Grant wasn't sure he'd heard right. "You mean this isn't the first time?"

The sheriff's eyebrows lifted like a hot-air balloon. "Heck no. Though usually it's her sister Amanda that I have to jail. Just last month, I had to lock her up for causin' a riot at the Golden Spur Saloon. And then there was the time..."

Listening with growing disbelief, Grant rubbed the back of his neck. He'd met the sister only once, and that day on the train she had acted perfectly sensible and sane. Looks could sure be deceiving. Was there no one in this town who knew how to behave in a civilized manner?

"The only one of the three sisters who hasn't given me trouble is the oldest one, Josie."

Grant had yet to meet her. "Barnes represents the family. I'll let him know that Miss Lockwood requires his assistance."

The sheriff nodded. "Much obliged."

Grant glanced through the open door separating the office from the cells in back. He couldn't see the lady, but it sure did look like Kidd was counting on those extra forty minutes.

Sixteen.

Grant read the sign on Miss Lockwood's lawyer's door. Barnes had gone to San Antone, and the note gave no indication of when he would return.

That left Grant with only one option, and not a pleasant one at that. He hated having to break the news to Lockwood himself, but he didn't want to leave the man's daughter in jail. It was no place for a lady, not even one as unconventional as her.

Grant swung back into the saddle with a grimace and moments later reached the Lockwood Watch and Clockworks shop. He dismounted and wrapped the reins around the hitching post.

"If I don't come back in ten minutes, Chester, you better fetch the sheriff," he said half-jokingly.

The wind was cold and the sky thick with dark clouds. The locals claimed Texas had no climate, but it did have weather-though supposedly it seldom snowed in Two-Time. The most Grant had been told to expect was an ice storm or two before winter's end, but it sure did smell like snow now.

He blew on his cupped hands and rubbed them together before reaching for the brass doorknob. A clamor of bells announced his arrival.

Lockwood was adjusting one of the tall clocks. At the sound of the bells, he turned toward the door with screwdriver in hand. "Mr. Garrison." His voice as cold as the expression on his face, Lockwood closed the clock's glass door and walked behind the counter. "If you're here about the trial, you'd best speak to my lawyer."

Grant pulled off his hat. "That's not why I'm here," he said. "I came to tell you that your daughter has been arrested."

Had Grant expected Lockwood to show surprise or even dismay, he would have been sorely disappointed.

Instead, Lockwood only shrugged. "What has Amanda done this time?"

"Nothing that I know of. She's not the one in jail."

This time Lockwood did look surprised. "You're not saying that Meg..."

"I'm afraid so."

Lockwood rubbed his chin. "Hmm. What do you know? What's she doing there?"

"I believe she assaulted someone."

"Really?" Lockwood's eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline. "Who'd she assault? Tommy Farrell, I hope."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I believe it was the dogcatcher."

Lockwood pondered this for a moment. "Wonder what beef she has with him. Far as I know, he's on Lockwood time."

Grant ran a finger along his upper lip. Did everything in this town have to be about time? "Not anymore," he said wryly. "He's now on jail time."

Lockwood blew out his breath. "How much is that mercenary sheriff gonna charge me this time?"

"I believe the customary bail is five dollars."

"Harrumph." Lockwood pulled five singles out of the cashbox and locked it. He reached for his hat, plucked his keys off a hook, and stormed around the counter, stopping only to turn the sign in the window to Closed.

Recalling that Lockwood had had a recent health scare, Grant followed him outside and waited for him to lock the door. The man certainly looked robust enough. Was it possible that Miss Lockwood had exaggerated her father's condition?

"Do you have daughters, Mr. Garrison?" Lockwood asked.

"No, sir. I'm not married."

Lockwood pocketed his keys. "Well, if you're smart you'll keep it that way and raise chickens instead." With that, he turned and headed for the jailhouse.

Meg hurried to keep up with her father's long strides. For a man who had recently suffered a health scare, he was in rare form. "Papa, do slow down. Your heart..."

"There's nothing wrong with my heart," he insisted, but he slowed his pace. "It's bad enough that Amanda gets herself arrested with clocklike precision, but I thought you had more sense."

"I'm sorry, Papa, but-"

"But, but." He threw up his hands. "There's always a but." He stopped abruptly in the middle of the boardwalk and faced her. "In my day and time, a woman knew her place, and it certainly wasn't jail!"

"It wasn't my fault-"

"Then whose fault was it? You girls carry on like you've been raised by wolves."

"That's not true, Papa-"

"Isn't it? If Amanda spent half as much time learning domestic skills as she does chasing trouble, she might get somewhere. As for you, young lady..."

Her father was so busy ranting that he failed to notice the group of protestors marching down the middle of the street. There were close to twenty in all, each carrying a sign urging people to join the American Woman Suffrage Association. Leading the parade was a hefty woman dressed in black. The only bits of color on her person were a white band on her ample chest that read Votes for Women and a large, red plume on a hat that stood three stories and an attic tall-Amanda's work, no doubt.

Amanda followed at the rear of the small procession, waving an American flag and holding up traffic. Meg groaned. No doubt the group was purposely trying to get arrested to earn sympathy for their cause.

Papa had handled bailing one daughter out of jail with no apparent injury to his health, but Meg doubted his heart could handle two on the same day.

"And furthermore," Papa was saying, oblivious to his youngest daughter's latest endeavor, "your misconduct could be used against you in court and-"

"Oh, look, Papa." Meg grabbed him by the arm and all but hauled him into the nearest shop.

Her father pulled away from her clutches and glanced around like a man who had suddenly found himself on the moon. "What are we doing here? I have work to do, and so do you."

"Don't be so serious, Papa," she said, giving his arm a playful tug. "I wish to pick out a Christmas present for you."

"For me?" His lip curled. "Here?"

Meg looked around and her heart sank. Oh no! Of all possible places, she had inadvertently dragged her father into Walker's Gun Shop.

Rifles and shotguns hung from the walls between shelves of ammunition, and handguns were displayed in a glass case. Walking into Madam Bubbles's parlor couldn't have been more ill advised. Having served in that terrible war, Meg's father had sworn off guns forever. No wonder he looked so utterly affronted.

"What can I do for you, Lockwood?" the gunsmith, Mr. Walker, called from behind the counter. A blunt-jawed man with a thick nose and receding gray hair, he smelled of linseed oil and stale tobacco.

Her father waved his watch and tossed a nod at the clock on the wall behind the shop's owner. "You can set your clock to the right time. It's four minutes slow." He pocketed his watch and turned to Meg. "Come along. We've got work to do." He turned to leave just as the marchers began to pass by the front of the store.

"For me," Meg cried out. "I want a gun for me."

Her father stiffened momentarily before whirling about, a look of astonishment on his face. "You want a gun? What in the name of Sam Hill for?"

She tried to think of an answer and then remembered the fear that had run through her when she'd been accosted by that awful man. Who knew what might have happened if she hadn't been able to bash him over the head with her parasol!

"To protect myself."

Her father's eyebrows arched. "Protect yourself? From what?"

"From...from..." She cleared her voice. "Men who think I'm damaged goods and that they can have their way with me."

"Oh, for the love of Pete." Her father threw up his hands and called over to Walker, who was listening to their conversation with wide-eyed interest. "Help my daughter select a gun. And make it quick. I haven't got all day."

"Will do." Walker scurried over to a corner cabinet where an array of small pistols was displayed. He pulled out a single-barrel derringer and held it up for her to examine.

"This here's a fine gun for your purposes," he said.

"Are you sure it will work?" she asked. "It seems awfully small."

He drew back, waving his hands like a man trying to hold back a stampede. "I'm not making any promises here, mind you."

"Oh dear goodness." She sighed. "I'm not going to sue you."

Every man in town walked on eggshells around her now, even Reverend Wellmaker. During a recent sermon, he'd looked directly at her and, after promising life everlasting, qualified his statement. "Of course, there are no guarantees..."

Walker explained the merits of the weapon and how to carry it safely. He then showed her how to load it.

By the time Meg and her father left the shop fifteen minutes later, the marchers were nowhere in sight. Either they had returned to the hotel or were now in jail, heaven help them.

Her sister owed her big time. In her purse was a derringer she was now obliged to carry.

The following morning, Meg finished dressing and reached for her purse, the heavy weight an unpleasant reminder that she now owned a gun.

Grimacing, she pulled out the weapon and glanced around the room for a place to hide it. Did Walker accept returns? Not all shop owners did.

Without warning, her bedroom door flew open and Amanda burst inside waving a newspaper.

Upon seeing the gun in Meg's hand, she froze, a look of horror on her face. "Oh!" She closed the door behind her. "Where did you get that?" she asked, her voice hushed. "You know how Papa feels about guns."

Meg stuffed the gun in her purse and struggled to close the clasp. "He knows I have it."

"What?"

"And it's all your fault." Meg explained about dragging Papa into the gun shop. "I saved your hide. Again."

Instead of thanking her, Amanda grimaced. "You better have another trick up your sleeve. I'm gonna need all the help I can get."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Now what have you done?"

For answer Amanda held up the Two-Time Gazette. The bold headline read JILTED BRIDE'S SISTER MARCHES DOWN MAIN.

Meg's jaw dropped. "Oh no!"

"Meg, I'm sorry. I never dreamed they would use your name. Not with a real celebrity in town. They didn't even mention Lucy Stone." Amanda looked as indignant as a newly shorn sheep. "Imagine ignoring a fine woman like that!"

Meg stared at her sister in disbelief. She was the one who needed pity, not Lucy Stone. "That fine woman could have gotten you arrested." What a field day the editor would have had with that!

"It would have been for a good cause," Amanda said and frowned. "What am I going to do? If Papa sees the paper..." She shuddered.

Meg sighed. She could never stay irritated or angry at her sister for long. "We'll hide it from him."

"Do you think that will work?"

"No, but we can try." No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the sound of a slamming door shook the very walls, followed by Papa's booming voice.

"Amanda! Come here. Now!"

Two bodies came shooting through the batwing doors of the Last Chance Saloon and onto the boardwalk, missing Grant by mere inches. Grunting like bears, the two men rolled off the wooden sidewalk with pummeling fists and landed next to a brown horse tied to the hitching post in front.

"Hey!" Grant yelled. "Quit it. Both of you."

The two men raised their heads from the ground to stare at him, fists pulled back ready to do bodily harm to each other.

Grant regarded them with disgust. "That's no way to settle your differences." He pulled two white cards printed with his name from his coat pocket. Leaning over, he handed one to each man. "We can settle this dispute in my office."

"Well now..." one man said, pocketing the card. "That's mighty nice of you to offer your services."