To Wager Her Heart Page 6

  “You’ll get it, Boss. You always get what you put your mind to.”

  “Maybe.” Sy rubbed the back of his neck. “Be on the lookout for one of Harding’s men. Robert Green is his name. He’s to take charge of the thoroughbred once you get him off the train. And have Winslow check those brakes again. Something sounds off.”

  “Winslow checked all the brakes before we pulled out of the station this morning.” Vinson met—and held—his gaze. “But I’ll see to it he checks ’em again.”

  Sy nodded and turned.

  “Oh, and . . . Sy?”

  He looked back.

  “Just so you know . . .” Vinson’s voice went quiet. “I haven’t forgotten what today is. You’re not alone in missing him.”

  Unprepared for the knot forming at the base of his throat, Sy gave a quick nod.

  “He was mighty proud of you for what you made of yourself in Colorado, and would be proud, too, of you buying this railroad. But especially for what you’re doing . . . to clear his good name.”

  Sy tried to look anywhere but at his friend, the knot in his throat making it difficult to speak. “Just . . . see to things, Vinson. All right?”

  A smile ghosted Vinson’s face. “Yes, sir, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Sy made his way through the crowd, Duke at his heel, and it took several deep breaths to work the tightness from his chest. It wasn’t within him to converse about such things, but it did feel good to know he wasn’t alone in his memories.

  The whistle blasts of an outbound train a few tracks over pierced the air with an almost mournful quality.

  You want to work at developing your own way of tugging the pull cord, Sylas, his father had taught him before Sy was even tall enough to reach the rope unaided. That way, you can put some feeling into the sound. You can make it happy or sad. Or quick sounding, like it’s telling everybody to listen up! Each operator has his own style of blowing the whistle. Most times, I can tell you who the engineer is simply by the sound of the blast.

  Sy’s steps slowed, the memories tangling round him. He wondered what the whistle blasts had sounded like on Dutchman’s Curve. Or had there even been time to signal a warning?

  It had taken well over a month for the news of his father’s death to reach the mountains around Boulder. And by that time, Harrison Kennedy had already been hastily buried in a grave somewhere here in Nashville. Not beside Sy’s mother in the Nashville City Cemetery where he should have been buried—and would be, once Sy uncovered the truth about what had happened on Dutchman’s Curve and cleared his father’s name. Which was the driving force behind why he’d wagered the majority of his wealth and bought the Northeast Line.

  That, and the fact that gambling was in his blood.

  Railroad tycoons were a loyal bunch. And ruthless. They’d think nothing of laying the blame at an innocent man’s feet in order to protect their investment. Just so long as the railroad didn’t have any culpability. If the truth of Dutchman’s Curve had been buried, and Sy believed it had, it would stay buried. Unless someone from the railroad uncovered it. Still . . .

  Considering what he stood to lose if he didn’t win the bid on Harding’s project and he failed to secure investors for the land purchase, this would prove to be his biggest gamble of all. With all his holdings invested, he stood to lose not only the Northeast Line but perhaps the railroad back in Colorado as well. Everything he had. But if it worked . . .

  He’d make his entire investment back and a lot more.

  Enough to buy that ranch on the outskirts of Boulder that he’d been eying for years now. Companies and investors from the East were acquiring enormous plats of Colorado land, and he needed to get his share while he could. And this was his chance. Perhaps his last one.

  From the corner of his eye, Sy spotted General Harding making his way toward the station platform and went to intercept him.

  “Pardon me, sir,” a sultry voice said even as Sy felt someone pressing up against him in the crowd.

  He looked down and met a woman’s gaze, instantly knowing her for what she was. Never mind the expensive clothes, hairstyle, and other well-displayed assets. The boldness in her smile and purpose in the hand she laid against his chest left no doubt as to the nature of her intent.

  She moved closer. “The moment I saw you get off that train, I pegged you for a man who would appreciate some . . . memorable companionship this afternoon.”

  Sy caught hold of her wrist before things could get more interesting. The mining towns back West were full of brothels. Once he’d even paid his money and started up the stairs to the room. Then something had stopped him. To this day, he didn’t know what. He’d turned around and left, a dollar poorer than when he’d walked in. But he’d never regretted that decision. And though he often desired a woman’s company, that particular brand of it held no appeal.

  Mindful of the folks around them, and of Harding specifically, he kept his voice low. “While I don’t doubt the skill of your companionship, ma’am, I must refuse.”

  “Come now . . .” Her calculated smile grew falsely intimate. “I’m certain a man like you would enjoy—”

  Not wanting to lose track of General Harding in the crowd, Sy turned back in that direction but spotted another familiar face instead. Miss Jamison, the daughter of the attorney he’d visited yesterday, was making her way toward him on the platform.

  From what he could tell, the young woman hadn’t spotted him yet. And considering his current predicament, he aimed to keep it that way.

  Chapter

  FIVE

  Moving away from the prostitute, Sy glanced in Miss Jamison’s direction again, only to see she’d stopped a ways back to speak to another young woman in the crowd. They were deep in conversation, neither of them looking his way. He searched again for General Harding and finally spotted the man crossing the station platform and entering through a door of an adjacent building.

  The letter from Harding said the meeting would be brief and held at a location behind the ticket office. For a limited number of people, judging from the way it was worded. Immediately following the meeting, Harding would present Enquirer to the ever-growing crowd.

  Sy headed in that direction, Duke trotting loyally at his heel. He couldn’t help glancing once more in Miss Jamison’s direction. She certainly had a quality about her that drew a man’s eye. And it wasn’t just her face and curves either, or that mass of blond hair piled atop her head begging to be taken down, though those attributes were plenty appealing. It was more in the way she conducted herself. With quiet confidence and decorum. She was intelligent too. That much was clear.

  The fact that she hadn’t tried to draw his attention was probably part of it as well. The woman hadn’t seemed interested in him in the least.

  But why was he even thinking about all that? He hadn’t come to Nashville looking for a wife. He was here to work a deal, find some answers, and return West with plenty of money in his pocket and a lucrative expansion to his railroad.

  And anyway, from what he’d seen thus far, Southern women were far too soft and delicate for the untamed life of Colorado. Although . . .

  He’d sensed an undercurrent between Miss Jamison and her father in the office yesterday. Like an invisible tug-of-war going on between them. And in his estimation, the daughter had been winning. With a single look, she could put a man in his place.

  The father struck him as being a little desperate for business, and he talked a lot too. Which was good in one way, because Sy had left Jamison’s office knowing a great deal more about local businesses than he had when he’d walked in.

  But confidentiality in this next project was crucial. So though he thought Jamison could manage it, could he trust the man to be discreet?

  As he left the station platform and walked toward the building where the meeting was to be held, he passed vendors with carts laden with food. The aromas of freshly baked bread, sausages, and popcorn gave the event a festive feel. And reminded Sy of breakfast long pas
t.

  Scarcely pausing, he plunked down coins for a sausage and ate it as he walked. When he reached the stairs, he tossed the remainder to Duke, who caught it midair. Sy signaled for him to stay, and the foxhound found a patch of shade beneath the platform and hunkered down, the thump of his tail saying plenty.

  Sy deposited his trash in a rubbish bin, then opened the door he had seen the general enter a moment before. At first he thought he was in the wrong place. The room was packed. Standing room only. But there was General Harding at the front of the room.

  All of these men were here about Harding’s railroad venture?

  He took closer count. Nearly sixty men. And finely suited dandies, every last one of them. All of them twittering away like banty hens on a Sunday picnic. Sy rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw and removed his hat, thinking he should’ve made acquaintance with a barber before coming here this afternoon.

  While he hadn’t taken Harding’s written response to his bid to mean he had clinched the deal, he had thought—mistakenly, from the look of things—that it meant he was in the final running.

  “Gentlemen, please . . .” General Harding raised a hand. “May I have your attention?”

  A man seated toward the front turned, and when Sy saw who it was, his jaw tightened. Harold Gould. That was all he needed.

  If this turned out like last time . . .

  The man already controlled more than nine thousand miles of track, compared to Sy’s twenty-five hundred. Gould probably hoped to take advantage of Harding’s venture of bringing the railroad from Nashville to Belle Meade by then pushing the line on southward into Mississippi sometime in the future—if Harding was open to it. Which is exactly what Sy wanted to do.

  Thing was, Gould probably already had the needed capital, after besting Sy out of the last deal in Colorado. Gould caught his eye—and smiled.

  Sy did likewise and gave a confident nod, while his gut churned.

  “Gentlemen!” Harding said again, and the crowd fell quiet. “Thank you for coming here today.”

  As Harding offered a welcome, Sy realized the man had a presence about him, scraggly beard notwithstanding, along with an unmistakable air of wealth. The general’s war record was well known, as was the fact that he’d been imprisoned by the North for several months. Not that Sy or anyone else out West had spent much time thinking about that war.

  He’d been too busy operating a mine and running cattle on the side while making a small fortune, then building his first railroad. All by the age of twenty-four. His father had been right, in that regard. Looking back, Sy could see that he’d been right about so many things.

  “I appreciate your interest in my venture to bring the railroad to Belle Meade Plantation’s front porch,” Harding continued. “As most of you likely know, this is something I’ve desired to do for a long time. And with the annual yearling sales steadily growing in attendance, I want to do more than simply bring interested buyers to Nashville, the finest city in the South. I want them to arrive at Belle Meade in style!”

  A round of applause and several hearty cries of “Hear! Hear!” rose from some of the men gathered. Sy wasn’t one of them.

  He grudgingly admitted to himself that Harding did have a commanding quality about him. Sy shifted his weight. Thing was, he tended to rub men like Harding the wrong way. And those men had the exact same effect on him.

  “My plans also include laying a macadam road from the turnoff at Harding Pike all the way to the plantation. This will ease the transportation of those still seeking to travel by carriage or wagon. I desire that the Belle Meade depot be designed and constructed in a manner that complements the style of the house, of course. And it’s my preference that eventually this railway be part of a route that would extend southward. After all, Belle Meade is the premiere stud farm in the country as well as a working estate, and we have much to offer railroad patrons. Now I’ll entertain a few questions, then we must adjourn for a special presentation of another exciting addition to Belle Meade that arrived a short time ago.”

  “General Harding!” Gould rose from his seat near the front. “My name is Harold Gould, sir, and I want to tell you what an honor it is to meet you and to hear from you this morning. Indeed, it’s a privilege, sir, to be in the same room with such an esteemed businessman and ally of the railroad men of America.”

  More applause rose, and Sy exhaled, glad he’d worn his boots.

  “And now my question, General Harding,” Gould continued. “Have you narrowed down the top bids at this stage? And has any one bid in particular garnered your attention?”

  Even though Gould didn’t glance back at him, Sy knew the man was goading him. He also knew Harding would never answer such a question in public.

  Understandably, Harding’s smile was that of a man holding his cards close to his vest. “I’ve been in contact with several of you already. And while there are bids that have certainly gained my attention, if there is someone in this room who still desires to submit a bid, he may do so with my plantation manager.” He gestured to a man standing off to the side.

  “But you would be advised to do so quickly, because I’m hosting a dinner tomorrow night at Belle Meade for all approved prospective bidders so that they may gain a clearer understanding of my vision for the project. Pursuant to that evening, I’ll make my decision and award the project the following week.”

  “And just how do we know who’s on this approved list, General Harding?” Too late, Sy realized that his frustration over the number of bidders, and Gould’s being among them, had colored his tone.

  Squinting, General Harding peered over those gathered. “And your name, sir?”

  “Sylas Rutledge. Owner of the Northeast Line Railroad.”

  Harding paused briefly as recognition—or was it irritation?—shaded his features. Sy hoped Harding would recall that it was the Northeast Line that had pulled into the station awhile ago with the man’s newest blood horse on board. But he wouldn’t bet on it.

  “Well, Mr. Rutledge, as I was about to explain . . .” General Harding addressed his audience. “If those who have received a letter from me will visit the table set up in the breezeway outside after our meeting, my business manager will let them know if their bid has advanced to the next stage. Those approved will then receive an invitation to dinner. Does that answer your question satisfactorily . . . Mr. Rutledge?”

  Cordial sarcasm of a distinctly Southern style tainted Harding’s tone, and Sylas managed a nod. His first exchange with the man had not gone as planned. He could all but feel Gould’s smirk, and made a point not to look in his direction.

  Another man stood, stated his name, along with a string of banal compliments, then asked a question. Sy only half listened, fingering his hat in his hands. He already knew what he needed to know—that the odds of his winning the Belle Meade project were not as favorable as he’d thought. And that Harold Gould was going to do everything possible to shut him out.

  After a few more questions and answers, Harding concluded the meeting.

  Sy attempted to make his way toward the front to talk to Harding about Enquirer, maybe try to improve the man’s opinion of him a mite. But the swell of men pressing for the general’s attention prevented it.

  Sy finally turned to wait by the door when he noticed a black man standing off to the side watching him. The man’s pristine white apron and distinctive black bowler made him stand out in the crowd. He had a kindly look about him, something that said he belonged.

  Sy offered his hand. “Sylas Rutledge.”

  The man’s grip was firm. “The Mr. Rutledge who brought the general’s new blood horse.”

  It wasn’t a question. “One and the same.”

  “You the owner of the Northeast Line too. Ain’t that what I heard you say?”

  Sy nodded, getting the feeling an opinion was being formed. For better or worse, he couldn’t say.

  “I’m Robert Green, head hostler at Belle Meade Plantation. But everybody call
s me Uncle Bob.”

  Sy nodded slowly. “Uncle Bob it is then.” This was the man responsible for all of General Harding’s thoroughbreds? Interesting . . .

  “From what I hear, sir, you hire mostly black men for your railroad. Not just the porter jobs, but the other higher-ups too. That right?”

  Sy raised a brow. “News travels fast in these parts.”

  Uncle Bob laughed.

  “I hire the best men for the job, plain and simple. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  The man regarded him for a long moment, then smiled. “You ain’t from close around here, are you, Mr. Rutledge?”

  Sy laughed. “No, I’m not. I’ve spent my life out in Colorado. Up until about three weeks ago when I finally ventured East.”

  “Colorado, you say.” Uncle Bob’s dark gaze turned appraising. “Got me a friend out that way. Ridley Cooper. Good man. Owns a ranch near Denver. Got his start right here at Belle Meade.”

  Sy shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve heard of him. But if he’s a good man, I’ll have to look him up when I get back. I’ve been to Denver many times, but have spent most of my life in or around the mining camps. Boulder, Breckenridge, and some others.”

  Uncle Bob frowned. “You a miner, sir?”

  “Used to be. For a while.”

  “Any good come of it?”

  Again Sy smiled. “You could say that. But the main good came from knowing when to stop mining and when to start managing a mine instead. And selling to the miners. I began raising cattle. Didn’t know much about it at first, but you learn real quick when you have to.”

  Uncle Bob laughed. “That you do, sir. And them miners, they always gotta eat.”

  “That’s the way I saw it. Or . . . came to see it, after a while.”

  “What’d you mine for?”

  “Gold, mostly. But some silver too.”