To Wager Her Heart Page 21

  “The next one? Do you mean you’ve already worked through all these lessons?”

  “Yes’m.” Lettie smiled, then lowered her voice. “I been sneakin’ in and readin’ before class. Me and Brister both.”

  Alexandra glanced at Lettie’s brother, who towered above nearly every other student, young or old, in the school. He was bright as well, though not as bright as his sister. Alexandra had known almost from the first day that keeping Lettie challenged was going to take some doing. If only she had her books from home. She had several advanced readers in her collection.

  “I’m afraid this is the only speller we have. At the present time,” Alexandra added, seeing the cloud pass over Lettie’s pretty face. “But . . . I’ll see what I can do.”

  Lettie was looking past her, and the young woman’s eyes suddenly went wide as the classroom fell silent. Alexandra turned in the direction of the door and felt her breath leave her lungs.

  Chapter

  NINETEEN

  He was a fierce-looking man, and what he was doing here, in her classroom, she couldn’t guess. And yet something about him seemed vaguely familiar. “May I help you, sir?”

  Another couple of inches, and the man would have had to stoop to get through the doorway. The shirt he wore strained against the muscles in his arms and chest, and his skin, glistening with sweat, was black as coal. He cradled three long, shallow wooden crates in one arm, the containers looking almost toylike in his grip.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said in a voice as deep as still water. “I believe you can. You’re Miss Jamison?”

  She moved to the front of the classroom, aware of the students watching. “That’s right. And you are?” Despite being certain they’d never met, she couldn’t shake the feeling she’d seen him before.

  He smiled then, only the slightest bit. But enough that she felt the tightness in her chest lessen by a degree.

  “My name is Vinson, ma’am. I’m here with a delivery for you.”

  “A delivery?” She frowned, looking at the wooden crate he placed with care on the worktable serving as her desk. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order anything.” She could only imagine what Mr. White would do if she accepted a shipment for which the school couldn’t pay.

  “I know you didn’t, ma’am. But these are for you, all the same.”

  Alexandra drew closer and noticed a cloth draped over the top crate. She caught the sweet aroma of chocolate and looked up at him, bewildered. Curiosity getting the better of her, she peered beneath the dishcloth—and had to smile, despite her suspicions. “These . . . are for me?”

  “That’s what the boss said, ma’am.”

  “The boss?”

  “Mr. Rutledge, ma’am.”

  She shook her head, looking at the four chocolate chess pies nestled in the top crate. And there were two other crates beneath it. Twelve pies?

  “He said all this comes to you. Same as the rest of everything I’ve got out there,” the man added.

  Alexandra looked up. “The rest?”

  She followed him into the hallway where she saw four crates stacked alongside the wall. She peered inside. Primers! For every grade. And not the used primers they had now, with dog-eared corners and pages missing. Brand-new primers with bindings that had never been creased. Sylas Rutledge . . . The man was not playing fairly.

  “I’m to give you this too, ma’am.” He pulled an envelope from one of the crates.

  She opened it.

  Dear Alexandra,

  Try not to rush your piece of pie this time.

  As ever,

  Sy

  P.S. Headed to Memphis next. Would appreciate your prayers.

  She read the note a second time, his post script especially surprising. “By chance, do you know when Mr. Rutledge will be returning?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t. You want me to carry these crates in for you?”

  After some inward debating, she nodded. “Yes, please.”

  She followed him back into the classroom and saw the huddle of students gathered around her desk. She whispered to Lettie, who then set off on the errand, but not before the young woman tossed Vinson a subtle smile.

  The man simply nodded in return, but Alexandra didn’t miss how his gaze followed Lettie as she left the room.

  Vinson turned back. “Good day to you and your students, Miss Jamison.”

  “To you as well, Mr. Vinson.” She briefly considered offering her congratulations on his starting classes at Fisk, then thought better of it. She wasn’t certain if Sy had confirmed it with Mr. White yet or not.

  Minutes later, Lettie returned with a knife from the kitchen, and Alexandra cut the first four pies into slices enough to feed her entire class. Then she sliced another three pies and shared them with the classroom across the hallway. There were no plates, no forks, no napkins, but no one cared.

  She marked the remaining pies to be taken to dinner that night and shared with the entire staff and all the boarding students, making note to be certain Mr. White received a piece and was told about the primers. And the benefactor.

  After her last student was served, she cut a sliver for herself and enjoyed the creamy chocolate custard and buttery pastry, and prayed for Sy’s meeting in Memphis, as he’d requested. Only another prayer surfaced. One that brought her up short. And almost felt as if it hadn’t come from her.

  How could she be praying that the evidence Sy found would clear his stepfather of any wrongdoing? And yet, that’s precisely what she wanted. For Sy. For his peace of mind.

  Taking a deep breath, she wiped the corner of her eye, then looked around to make sure no one was watching. The students were all laughing and talking, the joy in their faces evident. As was something else.

  This, indeed, was her world. And she was grateful for it. No matter how much she missed Sy Rutledge.

  Sy knocked on the door, mindful of the time. Only two hours before his train departed. The last daily run from Memphis to Nashville, and he aimed to be on it.

  This house was like all the others in this community of freedmen on the lower southeast side—a small, narrow shotgun style, put up hastily with more attention given to getting it done than seeing it last.

  He’d been gone for two weeks now, but the time had been productive. He’d managed to secure an attorney in Charlotte who would handle the purchase of the four parcels of land. But what he still lacked was the full slate of committed investors. Harding and two of his colleagues had signed on, but he was still waiting on three others who had indicated interest but had yet to seal the deal.

  Next he’d traveled to Chattanooga and St. Louis, and now was here in Memphis coordinating supplies for the Belle Meade depot and railroad and finalizing the details of the new venture. Everything had taken longer and cost more than he’d estimated. Meanwhile, he’d also been working every step of the way to learn more about the accident and to uncover any new bit of information that might clear his father’s name.

  But no matter who he’d talked to at the Nashville, Chattanooga and St. Louis Railway offices, he’d gotten the same answer: the official fault for the accident lay with Harrison Kennedy, the engineer who drove the No. 1 train from the Memphis station. It was as if every last one of them were reading from the same script.

  He’d thought that being on the inside of railroad operations, being the owner of the Northeast Line, would give him a leg up on gaining information. But that wasn’t turning out to be the case.

  So he hoped his conversation with the porter back in Nashville that had led him here—to the heart of the community where many of the freedmen who’d died in the accident had lived—would prove fruitful. A good number of those were farmhands who had taken interim work in Nashville last summer, only planning to be there for two or three months before heading back to harvest crops. They’d simply been providing for their families as best they could.

  Sixty-eight of the one hundred and three people killed had been freedmen. He
’d known that from one of the first newspaper accounts he’d read. But not until he’d seen the list at the Chattanooga office of all the names of the victims—along with their race, ages, occupations, and the towns they’d hailed from—had it really sunk in with him how unjust that number was.

  But he knew how things worked on the railroad. Passenger cars for white people were always placed at the end of the train to lessen the risk of injury and to escape the annoying soot and cinders, while cars carrying black men and women were placed right behind the baggage cars, which sat directly behind the steam locomotive.

  Frustrated by his own nearsightedness in that regard, he knocked a second time, harder than the first. He was tired and more than ready to be back—

  He caught himself. Home had been the next word in his thoughts. And yet Nashville was not his home. So why did it feel as if the hub of his world, of his future, resided there? He knew the answer.

  Alexandra Jamison.

  The woman lingered behind every thought. When he had an idea or an obstacle to work through, it was Alexandra he wanted to discuss it with. Their last evening together in Nashville, when they’d sneaked in to listen to the singers, remained foremost in his mind. And that song . . .

  The lyrics, though simple, wouldn’t leave his head. In the morning when I rise, give me Jesus. When I am alone, give me Jesus. You can have all the rest . . . Give me Jesus. The words kept returning at odd intervals, bringing comfort in one moment and discontentedness in the next. Perhaps it was the soulful way in which the singers had sung the song. He didn’t know.

  He only knew he was grateful that Alexandra had come into his life. And that he had to find a way to remove the barrier of Dutchman’s Curve if he wanted her to stay in it. That much was clear.

  But it was the article he’d read earlier that morning in the newspaper that had pushed her to the forefront of his thoughts today.

  A female schoolteacher in Alabama, teaching at a freedmen’s school, had been attacked by nightriders. A group of extremists, the reporter had labeled them. Men who dressed up in robes and masks and conical hats. Sounded like the teacher had been been badly beaten—and worse. All for “seeking to instruct Negroes and for associating with them publicly.” The thought that someone would lay a hand to Alexandra like that made his blood boil.

  Footsteps sounded beyond the door, and Sy straightened, wrestling his focus back to the moment and hoping this next-to-last person on his list would prove to be a better lead than the others he’d visited that afternoon. He was running out of prospects.

  The door opened, and a black woman peered up, her dark eyes immediately distrusting. “Help you, sir?”

  “I hope you can, ma’am. My name is Sylas Rutledge, and I’m here to see Luther Coggins.”

  Her gaze ran over him. “What you wantin’ Luther for?”

  “I’m with the railroad. We’re looking into a collision that happened about a year ago. Just outside of Nashville with the Nashville Chatta—”

  “I know what train crash you talkin’ about. Gotta be livin’ under a rock not to. But what you think that’s gotta do with my Luther?”

  “Ma’am, we’re talking with some of the people who were on the No. 1 and No. 4 that day. I understand Mr. Coggins had been working in Nashville and was on his way home on the No. 4 bound for Memphis. We’re wanting to learn from past errors. Perhaps see if maybe there’s something that was missed in all the details the first go-round.”

  “Luther don’t know nothin’ he ain’t already told you people. Besides, he ain’t home.” She started to close the door.

  “Well . . .” Sy held out a fifty-cent piece. “If Mr. Coggins did happen to be home, I’d sure be obliged if you’d tell him I’d like to speak with him. I won’t take but a few moments of his time.”

  She reached to take the fifty-cent piece, but Sy closed his palm around it. “Once you make sure Mr. Coggins is home.”

  She eyed him. “Wait here.” She closed the door.

  A minute later a man opened it. “You wantin’ to talk to me, sir?”

  “I am. Thank you, Mr. Coggins. I’m Sylas Rutledge.”

  Sy held out his hand, but the man just looked at it, then raised a stump where his right hand should’ve been.

  “No. 4 took it from me that day, Mr. Rutledge. Never could find it either. Found others, but not mine.”

  The man said it so matter-of-factly. Sy had read of the extent of the injuries sustained that day. Similar to frequent tragedies he saw in mining. He quickly changed the coin to his other hand, then extended his left to the man. Luther Coggins stared at it for a second, then slowly smiled and took hold.

  “I have a few questions, Mr. Coggins, about—”

  “The crash. I know. My wife told me. But I done said my piece to all of you last summer.”

  “I realize that, but I’m hoping you would simply go over some of the details with me again.”

  Sy held out the coin and the man took it, then gestured for him to enter. They sat in a sparsely furnished parlor, and for the first few moments Sy focused on asking him general questions. Facts Sy knew about the accident, just to gauge the fellow’s knowledge and to get a reading on the man himself. Did he tell the truth? Did he stretch it any? Did he make up parts to cover what he didn’t know?

  To Sy’s pleasure, he found Luther Coggins to be as candid and forthright as they came.

  “So when you came to after the crash, Mr. Coggins, you said a man was standing over you.”

  “Yes, sir. He was feelin’ of my throat to see if I was still alive. Said he didn’t think I would be, based on the blood. He tied my arm off real good to help stem the bleedin’.”

  “You didn’t happen to get his name, did you?”

  “Hank.”

  Sy hesitated, not having expected that. “Hank,” he repeated. “Did you get a last name?”

  Coggins shook his head. “But I know he works for the railroad. Or did back then, at least. ’Cuz he told me he saw the crash from his perch.”

  “His perch?”

  “Yes, sir. The one with them flags.”

  “The signal tower. So Hank was a signalman.”

  “I guess. If that’s what you call ’em.”

  Sy was fairly sure he already knew the answer to his next question based on where the wreckage of the No. 4 had been. “Did you happen to see this tower?”

  “Yes, sir. He pointed it out. It was over by the bridge.”

  Sy nodded, having seen the tower himself when he was out at Dutchman’s Curve.

  They talked awhile longer, Sy aware of the time slipping by, then he thanked the man again.

  Coggins walked him to the door. “Don’t know if I helped any.”

  “Oh, you did. That you knew the name of the man who assisted you is a start. Most people I’ve spoken with about the accident were so shaken at the time, understandably so, they didn’t get many details.”

  Coggins shrugged. “Seemed wrong, somehow, not thanking the man by name who saved my life.”

  “Yes. It would, wouldn’t it?”

  Sy walked on but stopped around the corner, pulled a notebook from his pocket, and jotted some quick notes. He had one more address to visit before he headed to catch the train.

  He found the residence with little difficulty, but no one came to the door. He’d known better than to get his hopes up, yet he still felt a sinking disappointment at the lack of information he’d uncovered. With no time to spare, he hurried back across town to the train station.

  Passengers were already boarding when he arrived, so he retrieved his satchel from the hold and climbed aboard. He found an empty bench toward the back of the passenger car and hunkered down to get some rest.

  He nudged his hat over his eyes, the week and its frustrations catching up with him. He was beginning to seriously doubt whether he’d be successful in uncovering the truth about his father’s role, if any, in the accident. Plus, he knew Alexandra was hoping for news as well, so she could reach some pe
ace about her late fiancé, David.

  David Thompson.

  He’d learned the man’s last name while scanning the official roster of the deceased from the accident while at the offices of the Nashville, Chattanooga and St. Louis Railway in Chattanooga. There was only one passenger with the first name of David on the list.

  What had David Thompson been like? Even more thought provoking, what had his relationship with Alexandra been like? But as soon as Sy’s thoughts headed down that pike, he knew it wasn’t a direction he wanted to go.

  “Mind if I sit here, friend?”

  Sy opened his eyes, the frustration and weariness in him prompting an emphatic Yes, I mind. But the heavily bearded, suited fellow appeared harmless enough, and the train was full, so Sy gave a sluggish nod toward the bench opposite him and closed his eyes again.

  The train left the station and he settled in; the rhythm of the rails always seeming to coax him to sleep. But today, sleep eluded him. After a while he sat up, took off his hat, and ran his hands through his hair.

  “No matter what you do, friend, sometimes sleep simply won’t come.”

  At the voice, Sy looked over at the man sitting across from him and nodded.

  The fellow offered his hand. “Philip Paul Bliss.”

  Sy shook it, wishing now he’d kept his eyes closed. “Sylas Rutledge.”

  “Well, Mr. Rutledge, you’re headed to Nashville?”

  “I hope so. Because if I’m not, I’m going in the wrong direction awfully fast.”

  Bliss laughed. “What’s your line of work, Mr. Rutledge?”

  “Railroad.”

  Bliss nodded, then eyed him as though trying to imagine what role he played.

  “I own the Northeast Line,” Sy finally offered, hoping to cut the exchange short.

  “Owner of a railroad! Now that sounds exciting!”

  Sy gave a noncommittal nod and glanced back out the window at the countryside speeding past. But as he sat there, the silence lengthening, he heard Alexandra in his head, along with her counsel. When someone introduces himself to you in a social setting and inquires about your profession, etiquette demands that you reciprocate and show an equal interest in his as well. Southern gentlemen expect it. It’s a way of broadening one’s sphere of influence.