"I never said that, Papa. I never even thought it." Old was not how anyone could describe her father. Stubborn. Obsessed. Opinionated. But never old.

"Did you know that when I was a young man, I wanted no part of the family business?"

"That's hard to believe, Papa," Meg said. "What made you change your mind?"

"The war." The sparkle in his eyes had now been replaced by a more somber expression. His "war look," as Meg called it. "Do you know what soldiers requested most in their letters back home? Pocket watches. The war was rough on watches. Windup keys were lost. Rain and mud gummed up the works. Suddenly your father was in high demand as a watch repairman." He laughed. "There are many ways to fight the war, and I did it with this." He held up a pair of needle-nose pliers. "Time is the ruler of all things." He winked. "He who controls time has the power. He also helps to win wars."

She studied her father's profile. "Is that why you and Mr. Farrell are always fighting about time? Because of power?"

Her father's expression darkened, and she immediately regretted bringing up Mr. Farrell a second time.

"Power has nothing to do with it. He knows nothing about the art of clock making. He uses olive oil to lubricate the works. Can you imagine?" Papa would never think of using anything in his shop other than the more expensive sperm oil.

"I set my clocks by the sun, which is the way the good Lord intended. Farrell sets his by some convoluted planet configuration known only to himself."

"What about the trains?" Meg asked. There had been talk about coordinating zones across the country to railroad time like on the East Coast, but so far only a few towns had seriously considered it.

Her father pursed his lips in disapproval. "That's all we need. To eat, sleep, and work at the whim of an iron horse." He handed her the watch. "Wrap this up. Thomson is stopping by later to pick it up."

Mr. Thomson owned the shoe-repair shop on the other side of town. Meg stared down at the heavy, ornate watch in her hand. "Papa, is there a way we can settle out of court?"

The question hung between them for a moment before he opened his mouth to answer.

Then, all at once, the hands of every clock reached the quarter-hour mark. A short but impressive symphony of gongs and chimes drowned out her father's reply, but did nothing to erase the stubborn expression on his face. It was a look with which Meg was all too familiar.

If he were a clock, he would tick to the tune of no, no, no-six beats to the second.

Eight.

Grant stood in the front of the post office staring at his watch.

It was after ten. Why was the post office still closed? In Boston, stores and businesses posted business hours, a tradition he'd taken for granted until coming here. No such helpful signs existed in Two-Time. Shopkeepers opened their shops seemingly at will and closed them likewise. Still, he had expected more from the United States Post Office Department.

"Excuse me, sir," he called to a cowpoke who was leaning against a post while he rolled a cigarette. "Could you tell me when the post office opens?"

The man peered at him from beneath a floppy felt hat. His cratered face was as brown as old leather, and the knees of his bowlegs spread wider than his shoulders.

"What week is this?"

"Week? I believe it's the last week of November," Grant said.

"The second or fourth week means the post office is on Farrell time. The rest belongs to Lockwood. The U.S. Post Office don't like to show favoritism."

Grant grunted as he calculated in his head. Farrell time meant that the post office wouldn't open for another forty minutes or so. "That's right nice of them. I guess we should be grateful for having only two time zones in town."

"You got that right. Heard tell that a town in Kansas has seven." The cowhand gave the cigarette paper a dab of his tongue. "By the way, name's Jackson. Ain't seen you 'round these parts."

"That's because I only recently moved here. Name's Garrison. Grant Garrison."

Jackson stuck the cigarette in his mouth and struck a match. "Hey, I know you," he said, the unlit cigarette jiggling up and down as he spoke. "The jilted bride case, right?"

"Actually, I prefer to call it the Lockwood versus Farrell case."

After lighting his cigarette, Jackson dropped the match and ground it out with the heel of a spurred boot. "That's one feud you don't wanna mess with." He shrugged. "A'course, it's not as bad as some of the others."

"Others?" Grant asked. "You mean there're other disputes around?"

Jackson scoffed. "Are you kiddin' me? We've got more grudges here in Texas than they ever thought of having in Kentucky, and that's saying somethin'. There are the Early-Hasley strife and the Sutton-Taylor feud." He went on to list a dozen or so more. "Then there was the Patton-Manner feud, but that ended a year ago when they shot each other good and dead."

Grant blew out his breath in disgust. What had his sweet, gentle sister ever seen in a town like this? "Unbelievable."

Jackson regarded him with slitted eyes. "Don't you have feuds where you come from?"

"In Boston?" Grant shook his head. "Not like they have here. We just sue each other."

"A good shootin' is faster and less costly."

"Can't argue with you there. What's the reason for all this hostility?"

"Reason? Feuds don't need no reason. Or at least none that matter." Jackson puffed on his cigarette before adding, "Most started during the war. I think the Patton-Manner quarrel began over a goat. Or maybe a sheep. Some are second-gen'ration grudges, and the original offense is long forgotten."

"What about the Lockwood-Farrell feud? What started that?"

"Heck if I know. Don't think even they know. But I'll tell you somethin'. If that fight don't end soon, there's gonna be trouble to pay in this town. Big trouble. And I sure don't want to be 'round when it happens."

Meg had just walked into the house when her sister Amanda beckoned from the top of the stairs. "Psst."

After a hard day at the shop, Meg longed to drink a cup of hot tea and sink her tired feet into a pair of soft slippers. Normally she would think nothing of hiking her skirt clear up to her knees and taking the stairs two at a time-a habit her mother deemed unladylike. Today, she would have earned Mama's approval, because she was far too tired to do more than climb one stair at a time.

"What is it?" she asked, after reaching the landing.

For answer, Amanda hustled Meg into her bedroom and closed the door. Amanda's room had almost as many handbills on the wall as the sheriff's office. But instead of having wanted posters of every known criminal from Mexico to Indian Territory, the walls were plastered with leaflets and handbills from charitable, political, and advocate organizations. The Irish Relief Fund, Children's Home Society, and Prohibition were the most prevalent.

Amanda thrust a pamphlet into Meg's hands.

"Oh no, don't tell me. Not another cause..."

"Read it," Amanda said.

Meg studied the pamphlet. The bold print read: Miss Brackett's Training School for Volunteer Workers of the Suffrage Campaign.

"Oh no, you didn't."

Amanda nodded. "I signed up yesterday. This represents our future. Yours and mine. You should be thanking me."

"Papa will have a conniption."

"Only if he finds out." Amanda snatched the pamphlet out of Meg's hand. "It's only a five-day course and will be held at the hotel. You should sign up too."

"And how do you suggest I explain my absence for five whole days?" December was the shop's busiest month.

"You could always pretend to be ill."

Meg shook her head. "Mama would insist I go straight to bed. Besides, I can't think of anything new right now until I get through this lawsuit."

"Have it your way, but you'll be sorry. Lucy Stone plans to stop by. Can you imagine anyone still traveling and giving speeches at her age?" Amanda had the highest regard for the vocal women's rights advocate, now in her seventies and still going strong. "Did you know that she's married but still uses her maiden name?"

"Is that what you wish to do when you marry?"

"Bite your tongue. I never intend to marry." Amanda emphasized her stance with a determined nod. "I have too many other things to do, and I certainly don't want to waste my life like Mama."

"Shame on you, Mandy. How could you say such a thing? We would all be wise to follow in her footsteps. She's the best possible wife and mother. You know she is."

"And do you know how she spends her days? Scrubbing floors, washing clothes, cooking meals, and beating rugs." Amanda sighed. "There has to be more to life than cleaning house and putting up with Papa's demands."

"Papa doesn't mean to be so demanding. He only wants what's best for us."

"I shudder to think. He's still stuck in the old ways. He has no idea that women can do different things now. Lucy Stone has a college degree. Can you imagine what Mama could have done with that? She could have had a career."

A career? Her mother? Meg shook her head. It was impossible to imagine. "Mama would never work outside the home except for charity."

"That doesn't mean we can't."

"I have a job."

"You're working for Papa, and that's the same as Mama."

"I like working at the shop." Or at least she had before she became the talk of the town. "I keep the shop's books in order and get to work with numbers."

Amanda shook the pamphlet in Meg's face. "I'm just saying that there're other opportunities."

Meg sighed. Her sister meant well, but Amanda's ways weren't hers. The truth be told, the only thing Meg had ever wanted was to marry and raise a family.

"What a fine couple we are. You don't want to marry, and no one wants to marry me."

"Don't say that, Meg." Amanda's expression softened. "Don't even think it. If you ask me, Tommy leaving you at the altar was the best thing that ever happened to you."

If it wasn't for the pending lawsuit, Meg might have agreed. "Poor Mama. All she ever wanted was to see the three of us happily wed."

"Thank God for Josie," Amanda said. "If she ever gets around to presenting Mama with a grandchild, that will take the pressure off the two of us."

"Do you really think so?"

Amanda made a face. "I can hope, can't I?"

Nine.

That Thursday afternoon, Meg left the clock shop early and scurried along the boardwalk as quick as a mouse.

Others stepped aside with curious stares, and she could well imagine what they were thinking: Where's that crazy jilted bride off to in such a hurry? Well, let them look. See if she cared!

Two-Time had grown in leaps and bounds since the first arrival of the train, and today, Meg would have to pass all twenty-two saloons on the way to Jackleg Row-a derogatory name given to the street housing the town's lawyers.

The number of doctors and lawyers in a place said a lot about a town's reputation, and Two-Time had plenty of both. No fewer than four attorneys occupied offices on Jackleg Row, though most were kept busy by land or railroad disputes. A disturbing number of clashes were still battled out at twenty paces, keeping all three doctors in fine Kentucky whiskey and Cuban cigars. That didn't count the numerous snake-oil peddlers who traveled through town hawking "miracle elixirs" that supposedly cured everything from ingrown toenails to gray hair.

Meg had just breezed by the post office when a bearded man stepped in front of her, blocking her way. He stuck his leering face in hers.

"Well, looky who's here," he slurred.

She waved away the sickening smell of alcohol. "Kindly step aside, sir!"

He jeered. "Unfriendly, ain't you? You're not still pinin' for the Farrell boy? Whatcha see in that fella, anyway?" He clamped his gnarly fingers around her arm, and his eyes glittered. "I'll show you what a real man is like."

"Let me go!" She kicked him on the shin. When that failed to convince him, she bashed him over the head with her parasol.

"Ow!" Releasing her, his hands flew up to grab his injured head. "Why, you little-"

Meg didn't wait to hear the rest. Instead, she picked up her skirt and ran. Papa had been right. In the eyes of some, she was damaged goods, and that made her the target of unwanted advances.

The man's curses followed her into the general store. She slammed the door shut behind her and swallowed the bile in her throat. Standing on tiptoes, she peered over the pyramid of tinned goods to see out the window. Satisfied that she hadn't been followed, she willed her heart to stop pounding.

"What happened to you?"

Startled by a voice behind her, Meg gasped and spun around. Oh no! Of all the people she could have bumped into, why did it have to be Sallie-May Hutton, the town's worst gossip? Willing her stomach to stop churning, Meg shook her head.

"Nothing happened. Why do you ask?"

Sallie-May stared at the broken parasol in Meg's hand but didn't pursue the question.

"I read all about the lawsuit in the paper," she said. The tight corset beneath her figure-hugging blue dress made her sound breathless.