She looked up. Fortunately, no one seemed to have detected anything amiss. Not even Mr. Garrison, who was deep in conversation with the judge, his back turned. That man didn't miss much and would have probably noticed, had he been looking their way.

Fortunately, although Sallie-May and her friends were standing a short distance away, they were whispering among themselves and probably hadn't noticed either.

Neither had Mama. She was too busy unbuttoning Papa's collar and trying to make him comfortable.

"Henry," Mama said, shaking him gently, face etched with worry. "Talk to me."

Josie wrapped an arm around Mama. "The doctor will be here shortly."

Mama's lips trembled. "Do...do you think he'll be all right?"

Mr. Garrison finished his conversation and turned. Meg met his gaze. "That's up to Tommy's lawyer," she said.

By the time the doctor arrived, her father had "recovered," though he still clutched at his chest and managed a hacking cough. No Shakespearean death scene was as dramatic as her father's performance. Even Mama was fooled.

Dr. Stybeck checked Papa's pulse and thumped on his chest. "I told you to remain calm," he scolded.

Her father lifted his head from the floor to glare at opposing counsel. "Calm? How can I remain calm while my daughter is being hammered to death?"

Barnes shook his head and croaked.

"What did you say?" Papa asked.

"I think he said you knew it wouldn't be easy," Meg replied.

"You didn't tell me it would be this hard." Papa struggled to sit up. As if recalling he was on death's doorstep, he clutched at his throat and made a gasping sound.

Alarmed, Mama patted his back. "Now, Henry. You're getting yourself all worked up again."

"And for good reason." Cough, cough. Groan. Gasp.

"Maybe you should take him home, Mama," Meg said. Papa's theatrics were bound to rouse suspicion sooner or later.

Her father wagged his head from side to side. "I'm staying," he said in a strained deathbed voice that would make any martyr proud.

Barnes and the doctor lifted him off the floor and helped him to a chair, where he sat limp as a rag doll.

The judge gave the bench several sound raps with his gavel. "In light of Mr. Lockwood's health, I suggest we bring this hearing to a close as soon as possible." He turned to Mr. Garrison. "Do you have any other witnesses?"

Mr. Garrison rose and Meg held her breath. "Just one, Your Honor. My client. Tommy Farrell."

"And do you have any more questions of this witness?"

Garrison locked her in his gaze. "No, Your Honor," he said.

Meg sagged in her chair. The worst was over.

Tommy took the stand but didn't really have much to say in his own defense. He did admit he'd felt pressured into marrying Meg by a town eager to put an end to the feud.

After Barnes cross-examined him, Tommy was excused.

Judge Lynch addressed both lawyers. "You may present your closing arguments. Court will then be in recess until after the first of the year." He glared at her father. "I'll announce my decision then."

Meg's heart sank. Papa was well meaning, but she had a terrible feeling that he'd earned them no favors with the judge.

Twenty-one.

On the day after Christmas, Meg sat in the parlor reading the morning newspaper.

She had never paid any attention to the Miss Lonely Hearts column until Josie took it over. Now she read it religiously. It was the first thing she turned to each morning after breakfast. Today was no different.

The letters were entertaining. Some were downright hilarious, others more serious and even sad. Still, why anyone would write a stranger for advice was a puzzle. Today the first letter read: Dear Miss Lonely Hearts, I am a twenty-year-old man with a respectable job and small savings. My problem is this: I've been in love with a certain girl for as long as I can remember, but she doesn't even know I'm alive. How can I get her to notice me?

The letter was signed The Invisible Man.

She read Josie's answer with great interest.

Dear Invisible, The fairer sex has a disadvantage in affairs of the heart, as each woman must wait for the male to make the first move lest she be thought forward or brazen. It's possible your maiden of choice is waiting for you to make your intentions known so that at long last she can reveal the true longings of her heart. So don't keep the lady waiting. Present yourself at once on her doorstep with a bouquet of flowers in your hand and words of love flowing from your lips.

Meg laughed at Josie's answer. Who knew that Josie had a previously hidden flair for drama? It seemed that even calm, composed Josie wasn't immune to Papa's influence.

Sighing, Meg tossed the newspaper aside. She certainly would notice a man standing on her doorstep, flowers or no flowers. Not that such a thing was likely to happen now that her name was mud. What man in his right mind would take a chance on a woman known to sue for promises not kept? Her father had made her every man's nightmare.

As she faced the harsh realities of a bleak, lonely future, Meg's spirits sank even lower.

The grandfather clock in the corner groaned, and the wall clocks sighed. Seconds later, the cacophony of alarms struck the hour of eight. Only today, bongs, gongs, cuckoos, and chimes weren't what bombarded her ears. It was mocking laughter.

Jilted bride, jilted bride, jilted bride...

She covered her ears, and when that failed to bring relief, she ran around the room, turning each clock in such a way as to disrupt its delicate balance. She knocked against the Christmas tree, and a glass ball fell to the floor and shattered.

Giving it no heed, she continued to dislodge pendulums, push birds into little wooden houses, and force minute hands to move until a strange and unaccustomed silence blanketed the wall.

This abrupt silence brought her father racing down the stairs, watch in hand, suspenders flapping at his sides. He stopped when he reached the parlor and stared at the tilted clocks.

Expecting him to scold her, Meg stood with arms crossed and waited. It wasn't like her to be so defiant or out of sorts, but Papa and this dumb lawsuit had pushed her to the limit.

Papa surprised her by not saying a word. Instead, he calmly walked from clock to clock. Like a doctor breathing life into his patients, he straightened wood casings, adjusted pendulums, and reset minute hands. Only after the last clock had been adjusted did he speak, his voice oddly quiet and controlled.

"When we soldiers came back to town after the war, there were no bells to greet us," he said. "They had all been melted for the war effort, even the church bells. Without bells, there was no way to announce the birth of a child or death of a loved one." He stopped to straighten one last clock.

"We had no way of calling people to worship, warning of a fire, or summoning a doctor. The citizens lived in total isolation, and I vowed to change all that. And so I melted down every piece of metal I could find, even watches. That's how I made the bell that now hangs over the shop."

Meg had been only two when her father went to war and was nearly six when he returned. She remembered the first time the Lockwood bell rang and how she thought it was the most amazing sound in the world. She also recalled the tears in her mother's eyes. It was the first time Meg understood that tears could be shed for joy as well as sorrow, though nothing good that happened to her had ever made her cry.

Her father paused for a moment to adjust another clock. "Mine was the first bell in town after the war. We rang the bell for soldiers who returned and soldiers lost. The chime of clocks and ringing of bells that you find so objectionable brought people together then, and they bring people together now."

"And your ridiculous feud with Mr. Farrell is what tears them apart!"

Her father's hand froze on a regulator clock. "That's Farrell's fault. Not mine."

Shaking now, she fought for control. "Tommy told me his father wanted to go into business with you after the war, but you refused."

"Why do you keep harping on this, Meg?" He gazed at her over his shoulder. "Hmm?"

"Why do you keep refusing to answer my questions?"

"Questions, questions." Her father tugged on the chains of the grandfather clock. "What time is it when ten dogs run after one cat?"

Teeth gritted, she seethed. As a child she'd fallen for her father's distracting tricks, but those days were long gone. "I don't know, Papa, and I don't care."

"Ten to one."

A footfall sounded, and Mama swept into the room. She took one look at Papa and then turned to Meg. "Is everything all right?"

"No, Mama. It's not all right." Meg turned and fled from the room. Things would never be all right, not ever again.

Less than a week later, on New Year's Eve, Josie saw Meg to the door. "Must you leave so early?" she asked, her forehead lined with worry. The chimes of the gold clock on the mantel rang out. It was only thirty minutes to midnight.

"Can't you at least stay to ring in the new year?"

Meg pulled her cloak around her shoulders and tied the ribbon beneath her chin. "I'm sorry. I'm just not in the mood to celebrate tonight."

It had been hard enough to get through Christmas, but nothing compared to the depression that weighed her down now. Her sisters were so certain that '81 would be better than the last year, but Meg was less optimistic. It was hard to think much past the reading of the verdict next week. However the judge ruled, there would be no winners, only losers.

"I don't want to spoil your fun," she said.

Josie's expression softened. "You could never do that."

Meg forced a smile. She didn't want her sister to worry. "It's better this way."

"At least let Ralph walk you home."

She glanced at Ralph and Amanda sitting in front of a blazing-hot fire, playing cribbage. She didn't want him out in the cold night.

"No need. I'll be fine," she said, her confident voice belying her anxiety. Since being accosted by that inebriated man, walking alone made her nervous, especially at night. The gun in her cloak pocket gave her small comfort. Could she use it if she had to?

"Happy New Year," she called and stepped outside.

The night was cool and clear and the sky bright with stars. Her breath came out in white plumes. After giving her sister a final wave good-bye, she shoved her hands into the cloak's deep pockets for warmth.

With a heavyhearted sigh, she started for home.

Laughter wafted from a nearby house, along with snatches of a song. Someone was playing "Auld Lang Syne" on a piano, and in the distance she could hear the high-pitched sound of a fiddle. Someone anxious for the new year to start set off a firecracker. A bright light flashed overhead, followed by a loud boom that set off a chorus of barking dogs.

The whole world seemed to be in a partying mood. Never had Meg felt so utterly alone, and her feet dragged as if attached to a ball and chain.

Halfway down the block, a tall form stepped out of the shadows. Halting in her tracks, she slipped her hand into the cloak's deep pocket where she kept her gun.

"W-who's there?" she called.

"Miss Lockwood, is that you?"

Relief whooshed out of her, and she pulled her hand out of her pocket. She'd recognize that strong baritone voice anywhere.

"Mr. Garrison!"

She hadn't seen him since the day he questioned her in court. He had only been doing his job, and she tried not holding that against him, but it was hard. Especially tonight when she felt so emotionally vulnerable. He knew things about her that few people knew, and worse yet, all unknowingly, he made her feel and think things that shook her to the core.

"What...what are you doing here?" Somehow she managed to conceal her mixed emotions behind a calm voice.

"I live here," he answered, moving into the amber circle cast by the gas streetlight. She glanced at the imposing house behind him. It was the only structure on the block not blazing with light. "You live at Mrs. Abbott's boardinghouse?" Why on earth? There were other boardinghouses on the street with less scandalous pasts.

As if reading her mind, he flashed a smile. "Worried about my virtue, are you?"

Feeling her face grow warm, she was grateful for the dim light. "Certainly not. I was just...wondering why you aren't throwing your hat over the windmill like everyone else."

He tilted his head. "You're not. Is your father-"

"He's fine health-wise. I'm just not in a celebratory mood."

"Guess that makes two of us."

She studied him. Rather than hide his good looks, the dim yellow light emphasized his fine chiseled chin and handsome broad forehead.

"Why is that, Mr. Garrison?"

"Grant," he said.

"I'm sorry-"

"The trial's over except for the verdict. We can stop with the formalities." When she failed to respond, he added, "You aren't still harboring ill feelings toward me, are you? For what happened in court? I wasn't too rough, was I?"

"Rough enough," she said.