“Meg…”
At the sound of her father’s voice, she lifted her head.
Still dressed in his wedding attire, Papa pulled off his coat and spread it over the boy.
Anger unlike any she had ever known welled up inside her. “You did this!” she cried. She indicated the chaos around them. “You and your stupid feud!”
Biting back tears, Meg felt her body tremble. Her father’s pale, haggard face elicited no sympathy. Instead, angry words bubbled out of her like lava from a volcano.
Papa looked stricken. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”
She let out a sob. “But it did. It did!” Had it not been for the time confusion, the first train would have been long gone before the second train arrived. “And all because of Mama—”
“What about me?”
At the sound of her mother’s voice, Meg swung around. Mama looked exhausted, her lips tinged blue from the cold. Her usually perfectly coiffed hair had come undone, and strands of fine hair fell around her face. Splotches of blood marred her green velvet dress.
“What about me?” her mother repeated, this time louder, but she was looking at Papa, not Meg.
“Nothing, my dear,” Papa said. “Meg is just…upset.”
Meg looked down at the boy. Tucker was still breathing, but he remained deathly still. Something inside her snapped. Oh no, Papa. Not this time. We’re not playing that game ever again!
Fighting for control, she rose unsteadily to her feet and faced her mother. “I know, Mama. I know everything.” It wasn’t the place to air the family’s dirty laundry, but it couldn’t be helped. The Lockwood-Farrell feud had caused enough damage through the years—far too much—and it had to stop.
Her mother stared at her. “What do you know?”
“I know about you and…and Mr. Farrell.” No sooner were the words out of Meg’s mouth than she regretted them.
“Meg, please—” her father began, but her mother cut him off with a shake of her hand.
“What are you talking about?”
“I told her that you had feelings for him,” Papa said. “That you loved him.”
Mama stared at him, dumbfounded, and for a moment, no one said a word. When at last Mama spoke, her voice sounded distant. “What gave you that idea?”
When Papa failed to respond, Meg answered for him. “He said the only reason you married him was because you were in a family way.”
Mama’s jaw dropped. For a moment, the three of them stood so still that it was as if they were caught on an artist’s canvas. Even the shouts of workers and the groans of the injured failed to penetrate the icy stillness that followed.
Finally, her mother pulled her gaze from Meg and turned to face Papa. “You said that?”
Papa took a step toward her, but Mama backed away. “All these years…” Raw hurt glittered in her eyes. “All these years… Is that what you thought?”
Papa rubbed his forehead. “What else could I think?”
“What else?” Her mother’s voice quivered. “What else?”
“Mama, forgive me,” Meg pleaded. “I shouldn’t have said anything—”
“Hush, child. This is between your father and me!” Meg hardly recognized her mother’s harsh voice.
Papa flung out his hands in that helpless way he did whenever he fell out of Mama’s good graces. “I saw you,” he said.
“You saw me?”
Papa nodded. “The night of the summer ball. I saw you in his arms.”
Her mother pressed her hand to her forehead as if forcing a long-lost memory to surface. “What you saw was one friend helping another.” Her hand dropped to her side, and her nostrils flared. “That was the night he told me he was in love with Deborah. I encouraged him to tell her how he felt.” Deborah was Mr. Farrell’s wife.
Papa frowned. “Are you…are you saying you never…? That he never…?”
Mama gestured to the wreckage around them. “You mean all this is because you saw me comforting a friend twenty-some years ago?”
Papa tried to explain, but Mama backed away, shaking her head.
“All these years, I thought the feud started because he opened up a clock shop, just like you did.”
“It wasn’t that.” Papa reached out to Mama, his voice filled with remorse. “I honestly thought you and he… Will you ever forgive me, my love?”
“Forgive you? How can I? How can anyone?” Mama glanced at the young boy at Meg’s feet and stormed away.
“Elizabeth, wait!”
But before he could chase after her, one of the rescue workers called to him. “I need a hand over here.”
Papa glanced in Mama’s direction, hesitated, then spun around to help pull an injured man out of the wreckage.
Recalling the look on her mother’s face, Meg blinked back tears and pressed a hand to her mouth. Oh God, what have I done?
A rustle of paper drew Meg’s gaze downward.
The boy stirred, but his eyes remained shut. She dropped to her knees. “Tucker. Wake up.”
Tucker’s eyes flickered open, but it took a moment before he could focus. He looked confused, disoriented. “What happened? Where am I?”
Meg pressed a hand gently to his cheek. The lump on his forehead was now the size of an egg. “You were in an accident. A train accident.”
“Am I going to die?”
“Certainly not,” she said and tapped him gently on the nose.
No sooner had she voiced the words than she caught sight of Tucker’s father. Jumping up, she waved her hands to gain his attention.
“Mr. Malone! Over here!”
Mr. Malone hurried to her side. Spotting his son, he fell to his knees, tears of relief rolling down his red, beefy face. “Tucker.”
He cradled the boy in his arms, rocking him back and forth. “I was out of town and didn’t know about the train crash till a short time ago.”
Dr. Stybeck joined them, black bag in hand. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes the size of plums. Mr. Malone set his son down and moved away so the doctor could conduct his examination.
Meg patted the father’s back. “He’s strong and will soon be as good as new.”
She wished she could say the same for Mama and Papa. She caught her lip between her teeth. Her dearest wish had been that the Lockwood-Farrell feud would finally end, and it looked like at long last it might.
But at what cost?
Thirty-one
At nearly midnight, someone shoved a cup of coffee into Grant’s hand. The beverage was bitter, but the warmth was welcome. He wrapped his frozen fingers around the heated cup.
He hadn’t seen Meg for hours, but now that the crowd was thinning, he looked for her again.
Maybe she’d gone home. He certainly hoped so. This was no place for a woman. It was no place for anyone, honestly, and he’d now seen enough blood to last a lifetime. Miraculously, there were no deaths, just broken bones, mild concussions, and the expected cuts and bruises.
Some of the injured had been carried away and placed in the back of wagons. Several victims were even able to walk the short distance to town. Given the condition of the trains, that was saying something.
Still, it could have been so much worse. The fact that the second train entered the depot at a reduced speed had helped to lessen the impact.
A few minutes earlier, and Grant would have been on that train. At the very last minute, he’d changed his mind about leaving town. No sooner had he led his horse out of a boxcar and away from the tracks than the accident occurred.
Shuddering, he could still recall the horror of hearing the rumble of the second train as it slid into the station. The shrill whistle sounded like a scream. Or was that his own scream he heard?
The impact had shaken the ground and practically knocked him off his feet. His horse had reared back on his hind legs, and it was all Grant could do to hold on to him. The grinding and buckling of steel seemed to go on forever. It was as if time had suddenly stood sti
ll.
Pushing the memory away, he stepped aside to let two volunteers carrying an injured man pass by. Cots had been hauled from the nearby deserted fort and set up in the church and saloons. Anyone with a room to spare agreed to take in guests, and others had been sent to the hotel. In a surprising act of generosity, the proprietor had donated several rooms to the wounded, free of charge.
Earlier, he had seen Mr. Malone carry his boy away. Grant hadn’t even known Tucker was on one of the trains. Fortunately, the lad didn’t look seriously injured.
Grant leaned against a wooden post. Volunteers were still checking the wreckage for more victims, but right now, it looked like the worst was over. It was the first real breather Grant had had since the initial crash.
Overhead, the sky was dark and starless, but the light from dozens of lanterns flooded the area. Tiny moths flitted around the shiny glass globes.
Grant watched Old Man Crawford and his bagpipe-playing neighbor carry a man to one of the wagons. For once, they weren’t shouting at each other.
The mayor stopped to help an elderly man to his feet. The dogcatcher, Mutton, used his snare pole to retrieve a child’s rag doll from the rubble. The owner, a little girl of maybe two or three, was all smiles when he presented it to her.
Grant had often wondered what his sister found to love about Texas. He’d laughed when Meg suggested it was the people.
Would those be the feuding, opinionated people? Or the gun-toting people with short fuses?
No feuds at the moment. No guns either. Even Farrell and Lockwood were working together like congenial neighbors. Maybe his sister had been on to something after all.
Grant swallowed the last of his coffee and pulled away from the post, careful to step around the injured waiting to be transported.
Spotting Meg, he felt his heart skip a beat and paused a moment to gather his wits.
She was on her knees spooning hot soup into the mouth of a matronly woman. Just the sight of her lifted his fatigue. Her face pale, she looked tired and in worse shape than some of the victims. He longed to go to her, longed to take her in his arms and carry her away from this mess. Take her somewhere safe. But he had no right to such thoughts. No right at all, because she was now another man’s wife.
Still, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away. No doubt she could use a hot cup of coffee.
He stepped into the baggage room where food and beverages had been set up, but already the coffee was gone. Leaving his empty cup behind, he walked back outside.
Something caught his eyes on the wooden platform. A satin slipper, the kind worn by brides… He bent to swoop it up. It felt soft to his touch and reminded him anew of all the things about Meg he had come to know and…yes, even love. Her loyalty to her family. Her concern for animals. Her wit and laughter. Her smile and…
He didn’t want to think about the rest. Somehow he had to find a way to put such memories out of his mind, not only now, but forever.
Shaking away his thoughts, he threaded a path through the crowd, anxious to return the dainty slipper to its owner.
Meg looked up when he approached and then turned to spoon more soup into an elderly woman’s mouth. He recognized the woman from church as Mrs. Ashley. Her snowy-white hair matted with blood, she pressed her trembling hands together. Whether from cold, delayed shock, or old age, Grant couldn’t begin to guess.
He waited for Meg to look at him again, and when she didn’t, he frowned. She seemed to be purposely ignoring him. Had he only imagined her concern earlier when she thought he was injured?
“I found your shoe,” he said. The toes that peeped though her tattered stocking looked almost blue with cold.
“Much obliged.” Without looking at him, she dipped the soup spoon into the bowl.
“I believe there’s a certain procedure for returning a lady’s slipper.” God forgive him, but he was having a hard time thinking of her as another man’s wife.
At last, she lifted her gaze to him, her eyes dark and unfathomable. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely.” He dropped to one knee and reached beneath the tattered hem of her gown for her ankle. She tried pulling her foot away, but he wouldn’t let go. He held her foot for a moment to warm it before slipping on the satin shoe.
Mrs. Ashley spread her parched lips. “Just like in the fairy tale.”
“Yes, well…” Meg pulled her foot away, a look of annoyance on her face. She raised a delicately shaped eyebrow. “What’s so amusing?”
Grant hadn’t even realized he was smiling. “I think I know what my sister found to like about Two-Time.” He indicated the dozens of volunteers still checking the twisted wreckage for possible victims. “You were right. It was the people.”
Something flickered in the depth of her eyes—a memory? “Maybe some good came out of today after all,” she said.
“Maybe.” Did he only imagine a thawing in her manner? A softening of her eyes?
“Does that mean you plan on staying?” she asked, guiding the spoon into the woman’s mouth.
Before he could answer, Meg’s sister Josie appeared at her side. “We’re ready. Tommy’s waiting to take us all home.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I see Mrs. Ashley into a wagon,” Meg said.
She set the bowl down and helped the widow to her feet. Mrs. Ashley paled and swayed slightly. Fearing she might fall, Grant took her other arm. His gaze locked with Meg’s for a moment before they both looked away.
Together, they walked Mrs. Ashley to one of the many wagons waiting to take survivors to town.
Grant guided the woman’s slight frame up a wagon ramp and onto the hay-covered bed. Meg managed to find a spare blanket. He helped her unfold the woolen cover and spread it over Mrs. Ashley’s prone body. He accidentally touched Meg’s soft hand and didn’t pull away as quickly as he should have. Their gazes held, and his heart beat faster. Something like a light passed between them before Meg turned to the widow.
“Are you warm enough?” she asked in a thin, breathless voice.
The elderly woman reached up to pat Meg’s arm. “I’m fine, thanks to your good care. Now go home. You look flushed, and you’ve done enough.”
Meg hesitated. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’ll stay with her,” Grant said.
Meg gazed up at him, lips parted. Mrs. Ashley was right; Meg’s cheeks did look red. Because of him? Did that mean he affected her every bit as much as she affected him? A flash of unbelievable joy rushed through him, but was quickly followed by a feeling of utter despair and self-loathing. She was a married woman, and he had no right—no right at all—thinking such thoughts.
“Her son lives in Austin,” Meg was saying. “He should be notified.”
Grant swallowed hard and managed a wooden nod. “I’ll take care of it.”
Meg needed to go home. She looked dead on her feet. This time, he detected gratitude on her face, but it still required more of Mrs. Ashley’s assurances before she finally agreed to leave.
Grant watched her walk away and join her new husband. Tommy wrapped a blanket around Meg’s shoulder. Arm around her, he led her away just like any loving spouse would do.
Feeling a crushing blow, Grant stood by the wagon, holding Mrs. Ashley’s parched hand in his own and wishing it was another hand he held.
“Such a pretty young thing,” the widow said, her voice splintered with fatigue.
“Yes, she is.”
The faded old eyes seemed to reach into the very depths of him. “Too bad real life isn’t like a fairy tale.”
*
After dropping Josie off, Tommy pulled up in front of Meg’s house and set the carriage brake.
Amanda climbed out of the backseat and, with a weary wave, headed up the walkway to the porch without waiting for Meg.
Meg started to follow, but Tommy stopped her with a hand to her arm. “Meg, wait. We need to talk.”
“Not tonight, Tommy. It’s been a long, hard day and—”<
br />
“Please, Meg…” Releasing her, he scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’m sorry that our weddin’ was ruined again.”
She slumped back in her seat. In the dim gas streetlight, Tommy looked haggard, his hair mussed along with his clothes.
“Not your fault.”
He dropped his hands. “I’ve been thinking about what you said in church.”
She hardly had the strength left to hold up her head. “We’ll talk some more…tomorrow.”
He tapped his fingers on the seat rail. “You don’t want to marry me, do you? Admit it.”
Running her hands up her arms for warmth, she tried to think of a way to explain, a way that sounded less hurtful. It was no use. She was too tired to form a lie or even to choose her words.
“No,” she said, grateful that honesty required so little energy.
He rested his head on the back of his seat. “Because I left you at the altar? Is that it?” He lifted his head. “You wanted to get back at me.”
Pained that he would think such a thing of her, she shook her head. “Oh, Tommy, no. It wasn’t because you left me. It was because I-I realized you were right. The two of us getting married would be a mistake. We’re very different and don’t even want the same things. It just took me longer than you to realize it.”
That was true as far as it went, but how could she tell him the rest? How could she tell him that she was in love with someone else? With Grant.
Oh, sweet heaven. She was even too tired to lie to herself.
“You sure picked a funny time to decide that,” he said, his voice tight.
“And you didn’t?”
He grimaced. “I never meant to hurt you, Meg. You’re the best friend I ever had.”
“I know.” A lump formed in her throat. “You’re mine too. I’m going to miss you something awful. Promise me you’ll write. No matter where in the world you go.”
He made a face. “Fat chance of me goin’ anywhere now. If I don’t come up with ten grand, I’ll be writin’ from the iron-bar hotel.”
“Oh, Tommy!” She’d completely forgotten the judge’s ruling. The canceled wedding would cost Tommy dearly, and it was all her fault. “There’s got to be another way.” She couldn’t let her best friend go to jail!
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