The Outlaw's Daughter

by Margaret Brownley

  “I’d make you miserable,” he continued, his Texas twang even more pronounced than usual. “I’m not ready to settle down. I want to see the world. To travel to Europe and Asia and…and the Pacific Islands. I read somewhere that they’re real nice.”

  “You’ve said some mighty dumb things in your life, but this has got to be the dumbest.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t understand,” she cried. “I don’t understand how you could wait till today to throw me over for a bunch of islands!” She backed away from him, fists at her side. “I should have listened to Pa.”

  “Meg, don’t look at me like that. It really is for the best. Maybe in a year, or two or three, I’ll be ready to marry and settle down. Maybe then we can—”

  “Don’t you dare say it, Tommy Farrell. Don’t you even think it! I’d sooner die a spinster than marry the likes of you.”

  “You don’t mean that…”

  “I mean every word. I don’t ever want to see you again. Not ever!”

  “Meg, please.”

  “Just…just go!”

  He stared at her as if making certain she wouldn’t change her mind. Then he swung around and rushed along the narrow dirt path leading out of the cemetery as if he couldn’t escape fast enough.

  Watching him flee, Meg felt numb. Today was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, but instead, it had turned into a nightmare. How would she break the news to her family? To the guests? To the folks counting on this marriage to bring peace to the town? She pulled the garland from her hair, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it.

  A movement caught her eye, and a tall figure stepped from behind an equally tall grave marker. Her gaze froze on the man’s long, lean form. A look of sympathy—or maybe even pity—had settled on his square-jawed face, crushing any hope that the humiliating scene had somehow escaped his notice. Her cheeks flared with heat. Could this day possibly get any worse?

  He pulled off his derby and nodded at her as if apologizing for his presence.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Forgive me. I couldn’t help but overhear.” If his dark trousers, coat, and vest hadn’t already marked him as an easterner, the way he pronounced his words surely did.

  In no mood to forgive a man—any man, even one as tall and good-looking as this one—she grabbed a handful of satin, turned, and rushed to the church’s open door, snagging her wedding gown on the doorframe. She glanced over her shoulder to find him still watching her. In her haste to escape, she yanked at her skirt, and it ripped. The tearing sound might as well have been her heart.

  Inside, the thundering organ music rang like a death knell. Hands over her ears, she kicked off her murderous slippers and ran down the hall in stocking feet.

  2

  Grant Garrison left his boardinghouse and rode his mount down Peaceful Lane. Two-story brick residences lined the street, the boardinghouse where he lodged among them. Either the street name was a misnomer or someone had once had a strange sense of humor, because the street was anything but peaceful.

  Even now, angry voices filled the morning air, the loudest coming from Mr. Crawford, who took regular issue with his next-door neighbor’s bagpipes. But he wasn’t the only one airing his lungs.

  Mr. Sloan was yelling at the Johnson boy for stealing his pecans; Mrs. Conrad could be heard expressing her disapproval at the goat eating her flowers. Next door to her, Mr. Quincy was arguing with the paperboy, who had thrown the morning newspaper on the roof for the second time that week.

  Grant tipped his hat to the two women gossiping over a fence and steered his horse around the wagon belonging to the dogcatcher. A terrible commotion drew Grant’s attention to an alleyway, and the dogcatcher emerged running, chased by a big yellow hound.

  A half block away, the widow Rockwell walked out of her tiny house carrying a lamp. Compared to the other buildings on the street, the two tiny residences she owned looked like dollhouses. She waved at Grant, and he tipped his hat in greeting.

  “Need any help?” he called. He’d already helped her move twice that week.

  “No, not today.”

  The widow’s two houses were located directly across from each other. Almost identical in size and style, they were called Sunday houses and had originally been built so that immigrant farmers could stay in town during weekends to run errands and attend church.

  The problem was, the widow could never make up her mind which one to live in. No sooner would she haul her belongings to one side of the street than she decided to live on the other. So back and forth she traipsed from house to house, moving, always moving.

  It had rained the night before, and puddles of mud dotted the dirt-packed road, causing the widow to pick her way across the street with care.

  Except for a few lingering clouds, the sky was clear, and the air smelled fresh with just a hint of fall.

  It was a normal day on Peaceful Lane—except for one thing. In the middle of the roadway, a woman was fighting with a pushcart.

  Grant reined in his horse and narrowed his eyes against the bright morning sun. Did he know her? He didn’t think so. Still, something about her small, trim frame struck a familiar chord.

  The lady pushed the cart one way and jerked it the other. A trunk or chest of some kind was perched precariously on top of the hand wagon, and it teetered back and forth like a child’s seesaw.

  Apparently seeing the futility of her efforts, she leaned over to examine one of the wheels stuck in the mud. This afforded him an intriguing glimpse of a white lace petticoat beneath an otherwise somber blue dress. She surprised him by giving the pushcart a good kick with a well-aimed boot.

  Hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, he leaned forward. “So what do you think, Chester? Should we offer to help before the lady does injury to her foot?”

  For answer, his horse lowered his head and whickered.

  “I quite agree.”

  Urging his horse forward in a short gallop, Grant called, “May I be of service, ma’am?” He tugged on the reins. “Whoa, boy.”

  She whirled around, eyes wide as she met his gaze. Two red spots stained her cheeks, but whether from exertion or embarrassment at being caught in a less-than-ladylike predicament, he couldn’t tell.

  “Thank you kindly,” she said with a soft southern lilt.

  “My pleasure.”

  Her face looked vaguely familiar, but he still couldn’t place her, which struck him as odd. Her big turquoise eyes should not be easily forgotten. Hatless, she wore her honey-blond hair piled on top of her head, but a couple of soft ends had fallen loose. The carefree curls didn’t seem to belong to the stern, young face.

  He dismounted and tethered his horse to a wooden fence. He guessed the woman lived nearby, but that still didn’t tell him where they might have met.

  He tipped his hat. “Name’s Grant Garrison.”

  She studied him with a sharp-eyed gaze. “You!”

  Since she looked fit to be tied, he stepped back. At that point, the flashing blue-green eyes jarred his memory.

  “You’re the”—he almost said jilted—“bride.” He hardly recognized her out of her wedding gown. According to local tongue-waggers, her name was Meg Lockwood. Best not to let on how last week’s disastrous nonwedding was still the talk of the town.

  She glared at him, eyes filled with accusations. “That day at the church…you had no right to eavesdrop on a private conversation.”

  He extended his arms, palms out. “Please accept my apologies. I can assure you the intrusion was purely unintentional. I was visiting my sister’s grave.”

  Uncertainty crept into her expression, but her combative stance remained. “You…you could have announced yourself.”

  He also could have stayed hidden, which might have been the better choice. “I considered doing just that. I’m afraid that
had I done so, I might have flattened your bridegroom’s nose.”

  This failed to bring the smile he hoped for, but at least she looked less likely to do him harm. She glanced up and down the street as if trying to decide whether to accept his help.

  “I would be most obliged if you didn’t mention…what you heard.”

  Her request confused him. Everyone in town knew the wedding had been called off.

  “About the Pacific Islands,” she added.

  Never would he profess to understand the way a woman’s mind worked, but her concern was indeed a puzzle. Would she rather her fiancé had left her for another woman, as some people in town suspected?

  “I promise.” He pretended to turn a lock on his mouth. “Not a word.”

  She let his promise hang between them for a moment before asking, “What brings you to Two-Time, Mr. Garrison?”

  He hesitated. “I’m a lawyer. Since the East Coast is overrun with them, I decided to try my luck here. I just opened an office off Main.” He replaced his hat and tossed a nod at the cart. “Where are you taking that?”

  “To my sister’s house.” Her gaze shifted to the end of the street. “She lives in the corner house with the green shutters.”

  “Well, then.” He grabbed hold of the handle and yanked the cart back and forth before giving it a firm push. The wheels gave a reluctant turn and finally pulled free of the gooey sludge with a slurp. But just as it cleared the mudhole, the cart tipped to one side and the chest shot to the ground, splashing mud everywhere.

  Miss Lockwood jumped back, but not soon enough to prevent mud from splattering on her skirt. “Oh no!”

  Muttering an apology, Grant quickly turned the chest upright, leaving an intriguing assortment of corsets, petticoats, and camisoles scattered on the ground. He never expected to see such a fancy display in a rough-and-tumble town like Two-Time.

  While she examined the chest for damage, he quickly swooped up the satin and lace dainties and shook off as much mud as possible. Did women actually need this many corsets?

  “I have to say, ma’am,” he began in an effort to make light of the situation, “there are enough underpinnings here to fill an entire Montgomery Ward catalogue.” He couldn’t help but look at her curiously before dumping the garments back into the chest.

  Checks blazing, she slammed the lid shut and double-checked the lock.

  He offered her his clean handkerchief, which she turned down with a shake of her head. Silence as brittle as glass stretched between them, and Grant couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. They seemed doomed to meet under trying, if not altogether embarrassing circumstances.

  Since the lady seemed more concerned about the wooden chest than the corsets…uh…contents, he studied it more closely. It was obviously old but had been well cared for. Intricate engravings of birds, flowers, and a ship graced the top and sides, along with several carefully carved initials.

  “No damage done,” she said, her voice thick with relief. The red on her cheeks had faded to a most becoming pink. “My family would kill me if something happened to it.”

  “A family heirloom?” he asked.

  She nodded. “All the way from Ireland. It’s called a hope chest.”

  Grant knew about such things, of course, from his sisters. But never before had he been privy to a hope chest’s contents. It was hard to know what disconcerted him more—manhandling Miss Lockwood’s intimate garments, or the possibility that something of a similar nature filled his sisters’ hope chests. Whatever happened to filling a hope chest with household goods?

  Tucking the handkerchief into his trouser pocket, he struggled to lift the chest off the ground. He set it atop the cart and wiggled it back and forth to make sure it was balanced just right. “I’m afraid the contents may be ruined.”

  “Th-they’ll wash,” Miss Lockwood stammered, refusing to meet his gaze.

  He brushed off his hands and grabbed hold of the cart’s handles. This time, the wheels turned with ease, and he pushed it slowly down the road. She fell in step by his side, and a pleasant whiff of lavender soap wafted toward him. With heightened awareness, he noticed her every move, heard her every intake of breath.

  “You said you were visiting your sister’s grave,” she said in a hesitant voice, as if she wasn’t certain whether to broach the subject.

  He nodded, and the familiar heaviness of grief rose in his chest. “Mary died in childbirth a month ago. Her husband owns a cattle ranch outside of town.”

  They had reached the gate leading to the two-story brick house with the green shutters. The rail fence enclosed a small but well-cared-for garden. A hen pecked at the ground next to a row of sprouting squash plants.

  Miss Lockwood afforded him a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

  “And I’m sorry for yours.” In danger of drowning in the blue-green depths of her eyes, he averted his gaze. “Where would you like me to put it?”

  “Put it?”

  He shot her a sideways glance. “The corset…uh”—he grimaced—“hope chest.”

  She lowered her lashes. “The porch would be just fine,” she murmured.

  Since the cart wouldn’t fit through the gate, he had no choice but to haul the chest by hand. Fortunately, only two steps led up to the wraparound porch. Even so, he was out of breath by the time he set the heavy chest next to a wicker rocking chair.

  She’d followed him up the porch steps. “I’m much obliged.” Her prettily curving lips made the sadness in the depth of her eyes all the more touching.

  “My pleasure.” He studied her. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but…if I had someone like you waiting at the altar, I would never walk away. Not in a million years.” The expression on her face softened, and he was tempted to say more but decided against it. Better stop while he was ahead.

  With a tip of his hat, he jogged down the steps and headed back to his horse. The memory of all that silk and lace remained, as did the shadow of her pretty smile.

  * * *

  Meg stood on her sister’s porch, surprised to find herself shaking. If I had someone like you…

  Never had anyone said anything like that to her, not even Tommy. Just thinking of Mr. Garrison’s soft-spoken words sent a shiver racing though her, one that ended in a sigh.

  Pushing such thoughts away, she knocked and the door sprang open almost instantly.

  Josie greeted her with a questioning look. “Who’s that man I saw you with?”

  “Just…someone passing by. He stopped to help me.” Meg seldom kept anything from her older sister, but she didn’t want to discuss Mr. Garrison. Not in her confused state.

  Josie looked her up and down. “Oh dear. You’re covered in mud. What happened?”

  Meg glanced down at her skirt. “I had a little accident.”

  “I told you to wait for Ralph,” Josie scolded. “That hope chest is far too heavy for a woman to manage alone.”

  Meg hadn’t wanted to ask her brother-in-law for help. Not with the way he’d been coughing lately.

  “It’s a good thing I have you to help me, then.” Meg cleaned the sludge off the soles of her high-button shoes on the iron boot scraper, then shook as much of the mud off her skirt as possible. Satisfied that her sister’s pristine carpets would not be soiled, she circled the hope chest. “Grab hold of the other side.”

  Carved by her great-grandfather, the wooden piece had been handed down to family members for generations. Each bride carved her initials into the old wood before passing it on to the next woman in line. Mama had passed it down to Josie who, after her own wedding, had handed it over to Meg during a ritual that had made all three Lockwood sisters roll on the floor with laughter.

  Today, however, no such happy ritual was in play as she and Josie struggled to carry the massive chest inside the house and into the small bu
t tidy parlor. They set it on the brick hearth so as not to get mud on the carpet.

  “Whew! I forgot how heavy it was,” Josie said.

  Meg brushed a hand over her forehead. Good riddance. The hope chest that once held her girlish dreams was now a dismal reminder of a day she’d sooner forget.

  “I don’t know why Amanda refuses to take it. It’s only fair. You and I both had our turn.”

  Josie frowned, as she was inclined to do whenever their younger sister’s name came up. “Amanda’s too independent to get married. She’s only interested in stirring up trouble.”

  By trouble, Josie referred to Amanda’s many causes. One—her campaign to close saloons during Sunday worship—had almost created a riot. Their youngest sister was the black sheep of the family and was always on the warpath about one thing or another.

  “Poor Mama,” Meg said. “All she ever wanted was to see the three of us married and bouncing rosy-cheeked babies on our laps.” She gasped and quickly covered her mouth. “Oh, Josie, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” Josie patted her on the arm. “I haven’t given up hope that one day I’ll have a child of my own. Some things just take time.”

  Meg flung her arms around her sister’s shoulders and squeezed tight. “I wish I had your patience.”

  Josie hugged her back. “I love you just the way you are.”

  Meg pulled away and smiled. Spending time with Josie always made her feel better. “Thank you for taking the hope chest off my hands. If I have to look at it one more day, I’ll scream.” She and Josie had spent hours working on her trousseau—and for what?

  “I’m afraid the clothes inside are a mess. The chest tipped over, and everything is covered in mud.” Just thinking about that handsome new lawyer’s hands all over them made her cheeks blaze.

  Josie opened the hope chest to check the contents. She lifted the carefully sewn garments one by one and examined them.