It was a sturdy silver watch made by the American Watch Company. The case was engraved with an eagle.

"What do you think of this one?" she asked, setting it on the counter between them. Normally she would go into her practiced sales pitch and mention the high-grade jewels, fine workmanship, and twenty-year guarantee, but she doubted the boy was interested in such details.

Shaking the hair away from his face, he gaped at the watch with rounded eyes.

"You can touch it," she said.

He glanced up as if to see if she really meant it before moving his hand across the counter. The moment his fingers made contact with the polished case, he jerked his hand back as if he'd been burned.

Meg picked up the watch and opened it to show him the white enamel face. "It keeps excellent time," she said. "And only has to be wound once a week. Here, you can hold it." She handed the watch across the counter. Taking it from her, he held it in both hands like an injured bird.

"Do I have enough money for this?" Tucker asked. The eyes meeting hers pleaded for a positive response.

She hesitated but a moment before relieving his worry with a smile. Her father would have a fit, but how could she say no?

"Absolutely. Do you think your pa would like it?"

"Yes, ma'am!" he shouted. As if remembering his manners, he lowered his voice but not his enthusiasm. "I think he would like it a lot!"

"Then it's a deal." Meg held out her hand, and he placed the watch in her palm. She then helped him pick out a sturdy silver chain. After placing both watch and chain in a small, square box, she slid it into a paper sack.

She handed the small parcel over the counter. "Merry Christmas."

The boy held on to his father's gift with both hands as if never intending to let it go. "Merry Christmas."

The sudden spring to his step as he left the shop brought a smile to her face-a smile that turned to alarm as soon as the door closed after him. Papa wouldn't necessarily mind her giving away a cheap watch, but he would take issue with an expensive one.

Reaching into the glass case, she quickly arranged the watches until the empty space looked less obvious. She stepped back. It would have to do. With a little luck, Papa wouldn't notice the watch missing until after she'd paid for it out of her salary.

At precisely two minutes to three, Meg stepped outside the shop to ring the bell announcing the hour. An argument raged a half block away, but she paid the angry voices no heed.

Instead, she turned her attention to the stagecoach parked directly in front of Papa's shop. The driver, known simply as Bullwhip, leaned next to the coach smoking a stogie as he did six days of every week, though never at the same time twice. No one could figure out his schedule, or if he even had one. As far as anyone knew, he left when he was good and ready and arrived whenever circumstances allowed. Anyone wishing to hitch a ride had better be ready to leave on a whim, or miss out.

Bullwhip wore a long linen duster, a low-crowned felt hat, and high leather boots-a uniform that never varied, no matter what the season. A burly man with a full red beard, he let nothing keep him from arriving at his destination. Not rain nor hail-or even concern for life or limb. Not even being robbed eleven and a half times at gunpoint.

Her father had little patience with the man, and not just because he refused to abide by Lockwood time. Papa considered the stories of death-defying escapes nothing but tall tales. "How can a person be robbed eleven and a half times?" he'd asked. "You're either robbed or you're not. There's no halfway."

Today, Bullwhip greeted Meg with a nod of his grizzly head. "Miz Lockwood."

"Bullwhip." She unwound the rope from a hook attached to the side of the building, careful not to let the clapper hit the bell mouth before it was time.

There was a trick to ringing a bell with clear, sharp rings and no stuttering. Other than Papa, Meg was the only one in the family who had mastered the technique. Holding a watch in one hand, she pulled the rope until the bell tilted forward. Not until the clapper hung straight down and the minute hand on her watch pointed straight up did she let the bell fall. The bell pealed in perfectly spaced dongs on precisely the hour.

Cigar held between his teeth, Bullwhip checked his watch, as did all passersby, though why he bothered was anyone's guess. Adjustments were made as needed before other watch owners continued on their way, but Bullwhip made no changes to his.

When all that remained of the last gong was a fading echo, Bullwhip put his watch to his ear, then shook it-a habit that drove her father crazy. Shaking a watch made as much sense to Papa as blowing on the muzzle of a gun after firing.

Meg turned to go inside, but the heated voices at the end of the street were now so loud that she could no longer ignore them. What had begun as a small knot of people gathered in front of the stables had become a good-sized crowd.

She hesitated, but curiosity got the better of her. Fishing the key out of her pocket, she locked the shop and headed toward the angry crowd.

Nearing the stables, she recognized one of the voices as belonging to Mr. Steele, the blacksmith. "I'm a-telling you, something's gotta be done about the crime 'round here. Why, just yesterday, someone walked off with one of my tools. And if local thieves ain't bad enough, the train brings in every scalawag 'twixt here and Missourah."

"The train ain't done much for my cattle either," yelled a local rancher. "All that shakin' ground has made them stop eatin'. They're so skinny, they're beginnin' to look like bed slats."

Meg walked around the circle of grumbling citizens, but she couldn't see much over the high-crowned hats favored by most of the men.

"Yeah, well, we can't do nothin' about the outsiders, but we can do plenty about the local thieves. What the boy needs is a good whuppin' and maybe some time in the hoosegow. That'll teach him."

Everyone started talking at once.

Meg stepped onto a crate in front of the hardware store and stretched as high as her short frame allowed. She blinked. Was that...?

Tucker!

The butcher-a large, beefy man with a pockmarked face and crooked nose-held Tucker by the ear with one hand and the boy's gift for his pa in the other. His name was Bruce Burrow, but everyone called him T-Bone.

The boy's eyes were as round as wagon wheels as he stared at T-Bone's bloodied apron.

Oh no. "Wait! Stop!" Meg shouted, but her cry could barely be heard over the loud voices of the others. She hopped off the crate and quickly cleared the steps leading off the boardwalk. Shouldering her way through the mob, she yelled, "Let me through."

After barreling her way to the front of the throng, she faced T-Bone, eyes blazing. "Take your hands off that boy at once!"

T-Bone furrowed his brow. "And who's gonna make me?"

Before she could respond, a male voice answered for her. "I am."

Meg recognized the cultured eastern accent even before Mr. Garrison emerged from the crowd and joined her in the small clearing. His long, lean form was attired in dark trousers and frock coat, and he stood out among the crowd of shopkeepers, farmers, and cowpunchers. All eyes turned to him in hostile silence.

T-Bone spit out a stream of tobacco; it fell to the ground with a plop. "Well, well, well. If it's not the fancy lawyer from the East." His eyebrows met and curtsied. "And what business is it of yours what I do?"

Garrison regarded the man with a look of disdain. "I happen to be this lad's lawyer."

"Is that so?" T-Bone looked skeptical, but he released the boy's ear.

Tucker rubbed the side of his head. "He's got my watch."

"I'll take it," Garrison said, holding out his hand.

The butcher gave him a quick visual check before handing over the timepiece. It didn't take a soothsayer to know that Mr. Garrison had the advantage in height, age, and probably even strength.

"Don't know how the boy affords a lawyer," T-Bone growled. "Cain't even afford one meself."

Mr. Garrison placed a hand on Tucker's shoulder. "In that case, I suggest you make it your business to avoid litigation."

T-Bone scratched his temple. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means to stop looking for trouble," Meg said.

Garrison met her gaze. For once, he'd dropped his guarded look, and she saw approval in his eyes. Touching the brim of his hat with the tip of his finger, he led the boy away.

The butcher watched until the lawyer disappeared in the crowd. "The boy's a thief."

"He's not a thief," Meg said and told them how Tucker had picked the watch out for his pa. "He bought that watch with his own money."

T-Bone made a derogatory noise. "If that's true, I promise you that money didn't come from no legal means."

"Watch with the promises," someone yelled from the back of the crowd. "You don't want the jilted bride suing you."

This brought an outburst of laughter. Cheeks flaming, Meg bulldozed her way past the jeering men with as much dignity as she could muster.

A moment later, Grant entered the Lockwood Watch and Clockworks shop to a riot of jingling bells. Hand on the boy's bony shoulder, he guided him inside.

The walls fairly vibrated with the sound of ticking clocks, some loud, some soft. Shiny brass pendulums swung back and forth. Minute hands moved a notch en masse like drilling soldiers. Never had Grant seen so many clocks in one place.

Yet he had the eerie feeling that even with all the improvements made to clocks and watches in recent years, no one really knew what time it was-or even how much time was left. His sister certainly hadn't.

Lockwood looked up from behind the counter, eyes flat as wallpaper. He glanced at the boy before setting his tool down and closing the case of the mantel clock in front of him.

Grant led the boy up to the counter. Lockwood made no effort to temper his dislike. Even the wall of ticking clocks couldn't hide the tension that stretched as thick as pea soup between the two men.

"You better have a good reason for being here, Garrison," Lockwood said.

Grant nodded. "I'm here on behalf of this young man. He's been accused of stealing this watch." He set the paper bag on the counter and pulled out the square box. "He claims he purchased it from this shop fair and square." He opened the box and held it so Lockwood could see inside.

Lockwood gave the watch a cursory glance. "You'd have to be rich to afford a watch like that."

Grant raised an eyebrow. He didn't want to believe the boy was a liar, but it certainly appeared that way. He turned to Tucker. "What do you say to that?"

"I was rich till I bought the watch." The boy looked close to tears. "Cost me a whole twenty-five cents, it did."

Lockwood grunted. "Twenty-" He cleared his throat. "The boy's lying. No one but a fool would sell a watch like that for mere peanuts."

Jingling bells announced someone entering the shop, and all eyes turned to the front of the store. Miss Lockwood was framed in the doorway with the light at her back, and suddenly, Grant felt the need to catch his breath.

She wasn't dancing this time, nor was she standing up for a boy too young to stand up for himself. Still, she sure did look pretty as a picture, her tiny waist and trim hips hugged in all the right places by a blue floral dress.

Tucker pointed his finger at her. "She sold it to me!"

Miss Lockwood turned her gaze to Tucker, and a shadow of a smile touched her lips.

Wishing the smile was for him, Grant doffed his hat, but all he got for his efforts was a wary glance.

She shut the door and joined them at the counter. "What seems to be the problem?" she asked, sounding oddly breathless, as if she'd been running. Two red spots stained her cheeks.

Her father grunted and tossed a nod at the watch on the counter. "This boy claims you sold him that there watch."

"His name is Tucker." Meg lifted her chin. "And what he said is true. I did sell him the watch."

Lockwood's glance sharpened. "For twenty-five cents?" he sputtered.

"He bought it for his pa for Christmas," she said, her voice thick with meaning. "I'm afraid it took all of his hard-earned money."

Father and daughter glared at each other, and neither looked about to back down.

"I guess that settles it then," Grant said, anxious to whisk the boy away before the real battle began.

"Nothing is settled." Lockwood slapped his hand palm down on the counter. "That's an expensive watch, and-"

"I'll cover it," Meg said beneath her breath.

Father and daughter continued to glower at each other with the same stubborn look. Much to Grant's relief, Lockwood threw up his hands, spun around, and vanished into the back of the shop.

Miss Lockwood slipped the watch back into the box and handed it to Grant. Their fingers touched as he took the box from her. Quickly pulling her hand away, she moistened her lips and lifted her lashes.

"Sorry for the confusion," she said, "but the watch is his to keep."

"Glad to hear it," Grant said. "Much obliged."

She lowered her gaze to the boy, and her expression softened. "You go straight home now, you hear?" she said. "And wish your father a Merry Christmas for me...from the whole Lockwood family."

Tucker nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"I'll see that he gets home," Grant said, reaching into his pocket for a golden eagle. Tucker shouldn't be roaming around with an expensive watch. Better to see him safely home, but first things first. The boy could definitely benefit from a decent meal and a new pair of trousers.

Grant slid the twenty-dollar coin onto the counter and steered Tucker toward the door.

He glanced back at Miss Lockwood as he left, and this time her pretty smile was most definitely for him.

Twelve.

Papa was unusually quiet that night at supper. Mama gave him a questioning look but said nothing. His silence made the ticking clocks sound like hail on a tin roof.

Meg exchanged a glance with her sister.

"Does Papa know?" Amanda mouthed.