"Would you ladies care for a newspaper?" Mr. Garrison addressed them both but gazed directly at Meg.

Meg afforded him a polite smile. "We'll pass, thank you."

The boy continued on his way, and Mr. Garrison opened the San Antonio Daily Times with a snap and began reading.

The top of the newspaper came up to the tip of his nose. This allowed Meg to study him at length. He really was a fine-looking man. Everything from his highly polished shoes to his black felt bowler was impeccable. His square face lacked the leathery look of local ranchers, making him appear younger than his years, which she guessed to be somewhere in his late twenties or perhaps early thirties. But what he lacked in sunbaked lines he made up for in commanding presence.

He was no doubt a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom. That's what worried her. Next to him, Mr. Barnes looked like a rank beginner.

What a pity Mr. Garrison had chosen to pursue such a profession! Lawyers got rich off other people's misfortunes, and she had no patience for the lot of them.

Next to her, Amanda fingered the velvet ribbon purchased that day and gave a contented sigh. "I can hardly wait to get started on the new hat I'm making for Mrs. Wellmaker. The color will go perfectly with her eyes. Don't you agree?"

"I'm sure it will," Meg said, as if she cared what the pastor's wife wore.

The church was the only neutral territory in town because the pastor refused to show favoritism by using either Farrell or Lockwood time. He chose instead to ring the church bells at random on what he called the Lord's time. That meant Sunday worship could be anywhere between seven and noon, depending on when the good reverend felt compelled to preach.

Anyone who didn't wish to be caught racing to church in less-than-stylish attire had to plan ahead.

"And this one is perfect for Mrs. Evanston," Amanda was saying. "It's a lovely shade."

It was a bright red that would look more appropriate on Madame Bubbles, owner of Two-Time's house of ill repute, than a politician's wife. Amanda insisted that hats made a statement, giving women a presence in a society that basically treated them as invisible. Her philosophy was simply the higher, the wider, the bolder, the better. She had nothing but contempt for the modest, ladylike hats favored by Mama, Josie, and Meg.

"Shouldn't the mayor's wife wear something more sedate?" Meg asked, trying not to sound critical.

"Hats aren't meant to be sedate. They're supposed to make a statement about a person and make her presence known. Sort of like those old hoop skirts we were forced to wear as children. Feel it. Isn't it soft?"

Meg rubbed a finger along the satiny length. "Yes, it is soft." How anyone could carry on so about ribbons she would never know. "Papa will have a fit if he finds out that you're making hats for her." The mayor favored Farrell time, and that infuriated their father.

Amanda made a face. "I don't care. I love Papa dearly, but sometimes he can be so stubborn."

With a slight tilt of her head, Meg reminded her sister that they weren't alone. Such private discussions should never be aired in public. Not only did it show disrespect for their father, but who knew how Mr. Garrison might use Amanda's words to his own advantage during the trial?

The lawyer seemed completely engrossed in his newspaper, but that could be an act. While Meg was watching him, an idea about how to stop the lawsuit popped into her head. What if she could convince Mr. Garrison that he didn't have a chance in Hades of winning the case? Maybe then he'd advise his client to settle out of court, bringing a swift end to the ordeal. If the two lawyers worked together, perhaps they could persuade her father to accept a more modest settlement. One that wouldn't send Tommy to the poorhouse. At this point, she was desperate enough to try anything.

"I do agree with Papa in one regard," she said, her voice a tad louder than necessary to make sure it could be heard over the rumble of wheels on track.

Amanda's head pivoted in her direction. "That's a first, you agreeing with Papa."

The careless shrug of her shoulders belied Meg's anxiety. She didn't want Tommy's money. She didn't want anything from him.

"In this case, he's right. The wedding cost him a great deal of money. Not to mention the inconvenience Tommy caused the family and wedding guests. All hundred and fifty of them, if I'm not mistaken."

Amanda's mouth fell open, but fortunately she was too stunned to voice her surprise at Meg's change of heart.

Not so Mr. Garrison. The newspaper inched downward, and he greeted her gaze with raised eyebrows that quickly knitted into a frown.

"I thought we agreed not to discuss the case, Miss Lockwood."

Aha! It was just as Meg had thought. He was eavesdropping. With a careless toss of her head, she brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her skirt. "I wasn't talking to you, Mr. Garrison. I was talking to my sister."

He inclined his head. "My mistake."

"Yes, isn't it?" she said with meaning.

He studied her for a moment before lifting his newspaper to eye level and blocking himself from her view.

Convinced her little plan was working, she continued, "The bridal dress alone cost more than two hundred dollars. So-"

"Two hundred and fifty-nine dollars to be exact," Mr. Garrison said without lowering his newspaper.

Meg stared across the narrow aisle. "Did you say something, Mr. Garrison?"

The paper collapsed onto his lap, exposing an expression that was the model of innocence. "Oh, I apologize, Miss Lockwood. I was talking to your sister."

Amanda's gaze swung back and forth between the two of them, a puzzled frown on her face.

Arms spread apart, Mr. Garrison lifted the newspaper until only the top of his hat could be seen above the headline. Meg had heard that looks could kill, but right now she would settle for hers burning a hole right through the center of all that paper and print.

"In addition to the dress and other expenses," she continued, spacing each word precisely, "there's the matter of mental anguish..."

Behind his newspaper, Grant Garrison almost laughed out loud. Mental anguish? The woman had to be kidding. Nothing was wrong with Miss Meg Lockwood's mental faculties, that was for sure. She knew exactly what she was doing. She had his ear and meant to make the most of it.

Keeping his gaze hidden, he listened as she rattled on. "I haven't been able to sleep for a month," she said.

Ha! An outward lie if he'd ever heard one. He lowered his paper until she came into full view. No woman could look so downright attractive without adequate sleep. Today, her eyes fairly sparkled, and not so much as a shadow or line marred her pretty, round face. Not only did the turquoise dress beneath her cape match the color of her eyes, but it also showed off her tiny waist and slender hips.

Her hair was swept into a tidy bun this time, allowing only the most stubborn tendrils to escape. A perky hat sat upon her head, the feather as rigid as her ramrod back.

Purposely ignoring his gaze, she continued to cite every possible expense imaginable, words spilling out like water from a pump. Invitations, stamps, ink, paper, cake, decorations, trousseau, and shoes-on and on she went.

At mention of her trousseau, his mind traveled back to the day her hope chest overturned, revealing its intriguing contents. Tommy Farrell would never know what he'd missed. All that lace and satin and...

"And then of course there's Mama's dress and yours and-"

His head fairly spun. Did a wedding really require so much folderol? And what was wrong with wearing a previously worn pair of shoes? Or even a dress for that matter? No one looked at anyone other than the bride. So why did her sisters need all that new frippery?

These were questions he would present to the court, but he suspected they'd have little impact. Her father was a force to be reckoned with and his daughter no less so. Her big eyes alone could sway even the likes of Judge Isaac Parker, the hanging judge of Fort Smith, Arkansas.

And that's what worried him.

Seven.

Meg stood behind the counter of the Lockwood Watch and Clockworks shop examining the pocket watch the widow Mrs. Burberry had brought in for repairs.

The eleven-jewel timepiece was a finely crafted Waltham made by the American Watch Company. Housed in a silver hunter case, it was similar to the one Abraham Lincoln had carried. No doubt it had been purchased sometime during the War Between the States. Watches with metal lids had been originally designed for hunters, the clamshell casings protecting a watch's delicate face from dirt and physical shocks. They became especially popular with soldiers during the war.

With neatly written figures, Meg carefully recorded the make and serial number into the store's watch book. Her mother had insisted that working in her father's shop would take Meg's mind off the disastrous wedding and pending lawsuit.

Her mother was wrong.

Even now, Meg felt Mrs. Burberry's faded gray eyes watching her every move like a detective shadowing a suspect. Nearly six weeks had passed since that fateful wedding day, but there still appeared to be no end to the stares. Some sympathetic. Most critical.

The strange looks she got were the least of it. Everyone seemed to have an opinion about what had gone wrong, and some were not afraid to express it. Worse, many placed the blame squarely on Meg's shoulders. According to the town's meddling matrons, it was a woman's job to not only land a man, but also to keep him.

"Your husband's?" Meg asked. Alvin Burberry had died last spring.

Mrs. Burberry nodded. "Yes, I want to mail it to our son."

"It's a very well-made watch," Meg said. "I'm sure Papa will have no trouble repairing it. Probably just needs a good cleaning."

"My Alvin wouldn't buy a watch that wasn't well made." The dowager sniffed. "He said a watch should be chosen with the same care as a wife and should run with the same efficiency as a well-run household."

Meg afforded the widow a wan smile. "I would imagine a watch has an easier time of it than a housewife and is probably more appreciated."

She meant it as a joke, of course, but you would never know it by the look of disapproval on the widow's face.

"Being a housewife is a noble profession, as the good Lord intended." The older woman snapped her thin lips shut in a way that signaled her opinion was not to be questioned. "Men want us to cook the bacon, not bring it home. Nor do men care for independent women with minds of their own." Though she fell short of accusing Meg outright of such folly, her expression said it all.

Meg bit back the retort that flew to her lips. Even though she dreamed of getting married and raising a family, she saw no reason why she couldn't still work in Papa's shop on occasion if that's what she chose to do. Why should marriage limit her options?

The widow was a product of her upbringing, the same as Meg's father. But times were changing. Women were now allowed to attend college, and Meg had heard that women in big cities such as Boston and New York thought nothing of working outside the home. But she kept such thoughts to herself. Offending a customer was strictly forbidden.

Instead, she handed a receipt across the counter with a forced smile. Like it or not, the customer was always right-at least till she walked out the door, which thankfully Mrs. Burberry soon did.

Ohh! People like that made her so mad.

Worse than the verbal advice or criticisms were the articles cut from Godey's Lady's Book magazines and left surreptitiously on the counter for her to find. The bold-printed headlines promised everything a woman needed to know about landing a husband.

Never act smarter or more knowledgeable than the object of your affection. So went the typical piece of advice. Reading novels was discouraged, as was voicing one's opinion on religion and politics. Women were counseled instead to stick to such mind-numbing topics as fashion and the weather.

That was all well and good when talking to some men. But one as educated and refined as, say, Mr. Garrison would surely expect more from a lady friend than such drivel. Not that it mattered what the eastern lawyer expected or preferred.

Even if it did, Meg supposed she could never compete with the fancy women he must have known in Boston. She stared down at her plain gingham frock and sighed. If only he didn't keep popping into her thoughts.

If I had someone like you waiting at the altar...

Annoyed at herself for entertaining such thoughts, Meg slammed the watch book shut.

Looking up from his workbench, her father pulled the small magnifying glass away from his eye. "Mrs. Burberry didn't mean any harm. She was only trying to help."

"I don't need her help or anyone else's." After all the bad publicity, Meg's marriage prospects looked far from promising. She might as well just resign herself to spinsterhood and be done with it. "What do I need a husband for anyway?"

Her father's eyebrows lifted. "Now you sound like your sister."

"Maybe Amanda has the right idea."

"In time you'll change your mind." Regret edged his voice as he said it, as if he dreaded to think of such a thing. He was funny that way. He talked about his daughters marrying but disapproved of any suitor who happened to come along. He hadn't even approved of poor Ralph. It wasn't until Mama put her foot down that he finally gave Ralph permission to court Josie, albeit with utmost reluctance.

"Amanda will change her mind about marriage one day. All it will take is for a certain man to come along. The same will be true for you."

Maybe her father was right about her, but Meg doubted a man existed who could change Amanda's mind.

She joined her father at his workbench and slid onto a stool next to his. How she loved watching him work! For such a large and expansive man, he had a surprisingly gentle touch. He could repair the most delicate of mechanisms, even the ones in women's pendant watches.

If only he was as good at repairing relationships. "What happened between you and Mr. Farrell?" She'd asked her father this before but never got an answer. At least not one that made sense. "What happened to make you hate each other?"

"Nothing happened," he said in a voice that signaled the matter was not open for discussion. Normally, she would take the hint and change the subject, but not today.

"Mama said you two were once the best of friends and inseparable all though school."

His hand stilled. "You know your mother. She only sees what she wants to see. I still can't believe she actually approved of your marriage to that scalawag's son." He shook his head. "She has no idea what Farrell is really like."

"Oh?" The bad blood between the families had prevented Meg from getting to know Mr. Farrell personally. All she knew was that Tommy held his father in high esteem and was as puzzled by the feud between the two families as she was. "Tell me, what is Mr. Farrell really like?"

"You don't need to know."

He turned his attention back to the watch he had been working on, relieving her of any hope she would find out more.

He lifted the watch to his ear. His mouth curved upward, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. He pulled the timepiece away and held it toward her. "Listen."

"I know what a watch sounds like, Papa."

His eyebrows shot up. "That's like saying you know what every songbird sounds like based on hearing but a few."

Knowing she would never win such an argument, she took the watch from him and held it to her ear.

"Hear that?" he asked excitedly. "Six ticks to the second."

The ticktocks sounded like all the others he had made her listen to through the years.

"That's the sign of a good watch." His eyes shining, he followed her gaze to the wall of clocks. "After the Declaration of Independence was signed, the bells rang out in Philadelphia announcing America's freedom. But do you know what amazed John Adams the most? The fact that thirteen clocks had been synchronized to chime at the same precise moment. He didn't think such a thing was possible."

He waved his arm to indicate the myriads of timekeepers that filled the walls from baseboard to tin ceiling. "What would Mr. Adams think about all this, do you suppose? Hmm?"

"He would think you overdid a good thing, Papa."

Her father laughed. "Would he also think I'm just an addlepated old man like you do?"