Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  Heat rose up Meg’s neck to her face. As shocked as she was—and as indignant—she couldn’t help but be intrigued. She had judged a book by its cover, so to speak, and been proven wrong. The man gave the impression of being a very proper and conservative lawyer, but there was definitely more to him than met the eye.

  He held her gaze, his face full of challenge. Refusing to look away, she glared back. Oh, no you don’t, Mr. Garrison. You’re not going to intimidate me, either here or on the stand!

  As if having received her message, he gave a slight nod and maybe a hint of a smile. They were like two opponents “shaking hands” before combat. He then turned to his client.

  Feeling more nervous than she dared let on, Meg glanced over her shoulder. The courtroom was packed to the gills, but she had no trouble picking out her sister and mother.

  Mama acknowledged her with a flutter of her hand, but neither she nor Josie seemed to have noticed Mr. Garrison’s shocking disregard for propriety.

  Her father leaned sideways, shoulder pressed against hers. “Are you all right, Megs?” he whispered, using his pet name for her.

  “I’m fine.”

  Drawing back, he frowned as he studied her. “You don’t look fine. Your face is all red. Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

  She focused her gaze on the judge’s empty chair. “I’m perfectly all right, Papa.” She lowered her voice so Barnes couldn’t hear. “I’m just afraid that Tommy’s lawyer is more experienced at this sort of thing than ours.”

  “Experienced, my foot!”

  “Papa, please. He’ll hear you.” She glanced at the defense table, but Mr. Garrison appeared to be in deep conversation with his client.

  Papa lowered his voice. “He’s nothing but a pettifogger. His fancy lawyer talk might have worked in Boston, but it won’t work here.”

  Meg blew a strand of hair away from her face. Pettifogger? Mr. Garrison? Hardly. “I just want this to be over.”

  Her father patted her hand. “Soon, dear daughter. Soon. Once I get on the stand and tell the judge what happened, that will be the end of it. You’ll see.”

  Her lips parted, and she swiveled her attention to Barnes. “Papa’s testifying?”

  The lawyer leaned toward her. “The judge agreed to allow you and the defendant to testify but refused to excuse your father.”

  “But his heart—”

  “Pshaw!” Papa said, and for once didn’t have to be reminded to keep his voice low. “There’s nothing wrong with my ticker that winning our case won’t cure.” He reached for his watch.

  Meg wished she had her father’s confidence, but something told her that win or lose, things wouldn’t be that easy. Barnes was a good solicitor, but she doubted he was a match for a big-city lawyer like Mr. Grant Garrison.

  *

  The bailiff rose from his seat and pushed his glasses up his nose. “All rise.”

  Grant stood, his gaze fixated on the plaintiff table. Today Miss Lockwood wore a bright-red skirt and a white lace top tied at the neck with a perky red ribbon. The outfit showed off the intriguing valleys and peaks of her feminine form to full advantage. Did she wear the bold ensemble to send a message, or to bolster her own confidence?

  Whatever the reason, it worked. Miss Lockwood currently looked determined and poised, with none of the vulnerability or hot temper she’d exhibited on previous occasions.

  Still, he’d been more than a little surprised to find the lady carrying a gun. What other weapons did she have in her arsenal?

  Grant wasn’t sure why he’d winked. He certainly hadn’t meant it in a lecherous way. It was more of an attempt to let her know that he was merely doing his job. Whatever happened in court should not be taken personally.

  It wasn’t like him to be so forward, but something about her brought out a protective streak he didn’t know he had. Even when she’d faced assault charges and looked unbearably self-righteous, he’d ached to protect her.

  He glanced at his own fumbling client, but only to remind himself whose side he was on.

  Judge Lynch emerged from his chambers, his robe trailing behind like a cloud of black smoke. His refusal to excuse Lockwood from testifying was a surprise, especially given the circumstances of the man’s health, but supposedly there was bad blood between the two. Would that have any bearing on the current case? Even a judge supposedly as fair as this one could show bias. He’d as much as admitted it.

  Taking his seat, the judge reached into his robe pocket, produced an ear trumpet shaped like a ram’s horn, and held it to the side of his head. With the other hand, he banged the gavel once, then turned over an hourglass.

  Barnes wasted no time while presenting his case, though he had to keep repeating himself so the judge could hear. By the time the lawyer called his third witness, he was practically shouting and already showing signs of throat trouble.

  Various vendors took the stand, all testifying to the validity of the wedding expenses that had been presented as evidence. Grant waived his right to cross-examine. Lockwood had spent a bundle on the wedding—no question. The only way to lessen the impact was to hasten the departure of those testifying to the facts. As Grant kept telling his anxious client, his time would come.

  *

  The hours dragged on, and Meg’s brain felt like day-old porridge. Even Judge Lynch had dozed off a time or two, his hog-calling snores disrupting the proceedings.

  Not even the short break for lunch had helped. Meg tried to stay awake by watching the sand drip in the hourglasses on the judge’s bench, but that had the opposite effect. In an act of desperation, she turned her attention to the bailiff and tried to guess how long it would be before the glasses fell off the tip of his nose.

  What she didn’t do was allow her gaze to wander over to the defense table. She was tempted, oh yes, but there was no way she would give Mr. Garrison the satisfaction of knowing how much his brazen attempt to unsettle her had actually worked.

  Just when she thought Barnes was about to wrap up his case, he nodded toward the back of the room. “I would like to present into evidence exhibit number twenty-three.” The double doors swung open, and all heads turned toward the back of the courtroom. A moment of anticipation was followed by the appearance of two men carrying the Lockwood hope chest.

  Meg’s jaw dropped, and her hand flew to her mouth. Oh no! She glanced over her shoulder at Josie. Surely Josie had emptied the trunk of its embarrassing contents! Josie relieved her of that notion with a wide-eyed shake of the head. She mouthed something, but Meg couldn’t make out what it was.

  Meg frantically waved her hand, beckoning Barnes to the table. In response, he turned to say something to the judge.

  Her father nudged her shoulder. “What is it, Meg?”

  “You have to stop him, Papa,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Please!”

  “Stop him? But why?”

  “I don’t want my personal belongings flaunted,” she whispered.

  “Flaunted? What are you talking about? Flaunted?”

  Meg forced herself to breathe. She shouldn’t have listened to her sister. It had been Josie’s idea to fill the chest with unmentionables in the first place! She’d insisted that an alluring nightgown or chemise was more conducive to a happy marriage than table linens.

  “Do you have any idea what’s in that hope chest, Papa?”

  “Of course I know.” Her father patted her on the arm. “Everyone knows. Items for a home. Linens and such. Towels. No need to be embarrassed.” He chuckled softly. “When your mother and I were first married, she made me sleep on embroidered pillowcases from her hope chest. I awoke each morning with my face looking like floral wallpaper.”

  Meg’s stomach churned. Her life was about to unravel, and her father was going on about pillowcases! This couldn’t be happening.

  After gaining permission from the judge to confer with his clients, Barnes hurried over to the table and leaned toward her. “What is it? What’s the problem?”
r />   “You mustn’t open that hope chest,” Meg said, voice low but firm.

  Barnes straightened. “Why ever not? Receipts are all good and proper, but nothing impresses like seeing the real thing.”

  “Yes, yes,” Papa agreed with a nod of his head. “Listen to Barnes. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “No, no, you don’t understand…”

  The judge pounded his gavel. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  Barnes stepped back. Hand on his chest, he cleared his throat. “I present as evidence Miss Lockwood’s hope chest. My intent is to show the court the time and effort Miss Lockwood put into planning for the home she expected to share with her husband.”

  Meg closed her eyes and held her breath. If there was ever a time for the ground to give way beneath her feet, let it be now.

  “Objection!” Mr. Garrison rose, and all eyes, including Meg’s, turned to him.

  “On what earthly grounds?” the judge demanded, his patience clearly spent.

  Garrison caught her gaze in his. Lips parted, she covered her mouth with the tips of fingers.

  “Mr. Barnes has already presented the court with enough wedding receipts to paper the entire town. It hardly seems necessary to waste Your Honor’s time with the display of”—he ran a finger across his chin and shot a meaningful glance at Meg—“trivial household goods.”

  Judge Lynch inclined his head. “I quite agree.” He banged his gavel. “Sustained.”

  Meg sat back with a whoosh of relief. She glanced at Mr. Garrison, cheeks burning. Though she was grateful for the way things turned out, it was foolish to think the lawyer had done it for her. He must have thought the contents were damaging to his case.

  Garrison took his seat and then did something that made her heart lurch and threw her into utter confusion. He winked at her for yet a second time that day.

  Eighteen

  Following a very tiring and tedious day in court, Grant looked forward to a good meal and early night. He rode his horse down Peaceful Lane toward his boardinghouse. It was cold outdoors, but after sitting indoors all day, he welcomed the fresh air. It wasn’t yet dark, but already the lamplighter was making his rounds.

  Little had changed on the street since that morning. Mr. McGinnis and his bagpipes were at it again, and as usual, Mr. Crawford was yelling out a second-story window, trying to make his neighbor stop.

  Cowboy the cat streaked across the street, but it was hard to know if he was chasing or being chased.

  The two housewives were still yakking over the fence as they had been that morning, and that crazy widow was dragging an empty bookshelf across the street.

  Grant sucked in his breath. The last time he’d offered to help, he ended up having to move three rooms of furniture. Still, she was having a heck of a time. And at her age.

  He reined in his horse. “Need a hand?” he called against his better judgment.

  A look of relief crossed her face. “Bless your heart,” she said.

  Swallowing his irritation, Grant dismounted and looped the reins around a fence post. He then grabbed the bookshelf out of her hands and hauled it the rest of the way across the street.

  This time, he only had to move one room of furniture, because she had already managed the rest. The whole time he worked, she talked about her deceased husband. To hear her tell it, the saintly man deserved to be canonized.

  Grant got everything moved but her cat, which was now stuck in the old oak tree.

  The widow Rockwell wrung her hands. “Oh dear, I don’t know what gets into Cowboy. I told him to stay out of that tree. Would you mind getting him down? I hate to bother the volunteer firemen again.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Someone, probably the firemen, had left a ladder leaning against the tree, so climbing up wasn’t a problem. Climbing back down with a snarling cat was. For his efforts, Grant ended up with a nasty scratch across the back of his hand.

  The widow took the cat from him. “Oh, you naughty boy. Look what you did to the nice man.”

  Grant pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand.

  “Come inside, and I’ll bandage you up.”

  “No need to bother. It’s just a scratch.”

  Mrs. Rockwell set the cat down, and a look of confusion crossed her face. “Oh dear. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem right. I think my Charley is telling me he wants me to live in the other—”

  Grant backed away. He had no intention of moving her again. Not tonight anyway. “Let Charley sleep on it.” It was a strange thing to suggest a dead man do, but she seemed to understand. “He might change his mind in the morning.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “You never know.” With that, Grant raced down the walkway and let himself out through the gate.

  No sooner had he mounted his horse than he spotted Miss Lockwood a short distance away, pushing a cart with her hope chest. His gaze reached the heavens. Not again.

  She was apparently returning the chest to her sister’s house. Suddenly he had trouble breathing. A delayed reaction, no doubt, from moving all that furniture.

  Should he offer to help? Good manners dictated that he must. Good sense cautioned him against it.

  What if the hope chest tipped over again? The last time had put them both in an embarrassing position. Worse, it had…what? Messed up his brain. All that softness. All that lace. All that feminine allure…

  While Grant debated the pros and cons of lending a hand, Miss Lockwood stopped to adjust the chest, which had tipped to one side.

  She lifted her head, her wide-eyed gaze meeting his, and her lips parted. Blast it! Now he had no choice but to help—or chance looking like an ill-mannered cad in her eyes. Not that it mattered what she thought. Why would it? Still…

  “Your hope chest puts on as many miles as Mrs. Rockwell’s sofa,” he called, closing the distance between them. He then reined in his horse and dismounted.

  His attempt to make light of the moment was met with a smile that did nothing for his peace of mind. The smile faded all too quickly, a frown taking its place.

  She pointed to his handkerchief. “Your hand.”

  “Just a scratch.”

  “Cowboy?” she asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “Everyone who tries rescuing him gets branded. That’s why he’s called cowboy.”

  “Ah.”

  Miss Lockwood lifted her gaze to his. “I was hoping I’d bump into you.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  She gave him a soft-eyed look. “I wanted to thank you.” Her cheeks turned a pretty pink. “What you did in court…”

  “I didn’t do it for you.” It was a lie, of course. He had done it entirely for her—not something he was proud of. Any thought of how it affected his client’s case hadn’t even been a consideration until later. Much later.

  “Regardless, I’m much obliged.”

  He studied her. “You do know that the contents…would have supported your case.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, and her eyes flashed with mischievous light. “But that’s not the kind of support they were intended for.”

  Grant threw his head back with appreciative laughter. Who knew? The lady had a sense of humor.

  “I’m just relieved that the judge sustained your motion,” she said.

  He grinned. “It’s not often that a plaintiff’s thankful for a defense attorney’s win.”

  She smiled. “Are you as good at losing as you are at winning?”

  He cocked his head. “Losing, Miss Lockwood? I’m afraid that’s something with which I have no experience.”

  “I guess there’s always a first time. I hope that if you ever do lose, you don’t take it too hard.”

  He grinned. “Worried about me, are you?”

  She lifted a finely shaped eyebrow. “Should I be?”

  “I’d rather that you save your concern for that.” He pointed to the hope chest that was still tipped to th
e side.

  “Oh!”

  “Let me do it,” he said. He thrust the reins of his horse into her hands and bent over to shift the hope chest back and forth until it was properly balanced. He then took the pushcart by the handle. This time, the wheels turned with ease on the dry dirt road.

  Miss Lockwood fell into step by his side, leading his horse by the reins. “What’s your horse’s name?”

  “Chester.”

  She slid him a sideways glance. “Such a serious name for such a sweet horse.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that,” Grant said. “He likes to think he’s a warhorse.”

  “A warhorse, eh? So did you name him after a general or something?”

  “Chester is short for Rochester, the name we gave the whale in my first big court case.”

  “You represented a whale?”

  He grinned. “Actually, I represented the whaler who refused to pay the fish oil tax because he said whales were not fish.”

  “And you won?”

  “Of course I did. With the help of a scientist, I was able to prove to the court that, contrary to popular belief, whales are actually mammals.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be representing many whales in Texas,” she said.

  Grant laughed. “Probably not.”

  Her face grew serious. “Speaking of trials…”

  “I’d rather we didn’t.”

  “I’d rather we didn’t either, but…Mr. Barnes said that Papa still has to testify.”

  “Sorry, the judge was adamant. It seems your father’s reputation precedes him.” Grant afforded her a sideways glance. “As you know, a man is judged by his deeds.”

  “And a woman by her misdeeds,” she quipped.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Is that a confession, Miss Lockwood?”

  “Just an observation, Mr. Garrison.”

  “Ah.”

  Upon reaching her sister’s house, she said, “If you will kindly put the chest on the porch…”

  He grasped the hope chest with both hands and heaved it up the porch steps. Since arriving in Two-Time, moving furniture had occupied as much of his time as the law.

  He set the chest down and brushed his palms together. He then jogged down the porch steps and took the reins from her.