"This is between Tommy and me, no one else!" Meg cried.

"Nonsense. I'm your father, and it's my responsibility to see that you're taken care of. Now that you're damaged goods-"

"Henry!"

"You know what I mean, Elizabeth. A woman left at the altar is often regarded with less-than-customary respect. Every man will look at her with a more critical eye and naturally assume she's lacking in some way. Who would take a chance on marrying her now?"

Meg stared at her father in shock. Did he really think she was damaged goods? "I don't need a man," she cried, "and I certainly don't want Tommy's money!" Jumping to her feet, she slammed her chair against the table and stormed from the room in tears.

The following morning Meg decided to walk to town rather than wait for Papa to rig the horse and buggy and ride with him. She was still upset over the lawsuit and had hardly slept a wink. Maybe a walk would be the thing to help clear her head.

It was still early and few shops would be open, but already the widow Rockwell was hauling a box of belongings across the street.

Normally, Meg would stop to help her move, but not today. Nor did she pay any heed to Mr. Crawford raising Cain with Mr. McGinnis, his bagpipe-playing neighbor. She hardly even noticed when the Johnson boy almost ran her down while escaping the clutches of Mr. Sloan.

Nor did the big yellow hound running down the street with his tail between his legs earn more than a cursory glance. This time it wasn't the dogcatcher giving chase. Today the hound's tormentor was Cowboy, Mrs. Rockwell's black-and-white cat.

Something had to be done about that annoying tom, but not today. Today Meg had other things on her mind.

As if her father's latest plan wasn't bad enough, the editorial in the morning paper denounced breach-of-promise suits as a whole and referred to her by name as a manipulating gold digger!

Oooooooooh, her father made her so mad, and this ridiculous lawsuit was the least of it. Papa was the most stubborn, mule-headed man to ever inhabit the face of the earth. He never spoke when he could shout or walked when he could run.

Reaching the edge of town, Meg stomped onto the boardwalk. The heels of her boots hammered the wooden boards like two angry woodpeckers. Halfway down the block, someone called her name.

She spun her head in the direction of the male voice. Seeing her former fiance waving to her, she quickened her steps. She was in no mood to see anyone, and she certainly had nothing to say to Tommy Farrell.

Yanking the hem of her skirt up to her ankles, she stepped onto the muddy street and sidestepped a pile of horse manure, hoping to reach the sanctity of her father's shop before Tommy caught up to her.

No such luck. With unprecedented speed, he grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.

They were standing in the middle of Main Street. A horse and wagon swerved around them, causing the driver to rend the air with curses.

Meg pulled her arm away. "I have nothing to say to you, Tommy Farrell. Go to your precious islands and leave me alone!" She whirled about in a circle of skirts and stormed across the street to the other side.

"I can't go now," he called after her. "I can't leave town until this lawsuit is settled."

"That's all you care about. Leaving-"

"You don't understand."

"Oh, I think I understand just-"

"Meg, listen-"

"No, you listen-"

She stopped to tell him that there would be no lawsuit, but Tommy wouldn't let her get a word in edgewise. He joined her on the boardwalk, his mouth flapping up and down like a broken cellar door. Never had she seen him so riled.

"Your pa's a stubborn old fool and..."

On and on he went like an indignant jaybird. In the process he called her father every name under the sun, managing to insult not only him, but also a good number of God's creatures.

Knuckles planted firmly at her waist, Meg glared at Tommy. "How dare you talk about my father like that!" Much as she hated to admit it, everything he said was, to some extent, true. But that didn't give him any right to say it.

"Come on, Meg. You know I'm right. Now thanks to his money-grubbin' ways, I'm under orders not to leave town."

"My father is not money-grubbing. Nor is he a scoundrel or-"

"So what do you call suin' me? For ten thousand bucks, no less!"

"Honor," she said. "Which is something you know nothing about." If he did, he would never have waited until their wedding day to break off with her.

"Honor?" Tommy reared back. "Great Scott, you call that honor? It feels more like betrayal to me."

"You should know!" She turned and stormed away.

"If you go through with this lawsuit, then you're just as bad as your old man," he called after her.

Seething through gritted teeth, Meg let herself into her father's shop. Pocketing the key, she slammed the door shut with her foot. After the way Tommy had talked about her father, it would serve him right if she did go through with it. Yes, indeed it would.

Four.

Grant sat that Monday morning in the dining room of Mrs. Abbott's boardinghouse. A former bordello, the house now had sturdy, prim furniture and muted colors that made it look as respectable as a preacher's wife. The same was true for its owner, whose demure countenance belied her less-than-virtuous past.

For inside Mrs. Abbott's full-rounded body beat the heart of a woman who had once answered to the name of Good Time Sal. All that remained of the red-haired beauty of yesteryear was the painting on the parlor wall. Her once-glorious red hair was now snowy white, her lively blue eyes were faded, and her ivory-pink skin had long lost its luster. Thankfully, the gown in the portrait, with its eye-popping neckline, had been discarded along with the woman's youth.

Grant helped himself to a second cup of coffee and lingered over the morning headlines, the front page all that was left of the newspaper. His landlady had confiscated the rest of the Two-Time Gazette and sat opposite him at the table, clucking at the town's latest gossip. The other four tenants had already gone for the day, leaving just the two of them alone.

The breach-of-promise suit had made the front page, and the editor had made no effort to mince words. Grant frowned. Was Miss Lockwood really a gold digger? Or was she just lashing out from hurt? If it was the latter, she might be willing to settle out of court for less money. But if she really was a gold digger...

"Oh my!" Mrs. Abbott exclaimed. "You won't believe the letter someone wrote to Miss Lonely Hearts."

Grant never read that particular column and had no interest in it, but that didn't keep his landlady from reading it aloud to him each morning. Today's letter had been written by a wife with a philandering husband.

"I bet Mrs. Trollope wrote that letter," Mrs. Abbott said. "It sounds like her. Or maybe it was Mrs. Garner. Her husband is as trustworthy as a wolf in a henhouse." She wasn't alone in playing the Miss Lonely Hearts guessing game. The column's daily letters were the subject of much speculation in town and a topic of conversation everywhere Grant went.

So far, he was at a loss to explain what his sister had found so appealing about Texas in general and Two-Time in particular. Her letters had been filled with glowing reports of wildflowers, rolling hills, vast skies, and friendly folks. That was a far cry from reality. He now knew the state was populated with fat cattle, lean men, and short tempers. Friendly? Hardly. Fistfights broke out with little or no provocation. Gunfire was as common as houseflies. The only things saving this town from extinction were bad aims and fast horses.

The day he arrived in Texas had been the worst day of his life. Instead of finding his sister waiting for him at the Two-Time train depot, he had been greeted by his brother-in-law, Joe.

One look at Joe's face told him something was terribly wrong, and his words bore that out. His sister had gone into premature labor, and neither she nor her child had survived. It had been a stunning blow.

Grant would have left town then and there, had Joe not talked him into staying. "Mary was convinced you'd love it here."

Mary, his twin. The one person in the world who had known him better than anyone else. As children, it had seemed that she could even read his mind. For that reason, he had reluctantly agreed to stay. He'd give it his best shot if for no other reason than to honor his sister's memory.

So far, he'd found nothing to love about the town or the people. How could his sister have been so wrong about Two-Time? So wrong about him?

The tall, stately clock in the corner of the parlor sighed just before the hammer hit the bell. Deep, rich dongs filled the room, commanding attention with the same force as a judge's gavel. Out of habit, Grant pulled the watch from his vest pocket. A fifteen-minute difference in time meant that either the tall clock was slow or his watch was fast. Shrugging, he pocketed his watch and reached for his coffee cup. Might as well sit here as in his empty office.

It sure did look like staying in Two-Time was a mistake. He should have turned around immediately upon learning of his sister's death and gone back to Boston. Now he was obligated to stay, at least till the rent ran out on the office.

So far he had only one client, and he wasn't even sure about that. He'd told Farrell he would think about taking on his case and get back to him. There were risks involved in handling such a high-profile, controversial lawsuit, and it might do more harm to his business than good. He was viewed as an outsider and was likely to remain so if he took sides. On the other hand...

Startled out of his reverie by a sudden loud pounding at the front door, Grant spilled his coffee. He set his cup down and reached for his napkin. "Shall I see who it is?"

Mrs. Abbott rose and brushed a strand of white hair behind her ear. "I'll get it." She frowned. "It's probably Mrs. Walters wanting to borrow more flour."

She hastened from the dining room to the parlor, tottering from side to side like a child just learning to walk.

The banging persisted with an urgency that brought Grant to his feet.

Mrs. Abbott swung the front door open. Before a word escaped her mouth, a barrel of a man pushed his way inside, forcing her back against the wall.

"Your clock is running slow," he said as brusquely as one might sound an alarm. He crossed to the tall clock in the corner of the parlor with quick steps. It seemed like the only time a man walked or talked fast in this town was when he was interfering in somebody else's business.

After opening the clock's glass case, the man pulled a screwdriver from his pocket. Bending slightly at the waist, he turned the screw on the pendulum disk.

"You must check the clock each time you hear me ring the bell," he scolded as he worked. "It's the only way to ensure accurate time. If I hadn't heard the gongs as I walked by your house, you'd have ended up on Farrell time."

Mrs. Abbott's eyes rounded in horror. "Oh dear!"

Watching from the dining room doorway, Grant frowned. The two of them made Farrell time sound like the end of the world.

The visitor stepped back and pulled out his watch. After checking the time, he made one more adjustment before closing the cabinet. Seemingly satisfied, he doffed his hat and left with nary a good-bye.

Mrs. Abbott shut the door after him and walked back to the dining room.

"Who was that man?" Grant asked, taking his seat.

"Why, that was Mr. Lockwood-"

"Lockwood!" Meg's Lockwood's father? He should have known.

"When the bell in front of Lockwood Watch and Clockworks rings, I'm supposed to check the time on my clock." She wrung her hands. "Sometimes I get busy and forget."

Grant shook his head. "What business is it of his if your clock runs fast or slow?"

Bells rang throughout the day at all different times. The bells from the large clock in front of Lockwood's shop had a deeper tone than the bell from Farrell's, which allowed Two-Time residents to tell them apart. The gongs were so loud and insistent that not even a blind man could ignore the passage of time. Mercifully, the bells stopped at night or no one would get any sleep. It was hard enough sleeping through the gunfire.

"Oh, Mr. Lockwood is just being thoughtful," Mrs. Abbott assured him. "He doesn't want me to be late. My boarders depend on me serving meals on time."

"I still think he had his nerve barging in like that."

"It's a good thing he did. Look what happened to Mrs. Fitzgerald. She missed her husband's funeral, and all because she refused to keep her clock properly wound. When she finally arrived nearly two hours late, they had to open the grave and repeat the whole service over again just for her benefit."

Grant rubbed the back of his neck. He'd never heard of anything so ridiculous. No such problems existed in Boston, which adhered to the standard time established by the Harvard College Observatory. Prior to regulated time, train crashes in the area had been a frequent occurrence. More than a hundred accidents were the direct result of engineers leaving or arriving at depots too early or too late, and not knowing the location of other trains.

Mrs. Abbott still looked distressed as she returned from the kitchen to refill Grant's cup. "I'll try to remember to check that the clock runs on time. I don't want you to be late for the office," she said.

"Thank you." Not that anyone in town would notice if he was late or altogether truant. Lockwood's unwelcomed interruption had served one purpose though. Grant's sympathy for Tommy Farrell had increased tenfold. No wonder the poor fellow got in over his head. The possibility of a father-in-law like that was enough to make any man have second thoughts about marriage. Taking on the Farrell case no longer seemed like such a bad idea.

Five.

The meeting at Mr. Barnes's law office to discuss the breach-of-promise lawsuit was scheduled for 1:00 and 1:40 p.m. consecutively to accommodate both parties.

Meg insisted upon arriving early. She had something to say, and she needed to say it before Tommy and his attorney made their appearance.

Mr. Barnes greeted Meg and her parents at the door and then ran around the office clearing books and papers off chairs to make room for them to sit. A man of extremes, he had a rotund body perched upon pencil-thin legs. His full beard hardly seemed to belong with the shiny, bald head it sat upon.

He pushed a pile of papers aside and perched on the corner of his desk, arms folded. "Well now, little lady, your father said you have some questions."

Seated between her parents, Meg pulled off her white gloves and laid them across her lap. Normally the lawyer's condescending tone would infuriate her, but today she had other things on her mind.

"Only one," she said. "What do we have to do to drop the lawsuit?"

This brought an immediate reaction from her father. "Meg, we've been through this a hundred times. We can't let Tommy get away with what he did to this family." His voice rose until it rattled the windows. "To you!"

"Henry, you promised not to shout," Mama said.

"I'm not shouting!" her father shouted.

Meg clenched her hands tight. "I'm the one he walked out on, not you. And you didn't want me to marry him in the first place."

"That's neither here nor there. The man hurt you and deserves to pay."

"I don't want his money. I want nothing from him!" Her voice rose to an unladylike level, but it was the only way she knew to penetrate her father's thick skull.

"Now, now." Mr. Barnes waved his hands up and down like a housewife shaking out the wash. "Let's all remain calm. It wouldn't do to let the other party know we're not in full accord." He cleared his throat and pushed his spectacles up his nose. "So, Meg, what exactly are you saying?"