mouth and struck a match. “Hey, I know you,” he said, the unlit cigarette jiggling up and down as he spoke. “The jilted bride case, right?”

  “Actually, I prefer to call it the Lockwood versus Farrell case.”

  After lighting his cigarette, Jackson dropped the match and ground it out with the heel of a spurred boot. “That’s one feu
d you don’t wanna mess with.” He shrugged. “A’course, it’s not as bad as some of the others.”

  “Others?” Grant asked. “You mean there’re other disputes around?”

  Jackson scoffed. “Are you kiddin’ me? We’ve got more grudges here in Texas than they ever thought of having in Kentucky, and that’s saying somethin’. There are the Early-Hasley strife and the Sutton-Taylor feud.” He went on to list a dozen or so more. “Then there was the Patton-Manner feud, but that ended a year ago when they shot each other good and dead.”

  Grant blew out his breath in disgust. What had his sweet, gentle sister ever seen in a town like this? “Unbelievable.”

  Jackson regarded him with slitted eyes. “Don’t you have feuds where you come from?”

  “In Boston?” Grant shook his head. “Not like they have here. We just sue each other.”

  “A good shootin’ is faster and less costly.”

  “Can’t argue with you there. What’s the reason for all this hostility?”

  “Reason? Feuds don’t need no reason. Or at least none that matter.” Jackson puffed on his cigarette before adding, “Most started during the war. I think the Patton-Manner quarrel began over a goat. Or maybe a sheep. Some are second-gen’ration grudges, and the original offense is long forgotten.”

  “What about the Lockwood-Farrell feud? What started that?”

  “Heck if I know. Don’t think even they know. But I’ll tell you somethin’. If that fight don’t end soon, there’s gonna be trouble to pay in this town. Big trouble. And I sure don’t want to be ’round when it happens.”

  *

  Meg had just walked into the house when her sister Amanda beckoned from the top of the stairs. “Psst.”

  After a hard day at the shop, Meg longed to drink a cup of hot tea and sink her tired feet into a pair of soft slippers. Normally she would think nothing of hiking her skirt clear up to her knees and taking the stairs two at a time—a habit her mother deemed unladylike. Today, she would have earned Mama’s approval, because she was far too tired to do more than climb one stair at a time.

  “What is it?” she asked, after reaching the landing.

  For answer, Amanda hustled Meg into her bedroom and closed the door. Amanda’s room had almost as many handbills on the wall as the sheriff’s office. But instead of having wanted posters of every known criminal from Mexico to Indian Territory, the walls were plastered with leaflets and handbills from charitable, political, and advocate organizations. The Irish Relief Fund, Children’s Home Society, and Prohibition were the most prevalent.

  Amanda thrust a pamphlet into Meg’s hands.

  “Oh no, don’t tell me. Not another cause…”

  “Read it,” Amanda said.

  Meg studied the pamphlet. The bold print read: Miss Brackett’s Training School for Volunteer Workers of the Suffrage Campaign.

  “Oh no, you didn’t.”

  Amanda nodded. “I signed up yesterday. This represents our future. Yours and mine. You should be thanking me.”

  “Papa will have a conniption.”

  “Only if he finds out.” Amanda snatched the pamphlet out of Meg’s hand. “It’s only a five-day course and will be held at the hotel. You should sign up too.”

  “And how do you suggest I explain my absence for five whole days?” December was the shop’s busiest month.

  “You could always pretend to be ill.”

  Meg shook her head. “Mama would insist I go straight to bed. Besides, I can’t think of anything new right now until I get through this lawsuit.”

  “Have it your way, but you’ll be sorry. Lucy Stone plans to stop by. Can you imagine anyone still traveling and giving speeches at her age?” Amanda had the highest regard for the vocal women’s rights advocate, now in her seventies and still going strong. “Did you know that she’s married but still uses her maiden name?”

  “Is that what you wish to do when you marry?”

  “Bite your tongue. I never intend to marry.” Amanda emphasized her stance with a determined nod. “I have too many other things to do, and I certainly don’t want to waste my life like Mama.”

  “Shame on you, Mandy. How could you say such a thing? We would all be wise to follow in her footsteps. She’s the best possible wife and mother. You know she is.”

  “And do you know how she spends her days? Scrubbing floors, washing clothes, cooking meals, and beating rugs.” Amanda sighed. “There has to be more to life than cleaning house and putting up with Papa’s demands.”

  “Papa doesn’t mean to be so demanding. He only wants what’s best for us.”

  “I shudder to think. He’s still stuck in the old ways. He has no idea that women can do different things now. Lucy Stone has a college degree. Can you imagine what Mama could have done with that? She could have had a career.”

  A career? Her mother? Meg shook her head. It was impossible to imagine. “Mama would never work outside the home except for charity.”

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t.”

  “I have a job.”

  “You’re working for Papa, and that’s the same as Mama.”

  “I like working at the shop.” Or at least she had before she became the talk of the town. “I keep the shop’s books in order and get to work with numbers.”

  Amanda shook the pamphlet in Meg’s face. “I’m just saying that there’re other opportunities.”

  Meg sighed. Her sister meant well, but Amanda’s ways weren’t hers. The truth be told, the only thing Meg had ever wanted was to marry and raise a family.

  “What a fine couple we are. You don’t want to marry, and no one wants to marry me.”

  “Don’t say that, Meg.” Amanda’s expression softened. “Don’t even think it. If you ask me, Tommy leaving you at the altar was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  If it wasn’t for the pending lawsuit, Meg might have agreed. “Poor Mama. All she ever wanted was to see the three of us happily wed.”

  “Thank God for Josie,” Amanda said. “If she ever gets around to presenting Mama with a grandchild, that will take the pressure off the two of us.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  Amanda made a face. “I can hope, can’t I?”

  Nine

  That Thursday afternoon, Meg left the clock shop early and scurried along the boardwalk as quick as a mouse.

  Others stepped aside with curious stares, and she could well imagine what they were thinking: Where’s that crazy jilted bride off to in such a hurry? Well, let them look. See if she cared!

  Two-Time had grown in leaps and bounds since the first arrival of the train, and today, Meg would have to pass all twenty-two saloons on the way to Jackleg Row—a derogatory name given to the street housing the town’s lawyers.

  The number of doctors and lawyers in a place said a lot about a town’s reputation, and Two-Time had plenty of both. No fewer than four attorneys occupied offices on Jackleg Row, though most were kept busy by land or railroad disputes. A disturbing number of clashes were still battled out at twenty paces, keeping all three doctors in fine Kentucky whiskey and Cuban cigars. That didn’t count the numerous snake-oil peddlers who traveled through town hawking “miracle elixirs” that supposedly cured everything from ingrown toenails to gray hair.

  Meg had just breezed by the post office when a bearded man stepped in front of her, blocking her way. He stuck his leering face in hers.

  “Well, looky who’s here,” he slurred.

  She waved away the sickening smell of alcohol. “Kindly step aside, sir!”

  He jeered. “Unfriendly, ain’t you? You’re not still pinin’ for the Farrell boy? Whatcha see in that fella, anyway?” He clamped his gnarly fingers around her arm, and his eyes glittered. “I’ll show you what a real man is like.”

  “Let me go!” She kicked him on the shin. When that failed to convince him, she bashed him over the head with her parasol.

  “Ow!” Releasing her, his hands flew up to grab his injured head
. “Why, you little—”

  Meg didn’t wait to hear the rest. Instead, she picked up her skirt and ran. Papa had been right. In the eyes of some, she was damaged goods, and that made her the target of unwanted advances.

  The man’s curses followed her into the general store. She slammed the door shut behind her and swallowed the bile in her throat. Standing on tiptoes, she peered over the pyramid of tinned goods to see out the window. Satisfied that she hadn’t been followed, she willed her heart to stop pounding.

  “What happened to you?”

  Startled by a voice behind her, Meg gasped and spun around. Oh no! Of all the people she could have bumped into, why did it have to be Sallie-May Hutton, the town’s worst gossip? Willing her stomach to stop churning, Meg shook her head.

  “Nothing happened. Why do you ask?”

  Sallie-May stared at the broken parasol in Meg’s hand but didn’t pursue the question.

  “I read all about the lawsuit in the paper,” she said. The tight corset beneath her figure-hugging blue dress made her sound breathless.

  Sallie-May made no secret that her goal was to land a husband, preferably one who was rich. Given the booming cattle business and the number of local ranch owners who benefited from it, her goal wasn’t all that preposterous, even with her annoying personality.

  Meg tried not to let her irritation show. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Testy, aren’t we?” Sallie-May patted her carefully coiffed black hair and changed the subject. “Do you think that lawyer will ask me to the winter ball?”

  Meg stared at her. “You want to go to the ball with Mr. Barnes?”

  “No, silly. I’m talking about Tommy Farrell’s lawyer.” She clasped her hands together and sighed. “Honest to goodness, he’s the most handsome man I ever did see. He’s so tall and…” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling with a sigh. “My, my, my, what broad shoulders!”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Meg lied. She’d have to be blind not to notice Mr. Garrison’s good looks and considerable charm, but she wasn’t about to admit as much. Knowing Sallie-May, she’d jump to all the wrong conclusions and spread them all over town like flower seeds by sundown.