Grant made a beeline straight down the middle of the narrow lane. He didn't even flinch when gunfire rent the air. Nor did he slow when Mr. Sloan crossed his path chasing the Johnson boy.

"You come back here, you young whippersnapper. Those are my carrots you stole..."

Reaching the end of the block, Grant jogged up the two steps leading to the Lockwood front porch and pounded on the door.

Seconds later, Meg opened the door and his already-racing heart skipped a beat.

"Grant." Her luminous eyes rounded. "What...what are you doing here?"

After a halfhearted effort to tuck his shirt inside his trousers, he raked his hand through his hair but doubted it did any good. He looked anything but his usual conservative Boston lawyer self. He hadn't even shaved, for crying out loud.

Meg glanced over her shoulder and stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She stood so close he could see the gold flecks at the tips of her lush eyelashes. She couldn't possibly know what she was doing to him, how her nearness made his heart turn over and made every part of him ache to take her in his arms.

She was dressed in a floral print skirt and white lace shirtwaist tied at the neckline with a pretty blue bow, but she looked pale and distraught.

Alarmed, Grant stepped forward. Had she been crying? "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Just...a family problem," she said, though her voice, her face, suggested much more. Her forehead creased, and her gaze dropped the length of him. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" No, nothing's wrong. Not now that he knew she wasn't wed. Except that I'm standing here in bare feet and feeling perfectly ridiculous. "I'm here on...on business."

He couldn't bring himself to tell her why he was really here. Not till he knew the full story. Knew why she had stopped her wedding, and if he had even the remotest chance of winning her heart.

She pulled her gaze away from his feet. "Business?"

Grant rubbed his bristly chin and groaned inwardly.

She moistened her lips. "Did anyone..." Her forehead furrowed. "Did everyone make it through the night?"

He nodded. "Far as I know."

"That's good news." Meg pressed a hand to her chest. "You said you were here on business. Is it about Tommy?"

"Tommy?" It took a beat for him to remember who the heck Tommy was. "Oh, you mean Tommy Farrell." His client. And the man she didn't marry.

"None of what happened was his fault," she said. "Surely the judge will take that into account."

"Before I talk to the judge, I need to know what you plan to do."

She frowned. "I'm sorry..."

Grant momentarily lost himself in the turquoise depths of her eyes. "When do you plan to reschedule your wedding?"

She shook her head. "It's over. We won't be getting married."

His heart practically leaped out of his chest. "Why? Why won't you marry him?" Is it because of me? Is it because our kiss still haunts you as it haunts me?

"Tommy has other things he wants to do, and so do I."

He stepped forward. "Like what? What other things?"

"Just...things," she said vaguely.

He stopped short of taking her in his arms, but only because a horse and wagon drove by. A man seen hugging an unmarried woman in broad daylight would appear ill-mannered, even by Texas standards, and wouldn't the editor of the Two-Time Gazette have a field day with that! Grant could see the headline now: BAREFOOTED LAWYER ACCOSTS JILTED BRIDE.

Meg gave her head a slight toss. "So, you see, your plan didn't work."

"Plan?" He stared at her, trying to make sense of the hurt he heard in her voice and saw in her eyes. What plan? Before he could make sense of it, she confused him further by placing a beseeching hand on his arm.

"Please...you mustn't let Tommy go to jail." She pulled her hand away, leaving behind the burning memory of her touch. "I won't marry him, and I don't want his money."

It shamed Grant to realize that he hadn't given a thought to how her decision would affect his client. "I can probably talk the judge into giving Tommy more time to meet the demands of his sentence, but...I'm afraid that's all I can do. Lynch's mind is made up."

He heard her intake of breath, but she said nothing.

"May I ask you something?"

Her chin inched up a notch. "Of course."

"You said something in the cemetery...about New Year's. That you almost came back to celebrate a second time."

Her cheeks reddened, and she looked away. "I felt sorry for you. Your sister...and you being away from home and all."

He stared at her, stunned. "You...you felt sorry for me?" Was that all it was? Pity?

There were many reasons for kissing someone, but pity had to be the least desirable.

Her gaze met his. "I can't imagine being away from family," she said. "Especially during the holidays."

The dogcatcher's wagon rumbled by. Another gunshot sounded. A dog barked. The earth continued to turn, and yet...it felt like the end of the world. His world.

"I better go." He turned abruptly.

Meg called after him. "Please, Grant. Don't let Tommy go to jail. I do love him, you know."

With those crushing words ringing in his head, he stalked away.

Meg watched Grant stride down the middle of the street. Not even his unkempt appearance could hide his male appeal.

She should never have said she'd felt sorry for him. She knew it even before she saw the stricken look on his face. What she'd really wanted to say was that she'd felt the depth of his grief and loneliness that New Year's Eve and had wanted to soothe his pain.

That was the God-honest truth as far as it went, but there was more. Much more. The moment their lips met, it was as if the whole world had been created for the sole purpose of bringing the two of them together.

But she couldn't say that, not quite that way. It seemed too personal. Too intimate. Too close to the heart.

She forced herself to breathe, but it did nothing to relieve the pain. How was it possible to hurt so much without a physical wound? Nothing written in the Miss Lonely Hearts column compared with the misery that cloaked her like a shroud. This only added to her guilt.

Tommy agreed that marriage was not right for them and didn't blame her for anything that had happened. Would he have been so understanding if he had known she was in love with another? In love with Grant?

She'd tried fighting it, denying it, but she could no longer ignore the truth. The train wreck had made certain of that. She'd known it in her terror. Fearing that Grant was injured or even dead made such pretenses fall by the wayside. Just the mere thought of not seeing him again had been more than she could bear.

Oh yes, she loved him. Loved him even though he'd let her marry another man rather than lose a case. Even though he'd betrayed her in the worst possible way.

How could she love such a man? The answer came from the whispers of her heart. Oh dear goodness. Given all the good qualities she knew he possessed-his kindness and compassion-how could she not?

Thirty-three.

Meg couldn't stay angry at Papa for long, no matter how hard she tried. The truth was, he worried her. Never had she seen him in such bad shape. Since Mama left, he'd walked around the house like a lost puppy. Meg prepared his favorite meals, but he only picked at his food. His face already appeared gaunt. Shadows skirted his eyes, and a network of deep lines made his skin resemble drought-parched ground.

The meticulous schedule he'd always followed fell by the wayside. Suddenly time seemed to hold no meaning for him. He arrived at the shop late and left early. He slept in fits and starts.

Late that Friday night, she heard him pacing the floor. Unable to sleep herself, she drew on her dressing gown and ran to his room with bare feet. She knocked on his bedroom door and, when he didn't answer, cracked it open. A sliver of light spilled into the dark hall.

"Papa?"

He turned to stare at her, his face haggard and his sunken eyes red. "How could I have been so stupid?" he muttered as if talking to himself.

She entered the room, closing the door behind her. She hated seeing him so distraught when he had always been so robust and strong. As a child, she'd thought he was a giant who could do no wrong. He'd taught her how to stand up for herself against school ruffians and walked the floor with her whenever she was hurt or feverish.

She was only five when he taught her how to adjust the grandfather clock in the parlor. She was so short that she had to stand on a stool to reach the pendulums, but he'd patiently instructed her until she could do it herself.

Though they'd had their share of battles through the years, never once did she doubt his love for her.

Now the tables had turned, requiring Meg to comfort him. Taking him by the hand, she led him to the chair in the corner where Mama liked to read, a mistake she realized as soon as he was seated.

The sweet fragrance of lavender perfume scented the air, bringing visions of her mother to mind. On the table next to the chair, a pearl earbob lay beside the book of poetry Papa had given Mama on their last anniversary.

Meg knelt by her father's side, holding his hand as he'd held hers so many times in the past.

"You're not stupid, Papa."

"People could have been killed."

"That's true, but thank God nobody was." She wasn't normally one to believe in miracles, but the lack of serious injuries had made a true believer of her.

"Your mother has every right to hate me."

"She doesn't hate you, Papa." Mama didn't have it in her to hate anyone. "She's just hurt. Give her time, and she'll come around."

He stared at the palms of his hands. "I can fix every timepiece that was ever made with these hands."

"I know, Papa. I know."

"But I can't fix the damage that has been done. Not to your mother. Not to this town."

"Yes, you can, Papa. By ending the feud and changing the way we keep time."

"The only way that can happen is if I agree to Farrell time. But that's based on some ridiculous formula that's scientifically invalid. My father and grandfather would turn over in their graves."

"But at least that would bring peace to the town."

He frowned. "But it wouldn't solve the train problem. They would still be running on a different time schedule. There could still be more accidents."

"Surely the train wreck made Mr. Farrell realize that things can't go on as they are."

Papa sighed. "All because of me, his son must cough up ten grand or face jail. Do you think Farrell would agree to anything I have to say?" He shook his head.

"You must try, Papa."

Even as she said it, she knew the chasm between the two men was too wide to bridge. As a child, she'd believed her father could do anything, but now she harbored no such illusions. The hardest thing about growing up was learning to accept parents as the flawed people they really were, warts and all.

She laid her head on his lap, her heart heavy. "They say time heals all wounds, Papa."

"Not all of them, Meg. Not all."

Things didn't fare much better at the shop the following Monday. Papa spent the better part of the morning staring at his tools as if trying to recall their purpose.

Meg tried her best to keep the shop running efficiently, while at the same time assisting customers. It didn't help that sleep, if it came at all, was fitful and filled with disturbing dreams-mostly about Grant, but also the train wreck.

Monday was clock-winding day, and the chore fell on her shoulders. Some clocks required tiny bronze keys. Others had metal cranks that had to be inserted onto winding points. Grandfather clocks were outfitted with weight chains that needed to be pulled down individually. Clocks that chimed on the quarter hour had more gears and therefore more winding points than clocks chiming only hourly. The tyranny of time knew no end. Along with the winding, hands had to be adjusted to accommodate the earth's movements. The sun rose farther in the north in the summer than it did in the winter, and that meant tiny adjustments had to be made throughout the year.

The complicated routine kept her hands busy but did nothing for her troubled thoughts.

Worry about Tommy and his family had made her toss and turn through the night. Besides that, she was so worried about Papa that she could barely eat. He just wasn't himself.

Though he loved debating politics, religion, and any other controversial subject, he didn't even bother to voice his opinion when Mr. Monroe objected to the proposed building of the Panama Canal.

"Makes no sense cutting across Panama," Monroe argued, trying to get a rise out of Papa. "Any fool reading a map can tell you that Nicaragua is the wiser choice."

"With all its volcanoes?" Meg asked, hoping to pull her father into the conversation, but her efforts failed. Soon even Mr. Monroe gave up and left.

At times it was necessary to repeat something before Papa would respond or answer a question. Even then, his answers were vague or incomplete. Sometimes he would stop talking midsentence, as if forgetting what he had been about to say.

Clocks in for repairs sat neglected on shelves. Meg had watched her father enough times to know how to take clocks apart and clean and oil the works, but some clocks needed more. They needed her father's expertise.

Meg tried to maintain a cheerful attitude, as much for her father's sake as their customers', but it was hard. No one but family knew that Mama had moved out of the house, and Meg hoped to keep it that way.