Enjoy your return to Two Time, Texas, where tempers burn hot, love runs deep, and a single marriage can unite a feuding town…or tear it apart for good.

One

Two-Time, Texas

1880

“Fifty-four minutes.”

Her father’s booming voice made Meg Lockwood want to scream. But airing her lungs in church wasn’t an option, and thanks to the whalebone corset beneath her wedding gown, neither was breathing.

“Mama, make him stop.”

Her mother straightened the garland of daisies in Meg’s hair for perhaps the hundredth time so far that day before turning to her husband. “Henry, must you?”

Papa kept his gaze glued to his gold pocket watch rather than answer, his wagging finger ready to drop the instant the minute hand moved. Not by any means a formal man, he’d battled with Mama over his wedding attire until, like a defeated general, he’d thrown up his arms in surrender. Unfortunately, the knee-length coat Mama had chosen emphasized Papa’s ungainly shape, which bore a striking resemblance to a pickle barrel.

The finger came down. “He is now fifty-five minutes late.”

Meg’s hands curled around the satin fabric of her skirt. Where was her bridegroom? She hated to keep the wedding guests waiting, but she didn’t know what to do. Time meant nothing to her erstwhile fiancé, but he’d promised not to be late for their wedding. She’d trusted him to keep his word.

Just you wait, Tommy Farrell!

When he finally did show up, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions.

Tommy wasn’t the only reason for her ill temper. As if her too-tight corset wasn’t bad enough, the ruffled lace at her neck made her skin itch, and the butterfly bustle hung like a brick at the small of her back. Worse, the torture chambers disguised as dainty white slippers were killing her feet.

The church organ in the nearby sanctuary moaned louder, as if even the organist’s patience was spent. The somber chords now rattled the walls of the tiny anteroom, threatening the framed picture and forcing the glass beads on the kerosene lamp to jiggle in protest.

She met her mother’s worried gaze in the beveled-glass mirror. At forty-five, Elizabeth Lockwood still moved with the ease and grace of a woman half her age. The green velvet gown showed off her still-tiny waist and slim hips.

A wistful look smoothed the lines of worry on her mother’s face. “You look beautiful.”

Meg forced a smile. “So do you, Mama.”

Meg had inherited her mother’s honey-blond hair, turquoise eyes, and dainty features, but her restless countenance was clearly thanks to her father’s side.

“Fifty-six minutes late,” her father exclaimed, and Meg’s already taut nerves threatened to snap.

Clenching her hands tightly, she spun around to face him. “You never change!”

“Change? Change!” Papa looked indignant as a self-righteous preacher. “Why would I? Someone has to maintain a healthy respect for time.”

The door swung open. Thank goodness. Meg whirled about again, ready to give her errant fiancé a piece of her mind, but it was only her older sister. The worried frown on Josie’s face told Meg everything she needed to know, but still she had to ask.