Papa showed up at the shop that Monday morning, anxious to get to work.

Meg had promised her mother that she would keep an eye on him, but there was no slowing him down. He even insisted he felt well enough to perform the hourly bell ringing.

Still, she couldn't help but fuss.

Finally, he threw up his hands. "You're treating me like an invalid."

"The doctor said you have to take it easy and-"

"Bull!" He thumped on his chest. "You know what will stop this old ticker? Boredom, that's what. Now go. I need you to drop this ad off at the Gazette." He handed her a hand-drawn sketch. "Have Buttocks run it in Friday's paper."

"Buckham, Papa. Buckham," Meg said with a sigh.

Trying to get her father to stop calling the man names was a waste of effort. The editor steadfastly refused to abide by Lockwood time. Unfortunately, the town had only one newspaper, so her father's threats to boycott fell on deaf ears.

Meg tucked the advertisement into her drawstring purse. "All right, you win. No more fussing."

A cold wind greeted her outside, cutting through her woolen skirt like icy knives. Half a block away, she spotted the swaybacked horse and rickety old wagon belonging to Mr. Mutton, the dogcatcher. Stray dogs had become a problem in recent months, and things had come to a head when the mayor's two-year-old grandson was bitten. Fortunately, the dog showed no sign of the dreaded rabies, but the town went up in arms and a dogcatcher was hired.

The town council voted to pay him by the dog rather than a flat salary. A big mistake, because it left no canine safe from the man's greedy clutches.

Now armed with a snare pole, he crept along the side of a building like a thief in the night.

A glimpse of the man's furry target made Meg stop in her tracks. "Hey!"

Lifting her skirt above her ankles, she ran across the street with such haste that the driver of the hotel's horse-drawn omnibus was forced to jerk on his reins and come to a quick stop.

"Watch it!"

Paying no heed to the driver, Meg frantically waved her arms and called, "Mr. Mutton! Wait."

By the time she'd reached the alley, Mutton had already snared the dog. The poor thing trembled and whined, tail between its legs and its neck caught by a loop of horsehair.

"That's Blackie," Meg said upon reaching the dogcatcher. "He belongs to Mr. Steele. Can't you see the tag?" Mutton would have to be blind not to see it.

"Git outta the way, miz. I got work to do."

"Yes, but this isn't it."

He pulled on his pole. Blackie reared back on his hind legs, but this only made Mutton pull harder.

Meg grabbed the pole and glared at him. "That dog is licensed."

"That dog is a nuisance!" Mutton snarled back.

"Then complain to the owner."

"I ain't complainin' to no one." His nose was mere inches from Meg's. "Now git outta my way."

He yanked on the pole, but Meg held on with both hands. They were fairly evenly matched in height, but Mutton didn't have to battle with a wind-blown skirt.

A tug of war ensued, with Meg yanking the snare pole one way and the dogcatcher another.

"Let go!" he barked.

"You let go," she yipped.

Meg didn't realize that Deputy Sheriff Jeff Boulder had arrived until he spoke. "I suggest you both let go."

Instantly obeying Boulder's command, she released the pole. Mutton flew backward, hitting his head against the wall with a sickening thud.

Hand on her mouth, Meg stared in horror as the man slithered to the ground.

Sheriff Clayton greeted Grant with a nod of his head and feet firmly planted on his desk. His light, sandy hair brushed against skin as leathery and worn as the soles of his boots.

"What can I do fer you, Garrison?"

"Got a message that your prisoner wants to see me."

The sheriff leveled a thumb toward the open door leading to the jail cells in back.

"Much obliged."

There were three cells in all, but only one was occupied. That was a surprise. Considering the noisy street brawls that kept him awake half the night, Grant had expected the jail to be packed.

The prisoner sat on a cot rubbing his foot. A fat, hairy toe poked through a hole in his gray woolen sock.

Grant introduced himself. "You said you wanted to see me."

The prisoner dropped his foot and stood. "Kinda young, ain't you?"

At nearly thirty, Grant didn't feel all that young. "Old enough to know the law."

The prisoner frowned. "'Round here that could be a hindrance. Case you're wonderin', name's Kidd. Jacob Kidd."

"I know who you are." Kidd was a notorious stage robber who had managed to avoid the law for a good many years. For a man with such a bad reputation, he sure was small in stature. If he stretched, he might reach all of five feet tall. He had a drooping mustache and wore his shoulder-length hair pulled back like a donkey's tail and tied with a piece of rawhide.

"You asked to see me."

"Shore enough did." Kidd looked him up and down, and Grant felt like a horse on the auction block. "Heard that you were handlin' the jilted bride case."

The image of a pretty, round face flashed through Grant's mind, and he was momentarily jolted by the clear vision.

"Well, is you or ain't you?"

"I'm sorry. Yes, I am. But I prefer to call it the Farrell versus Lockwood case."

Business had indeed picked up since his name had appeared in the newspaper, mostly from people unable to get any other representation. Like the two Chinese men who had smelled a need and decided to start a laundry in town. Victims of the anti-Chinese movement, they faced community objection to their plan, which is why they hired Grant.

"The judge found me guilty." Kidd made a face. "Dadgummit. If my blasted horse hadn't thrown a shoe, I would never have been caught."

Grant shrugged. "So what can I do for you?"

"Well, here's the thing. I've been sentenced to hang next Friday at noon, Lockwood time." He paused.

"Go on."

"I wanna be hung on Farrell time."

Grant frowned. He'd heard a lot of requests from condemned men, but this was the first he'd heard of one wanting to change the time of execution.

"May I ask why?"

"Farrell time lets me live a whole forty minutes longer. A man can accomplish a lot in forty minutes. In my younger days, I coulda robbed both a bank and a stage in that amount of time-and don't forget it took only an eighteen-minute battle with Mexico for a third of what is now the good ole USA to change ownership." Kidd fell silent for a moment. "Heck, forty minutes is even enough time to fall in love."

Grant glanced around the dismal area with its empty cells and rough adobe walls. Didn't seem like the place offered much chance for falling in love-or anything else for that matter.

"Have you talked to your lawyer about this?"

Kidd made a face. "Why would I do that? The fool man couldn't even keep me from bein' sentenced to hang."

Grant hesitated. His top priority was the Lockwood trial, but requesting a time change shouldn't take too long. Less than an hour was in question, after all. "I'll talk to the judge, but I can't promise anything."

Kidd nodded. "You get me more time, and I'll tell you where I stashed the loot from the last holdup."

"I'm sure that would make the sheriff very happy."

"The sheriff?" Kidd chuckled. "Well, what do you know? My last week on earth, and I finally find me an honest man."

"Maybe you were just running with the wrong crowd."

Kidd shrugged. "Maybe so."

A sudden commotion rose from the adjacent office, followed by loud voices, but it was the high-pitched one that caught Grant's attention. The woman's voice sounded vaguely familiar.

"Looks like I'm about to git me some company," Kidd said.

"Sounds like it."

"A petticoat by the sounds of it. I might have more need for that extra forty minutes than I thought. I'm in love already."

"Sounds like you're asking for more trouble than you already have."

Kidd shrugged. "Get me those forty minutes, and I'll take my chances."

Grant stepped into the open doorway separating the cells from the sheriff's office and tried to make sense of the scream-fest in front of him.

A man and woman were going at it tooth and nail, but Grant couldn't make hide nor hair of what they were carrying on about. The citizens of Two-Time were a passionate lot, that's for sure. He'd witnessed more verbal disputes, fistfights, and shoot-outs during his short time in town than a dog had fleas.

Looking more befuddled by the moment, the sheriff was trying to calm the fighting couple, but his efforts went unnoticed. Clayton seemed more suited to restoring order at a church meeting than in a town as wild as Two-Time.

The undersheriff finally had enough. "Quiet!" he snapped, leaving no room for argument.

Taking advantage of the blessed silence that followed, Grant stepped through the doorway. Though her back was turned, he recognized the woman at once as Miss Lockwood. No wonder her voice had sounded familiar. Holding herself ramrod straight, hands planted firmly on her hips, she looked and sounded fit to be tied.

"May I be of service?" Grant asked.

He addressed the sheriff, but Miss Lockwood replied. "Not unless you're offering to conduct a funeral service."

"I'm afraid that's outside my job description."

She spun around, and her eyes widened. "Mr. Garrison."

Grant doffed his hat. "Miss Lockwood. Didn't expect to see you here." The target of her fury was a thin man holding a handkerchief to the back of his head.

She lifted her chin in an act of self-righteousness, a far cry from the cool, reasonable woman who had graced his office on her father's behalf a couple of days earlier.

The sheriff lifted a key ring off a hook on the wall. "Suppose you tell me what this is all about."

"She-"

"He-"

"One at a time!" the undersheriff snarled. He pointed at the skinny man. "Since you're the injured party, I'll let you go first, Mutton."

The man named Mutton drew himself to his full height. "I was mindin' me own business and this...this pit bull of a woman attacked me."

Pit bull? Grant kept his gaze firmly on Miss Lockwood's indignant face but remained silent.

The sheriff's head swiveled toward her. "Is that true?"

Miss Lockwood glared at the man. "I did not attack him."

Her denial bought an immediate response from Mutton, and the argument escalated again from there. Try as he might, Grant couldn't understand the crux of the problem. The number of references to donkey's anatomy flying back and forth did nothing to unravel the mystery.

It wasn't until after the sheriff locked both parties in jail for disturbing the peace that he filled Grant in on the details. It seemed that Miss Lockwood was protecting the blacksmith's dog.

"Are you representing Miss Lockwood or Mr. Mutton?" the sheriff asked.

"Neither," Grant said. Representing Miss Lockwood would be a conflict of interest. Even paying her bail might be considered suspect, and he couldn't take the chance. As for the dogcatcher, if indeed he was snaring tagged dogs as the lady proclaimed, jail was too good for him.

Clayton tossed the keys to the cells on his desk. "I was a-hopin' you'd handle Lockwood. He don't take kindly to me lockin' up his daughters."