The woman was pretty badly bruised, with one leg in a splint, but when Meg gently placed the child in her arms, she managed a cry of pure joy.

"Thank you, thank you," the woman whispered in an emotional voice and promptly burst into tears. "Thank you."

Leaving mother and child, Meg turned just as a doctor finished putting a victim's arm in a splint. Only the top of the man's head was visible, but the sight of blond hair was enough to tell her it wasn't Grant.

The smell of oil, coal, and creosote ties made Meg feel dizzy, and her stomach churned. The early throes of panic that had swept the station had now given way to confusion.

Hours passed. Dusk fell, and the cool air turned frigid. A wagonload of blankets arrived, and Meg gathered an armful to distribute to the victims, saving a couple for the woman in labor.

When it looked as if that time had arrived, Meg and Amanda held up a blanket to provide a measure of privacy for the expectant mother while Josie assisted the midwife.

"Push," Mrs. Connor ordered. Amazingly she was able to stay calm, as if delivering a baby under such dire circumstances was a normal occurrence.

The young woman's screams could be heard over the shouts of rescue workers, sending chills down Meg's back. Nearby, the woman's injured husband struggled to sit up, and Meg rushed to his side. The young father's leg was wrapped in a blood-soaked kerchief. He looked in worse condition than his laboring wife. His face was pale, and his eyes were round in fear.

"Is she gonna-"

Meg assured him with a nod and a smile. "She's in good hands."

After what seemed like forever but was really only minutes, Mrs. Connor sang out, "You have a baby boy." The happy news was followed by a baby's thin cry, which brought smiles all around.

"A son?" The father looked like he never heard of such a thing.

"Yes, yes," Meg assured him. "You have a beautiful son."

Tears filled his eyes. "Is...is he all right?"

Meg laughed. "I'd say anyone with lungs like that is more than all right."

The father's wide smile warmed Meg's heart. "Well now..."

While the midwife attended the needs of the child's weary mother, Josie wrapped the infant in a blanket and placed the small bundle in his father's arms.

Meg watched with a worried frown. Josie's and Ralph's three-year marriage had failed to produce a child, but nothing in her sister's manner suggested anything but delight for the young couple. Josie's ability to put her own feelings aside to embrace another's happiness was something to be envied.

Meg stared at father and son through misty eyes. Their new connection was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. Even Amanda had a suspicious gleam in her eyes. Never had Meg seen her younger sister look so fiercely engrossed without holding a picket sign.

Since Mrs. Connor had everything under control, Meg walked the length of the depot, winding around the wounded and dodging carts and workers, stopping to help anyone in need. The whole time she worked, her eyes, her heart, her soul searched for Grant.

God, where is he? She'd seen many miracles here today. Was it too much to hope for yet another?

Thirty.

Meg couldn't remember ever feeling so exhausted. Her muscles were sore from helping to lift the injured into wagons. Her eyes watered from the smell of smoke and heated steel. She was cold, so very, very cold, her fingers frozen to the bone.

Her wedding gown was completely ruined. Not only was it ripped to shreds, but it was also splattered with blood. Even Mama's expert sewing skills couldn't repair the damage this time. Several inches of fabric were missing from her hem. The bow from the top of her bustle had been made into a splint for a young man's injured leg. The sleeves of her dress had become bandages.

Shivering, she blew on her hands, praying she'd find Grant at last. And then she saw him on the other side of the depot. Just like that, her misery disappeared.

All at once, she was moving, her frozen feet barely skimming the wooden platform. She called his name and he turned, his face seeming to light up at the sight of her. Or maybe it was just a trick of the eye.

She was tempted, so tempted, to toss propriety to the wind and throw her arms around him. Instead, she touched his bloodied hand. He was coatless, his shirt splattered with blood and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"You're hurt."

"No." His fingers encircled her wrists, stopping her probing search for his injury. "I wasn't on the train."

She gazed up at him, her heart so full of relief and thanksgiving that she thought it would burst. "What?"

"It's not my blood. I wasn't on the train-"

A million questions flitted through her mind, but before she could get the words out, a male voice called, "We need help!"

Grant glanced over his shoulder. "Be right there." He turned back to her, his face suffused with concern. "Your dress..."

Suddenly aware that his fingers were still pressing into her flesh, she pulled her hand away. Blushing beneath his steady gaze, she lowered her eyes.

"I-I must look dreadful."

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she regretted them. How could she worry about appearances when so many people were hurting? Nevertheless, she reached up to smooth her hair. The pins had fallen out, and locks tumbled down her back in tangled curls.

"You look-" He wagged his head as if shaking away whatever he had been about to say. "You're cold," he said instead, his voice husky.

Arms crossed in front, Meg hugged herself to ward off the chill. "It doesn't matter." Knowing he wasn't injured put her mind at rest so she could concentrate fully on the wounded passengers.

"Here." Grant pulled off his vest and wrapped it around her shoulders. "It's not much, but every little bit helps."

"Thank you." The manly smell of bay-rum hair tonic, sweat, and leather all but erased the metallic odor of blood. But it was the warmth left by his body that made her limbs tremble and her emotional barriers waver.

"Meg..." His gaze clung to her face. "Your wedding day. It was ruined..."

The reminder of his courtroom trick slammed into her, and she sucked in her breath. There wouldn't have been a wedding had he not done what he did, told Tommy what he had. Hurt unlike anything she'd ever known threatened to overwhelm her. Balling her hands into fists by her sides, she fought for control. This was neither the time nor the place to vent such thoughts.

"Go," she said, her muffled pain sounding like bitterness. "They need you."

Grant tilted his head in a frown. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Refusing to give in to tears, she looked away. "Just go."

He hesitated for a moment before vanishing into the milling crowd.

Meg immediately recognized the young boy lying on the platform, and the shock of icy fear gripped her. Dropping to his side, she shook him gently on the shoulder.

"Tucker," she cried. "Tucker, wake up!"

He was one of the injured still waiting for medical attention. He wore no coat and only a thin shirt.

She shook him again, and this time, his eyes fluttered open. Air rushed out of her lungs. He was still alive. Thank God. He'd lain so still and looked so pale that for a moment she thought...

She pushed his hair away from his face and felt a lump on his forehead.

His newspaper bag was still slung across his body. It was common practice for local newsboys to sell papers on trains during depot stops.

Ever so carefully, Meg lifted the canvas bag over his head and pulled out a single newspaper, all he had left. She then folded the bag to make a pillow for his head.

"There you go. How's that?"

Tucker's eyelids drifted downward.

She glanced around, hoping to spot someone passing out blankets, but no such luck. Some of the poorer families in town placed newspapers in shoes and coat linings for warmth, and this gave her an idea. Spreading the newspaper over him, she tucked the ends beneath his small, still frame. She pulled the vest from her shoulder and placed it over the newspaper.

"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."