To Wager Her Heart Page 14

  “I will help you, Mr. Rutledge, as you’ve requested. But only if you agree to a third condition.”

  He waited.

  “Whatever you learn about Dutchman’s Curve, about the trial, about the evidence . . . you must share with me. No matter if it exonerates your father of his guilt or if it condemns him. You’ll hide nothing. Because I, too, want to know what happened on that train. Do we have a deal, Mr. Rutledge?”

  Sy nodded. “Yes, Miss Jamison. We do.”

  “Very well then. Good night, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Chapter

  TWELVE

  Granger Mercantile was busy for a Monday morning, but Alexandra managed to find the handful of personal items she needed, as well as sheets and a pillowcase. She looked, but didn’t see either a blanket or the ticking she needed to sew a mattress. Perhaps they kept those in the back.

  A queue was forming at the front counter so she joined it, awaiting her turn. Mary’s generous gifts of toiletries and clothing had minimized the list of what she needed to purchase. Which was good, considering her finances. Mary had also insisted on sending the satchel containing those items on ahead to Fisk, and Alexandra was grateful now that she had. Carrying all of this, in addition to the satchel, across town would have proven a challenge.

  She took the coins from her pocket and discreetly counted them again. She had enough for everything in her basket thus far, with a little to spare. So depending on the cost of the ticking and the blanket, she should have enough.

  It wasn’t until she emptied the coins from her dress pocket late Saturday night that she’d realized Sylas Rutledge had overpaid her by at least twenty-five cents. But considering what the man had put her through at Saturday night’s dinner . . .

  And then their private exchange out in front of the mansion afterward. His look of shock when she’d told him about being on the train, and about David, still resonated inside her. She hadn’t planned on telling him. Nor had she intended to offer to help him again. But how many times in the past year had she longed to know more about what led up to that fateful moment?

  She wanted to know the full truth. If, indeed, there was more to be known.

  But what had tipped her decision was what Mary had told her about Mr. Gould. Apparently the man had challenged Mr. Rutledge about his stepfather, and in front of all the other men, no less. A tasteless decision on Gould’s part. But it was Sylas Rutledge’s response that had left the lasting impression.

  “My brother-in-law told Selene the exchange could have gotten quite heated,” Mary had whispered in the stable, “but for Mr. Rutledge’s show of restraint. He handled himself with the utmost decorum. And even in the face of the accusations laid upon Harrison Kennedy, Mr. Rutledge defended him, as an engineer and as a father.”

  Alexandra stared at the coins in her palm. Such steadfast devotion from a son to a father. To so publicly stand by a relationship even when the person one loves has made a grave and costly mistake. Or perhaps made a decision one doesn’t agree with.

  Had her father regretted his decision at all in recent days? But she already knew the answer to that question.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  Alexandra looked up to see a woman staring expectantly at her from behind the counter. “Oh, yes, thank you.” She stepped up and placed her purchases on the counter. “Along with these items, I need ticking for a single bed. And also a pillow. Down, if it’s not too expensive.”

  “Down pillows are a special order. Takes two to three weeks. We got bags of feathers, or you can visit the livery and buy fresh hay.”

  Hay didn’t sound at all appealing. “Two bags, please. And I need a light blanket as well.”

  “Only got one kind of blanket without special ordering.” The clerk thumped the catalog.

  “Whatever you have in stock will work nicely, I’m certain.” Alexandra heard a heavy sigh behind her and turned to offer an apology when she spotted Sylas Rutledge standing near the back of the line. She hurriedly faced the front. But not soon enough.

  Recognition flashed in his features, and he smiled and tugged the brim of his hat. She nodded politely, then turned back around, hoping he would take the subtle hint.

  The clerk returned and hefted two large sacks up to the counter. “You’re getting the last two bags of feathers, miss. And here’s your ticking. You got needle and thread to sew the tick?”

  Alexandra didn’t, but she hated to admit it. Yet she needed both. She shook her head, and the clerk frowned and trudged back to the storeroom. From close behind her, Alexandra heard another exasperated sigh. Yet she didn’t dare look around.

  A moment later the clerk returned with a package of needles and a spool of thread and set to working the figures. “That’ll be . . . one dollar and forty-six cents.”

  So much? Alexandra quickly reviewed the cost of each item, then gently nudged the blanket aside, smiling to cover her unease.

  “I believe I’ll wait and get this later. Fall isn’t quite upon us yet.” But she was still thirty-seven cents short. And everything else, she needed. “Here you are.” She laid her coins on the counter. “I’d like to put the remainder on my account.”

  “What name is the account under?” The woman reached for a ledger.

  “Alexandra Jamison. But I don’t have an account yet. I need to open one.”

  “Oh, we can’t do that today, miss. The man who does them is out sick. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “But . . . I need these things today.”

  “Then you need to come up with another thirty-seven cents.”

  Feeling the prickle of other patrons’ stares, Alexandra leaned forward, keeping her voice low. “Which I don’t have right now, I’m so sorry.”

  “Which means,” the clerk said in full voice, “you need to step aside and let me help these other people who’ve been waiting.”

  Her face heating, Alexandra set the bottle of hair soap aside. “There. That should do it.”

  The clerk looked at her. “Still sixteen cents short.”

  Flustered, Alexandra turned the receipt around in order to read the individual prices, but the numbers blurred in her vision.

  With a sweep of an arm, the clerk moved her items to the side. “Why don’t you come back later, miss, when you—”

  “Miss Jamison . . .”

  Alexandra recognized the voice from behind.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were already checking out.” Mr. Rutledge laid aside a bottle of saddle polish and pulled his wallet from his coat pocket. He withdrew a wad of bills and placed a dollar on the counter, then added the blanket and bottle of hair soap back to the pile. “If you’ll tally all this, please, ma’am. That’d be appreciated.”

  “Why, of course, sir.” The clerk’s demeanor altered instantly. “Would you like everything wrapped as well?”

  “Yes, we would. Thank you.”

  “Very good, sir.” The clerk returned Mr. Rutledge’s change and set to work wrapping.

  Meanwhile, Alexandra wished the floor would open and swallow her whole. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “No need to thank me,” he whispered. “I’m glad we ran into each other.”

  The clerk returned. “Here’s your first box, miss. I’m wrapping the second now.”

  “If you don’t mind, Miss Jamison—” Mr. Rutledge glanced behind them. “I’ll get the packages if you’ll check on Duke. He’s been waiting out front for a while now.”

  Grateful to have an excuse to leave, Alexandra made a beeline for the door, careful not to look at any of the other patrons in line.

  Outside, she shielded her eyes from the sun and looked for the foxhound. She spotted him lazing beneath a tree across the street. His head came up as she approached, then his tail swiftly engaged as well.

  She knelt, mindful of Mary’s borrowed reticule hanging from her wrist. “Hello, Duke. It’s nice to finally meet you.” In the absence of his master, she petted the animal without fear of repri
mand.

  The dog gave a doleful whine, as if trying to tell her something, its gentle brown eyes silently imploring. Alexandra smiled and nuzzled the dog’s head.

  “Thank you for commiserating, Duke. It was a most humbling experience in there. Even if what your master did was kindly meant.”

  The dog’s ears suddenly perked up, and Alexandra glanced behind her to see Sylas Rutledge exiting the mercantile.

  She gave the pooch one last pat and rose.

  “Here you go, Miss Jamison.” Mr. Rutledge set the bags of feathers and a second, larger box tied with string at her feet. “All wrapped up and ready to travel. And before you say anything, there are worse things than being caught short of cash. Besides, I look at this as a down payment on what I’m going to owe you anyway. For the . . . tutoring, let’s call it. So really, the way I see it, you’ve saved us both some time.”

  Still feeling foolish, Alexandra realized he had a point, even if her pride didn’t like it. She glanced down at Duke. “Mr. Rutledge, your dog and I have not been properly introduced.”

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am. Miss Jamison, meet Sir Duke Rutledge Kennedy, my faithful companion for going on nine years now. And, Duke, meet Miss Alexandra Jamison.” The dog wagged his tail as if on cue. “I found him when he was just a hungry pup wandering the alleys of a mining camp, so I took him in. We’ve been inseparable ever since.”

  Not missing the dog’s last name, she smiled. “He’s a handsome companion. And loyal, it would appear.”

  “To a fault.” His gaze settled on the foxhound. “Everybody in this life will eventually let you down, Miss Jamison. That’s a truth you can count on. But not a dog. Dogs love you even more than they love themselves, it seems. And without their saying a word, you can read everything they’re feeling just by looking in their eyes.”

  Alexandra stared. “Why, Mr. Rutledge. You’re a romantic.”

  He laughed. “Only about dogs, ma’am. And maybe trains.” He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how you Southerners abide this heat. It sure gets to a man after a while. I’m missing the cool of the mountains about now.”

  “It’s cool there even in the summer?”

  “Sure is. Not on the plains so much. But even then, come nighttime, there’s always a breeze to settle things down. You open your windows and let in the cool at night.” A satisfied look came over him. “You ever been West?”

  “I’ve been to Memphis.”

  He laughed, and too late she realized how silly that sounded. Yet the humor warming his gaze said his laughter hadn’t been meant at her expense.

  Dappled sunlight slanted through the tree and accentuated the subtle laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and she was certain she caught the familiar scent of bayberry and spice mixed with sunshine and leather.

  He hadn’t shaved that morning—hardly a surprise—and standing this close to him, she saw traces of silver at his temples.

  “Well . . .” She smoothed a hand over her skirt. “I need to be on my way. Thank you again for—”

  “Miss Jamison . . .” He studied her for a moment. “May I please call you Alexandra? I believe we’ve reached a place of familiarity with one another to sustain such informality. And to satisfy even the most staunch revelers in proper Southern decorum.”

  Hearing the gentle teasing in his voice, she nodded. “I agree . . . Sylas. And yes, you may.”

  “Actually, I prefer Sy, if you would.”

  “Sy, then.”

  “And while I’m thinking of it . . .” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “I found this after you left the cabin the other day. I opened it to see what it was, but only read the first sentence before stopping.”

  She nodded, glancing at Mr. White’s letter. “I hadn’t even missed it, but I would have, eventually. Thank you for returning it. This explains how you knew about Fisk.”

  He nodded. “And about what happened at dinner Saturday—”

  She shook her head. “I could tell by your expression you had no idea what kind of ire your comment would draw.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  Movement beyond him drew her attention, and Alexandra peered down to the end of the street—and saw her mother standing near the corner. Their eyes met. Alexandra knew her mother had seen her by the subtle tilt of her head. Instinctively Alexandra waved, and thought she saw her mother’s arm move—but then she quickly looked away and walked on without further acknowledgement.

  Alexandra slowly lowered her hand.

  Sy, who’d turned around and followed her gaze, looked back at her. “Someone you know?”

  She swallowed the hurt aching at the back of her throat. “Yes,” she whispered. “My mother.”

  Uncomfortable beneath his gaze, Alexandra reached down and picked up the bags of feathers, eager to take her leave. “In light of your meeting with General Harding later this week, Sy, and my need to repay my debt, would you like to schedule our next lesson?”

  He nodded, graciously accepted the obvious bait. “Yes, I would. How about tomorrow evening?”

  She thought quickly. “I believe that will work. I would imagine there’s a place where we could meet at Fisk. If that’s convenient for you?”

  He nodded again.

  “Let’s say, after dinner? Around seven o’clock? When you arrive, simply ask someone to direct you to the teachers’ barracks. I’ll be waiting out front.”

  “Sounds good. And, Alexandra?”

  She looked back, purchases in hand and heavier than she’d anticipated.

  “About what we discussed the other night . . .” His gaze never wavered. “I’m deeply sorry for what you went through that morning. And for your loss.”

  Unable to speak, she gave a quick nod and started in the direction of Fisk, emotion knotting in her chest even as her heart somehow felt inexplicably lighter.

  Chapter

  THIRTEEN

  It wasn’t as he’d imagined it would be, this stretch of track known as Dutchman’s Curve. Sy stood at the edge of the cornfield, Duke quiet at his heels, and looked out over the countryside.

  So still, so serene, compared to the mental picture of this place etched in his mind. A scene stitched together from reporters’ descriptions in newspaper clippings that would never be pried from his memory. Horrible moments his father had lived through, however briefly.

  The impact propelled both steam locomotives off the track. Engines went airborne, straight up, before slamming mercilessly back to the earth. Bodies thrown like rag dolls, smashing into glass, steel, wood, and dirt. Passenger cars telescoped one into the other. Body parts strewn across the blackened cornfield. Blood running down the aisle of passenger cars like water pouring from a pipe.

  He swallowed, the images, raw and real, appearing before his eyes with excruciating clarity even as they blurred in his vision.

  He glanced back behind him, noting again how—at the curve in the track just before the bridge—he could see only a few feet down the railway. A train traveling at any speed on that curve, much less full out at fifty to sixty miles an hour, would be careening through a blind spot. How had his father reacted when he’d looked up and seen the other engine bearing down hard, coming straight for him. If he’d even seen it. There would have been no time to react, at least not in a way that would’ve made any difference in the outcome.

  Sy took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly as he walked along the track, feeling a closeness with his father he hadn’t felt since receiving the telegram almost a year ago.

  What was it about visiting the place where a loved one died that somehow made you feel more connected to the person? Maybe you were looking at the same piece of sky he last looked at, or the same rolling hills rising in the distance. The very air around him seemed different, as though the breath he just drew might have passed through his father’s lungs in that final moment.

  Sy shook his head and gave Duke’s neck a rub. His imagination was ru
nning away with him, and he was grateful no one else could hear his thoughts.

  Looking back, he was grateful his father had made the trip out to see him after the Transcontinental Railroad was completed in ’69. What a good time they’d had. He only hoped his father had realized how much he appreciated his daring to love an outcast woman and her little boy with a strength that changed the course of both their lives.

  Sy swiped at his eyes, a heaviness inside him that seemed tied to something more than just this moment and this place.

  He paused beside the familiar ribbons of steel and listened to the rustle of the wind through the cornfields, to the distant ringing of a church bell, and to his father’s honor that seemed to call out from the grave. And woven through them all, he heard the distant but familiar lyrics . . .

  Brightly beams our Father’s mercy, from his lighthouse evermore.

  But to us he gives the keeping of the lights along the shore.

  Surprising, how easily the words to a song his father had loved returned to him. “I’ll see your name cleared, Pa,” he said aloud. “And I’ll make sure everyone knows that—”

  “Who you talkin’ to there, son?”

  Sy jumped and turned, his hand going to his gun belt.

  “Whoa, whoa there, young’un!” The gnarled-looking codger stopped dead in his tracks and lifted shaky hands in the air, looking from Sy to Duke then back again. “Don’t go shootin’ a fella just for bein’ neighborly.”

  Sy relaxed, and Duke wagged his tail.

  “Best not sneak up on a man that way, mister,” Sy said. “Good way to get yourself killed.”

  “Lucky for me you ain’t foolhardy with that snapper on your hip.”

  Sy smiled. “Lucky for us both. Killing you would’ve put a damper on my day.”

  The man let out a high-pitched laugh, and Sy took a closer look, wondering if the old guy wasn’t a bit touched in the head. Duke wandered over and sniffed at the man’s raggedy pant legs. The fellow bent to pet him, though judging by his grimace, the effort cost him.