To Wager Her Heart Page 7

“And you found some?”

  “A fair amount.”

  The older man shook his head, his laughter pleasant. “I once had me a dream of goin’ out that way. Just to see it, mind you. Never had no plan to go and stay.”

  “You should see it, if you can. It’s beautiful country. The Rocky Mountains . . .” Sy briefly closed his eyes, able to remember them better that way. “You’d swear the highest peaks reach straight up to heaven’s doorstep. But once you climb one of them, and you catch your breath—”

  Sy gave him a look, and Uncle Bob chuckled.

  “—you stand there and look up . . . and you realize just how much more sky there is to go.”

  Sy could see the image so clearly in his mind. And as he had on those occasions when he’d scaled the mountains, he wished he’d had the ability to capture the image of those snowcapped peaks and the vivid blue of the sky. Their beauty couldn’t be communicated with words.

  “Lawd . . .” Uncle Bob sighed. “I bet standin’ on one of them mountaintops makes a man feel all kinds of powerful!”

  “That’s what I expected to feel the first time I climbed up there.” Sy exhaled. “But what I mainly felt was . . . small. By comparison.”

  Uncle Bob said nothing for a moment, only looked at him, then nodded slowly. “So where’s the general’s new thoroughbred, Mr. Rutledge? He done made the trip all right, I hope?”

  “He made it fine.” Sy gestured in the direction of the train. “Enquirer’s in the first stock car. Man by the name of Vinson is seeing to him. Go on down and see the horse for yourself, if you like. You can’t miss Vinson. He’s about the size of a mountain and—”

  “He that boulder of a man I seen movin’ through down there awhile back?”

  “That’d be him.”

  Uncle Bob nodded. “I’ll find him.”

  “You’ll find who, Uncle Bob?”

  Sy turned to see General Harding walking up to them with Harold Gould in tow, smirk intact.

  “I’s just telling Mr. Rutledge here, sir, that I’s gonna go check on Enquirer.”

  Determined not to make another misstep, Sy stuck out his hand. “General Harding, I appreciate the opportunity to bid on your project. And also your trust in allowing me to transport your thoroughbred today.”

  “Mr. Rutledge.” Harding gave a succinct nod, much like his handshake. “I trust you delivered him in excellent condition?”

  Sy matched his gaze. “I did, sir. He’s one fine animal.”

  Without a blink, Harding turned to Uncle Bob. “I’ll make my way to the podium while you go check on the horse. Make sure he’s ready for the presentation.”

  “Yes, sir, General. We’ll be ready.”

  Harding turned back. “Mr. Gould, would you care to join me as I walk?”

  “Why, I’d be honored, General Harding.” Gould shot Sy a look. “Mr. Rutledge, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Harding paused. “You two know each other?”

  “Oh, yes, General.” A glint sharpened Gould’s eyes. “Mr. Rutledge and I met about a year ago when we were bidding for the same railroad out West. A line that runs from Denver to Colorado Springs. I came out on top in that bid, sir. But as I recall, that was Mr. Rutledge’s first attempt to acquire a legitimate railroad operation. Up to then”—Gould smiled—“he had himself a little operation that ran between some mining towns in the Rockies.”

  “Has an operation,” Sy corrected. “I still own the Silver Line.”

  “Oh, do you? Quite a feather in your cap there, Rutledge.”

  Harding’s brow knit. “So, Mr. Rutledge . . . You’ve only owned the Northeast Line for a year?”

  “Actually, only about nine months, sir.” Sy slipped his hat back on. “The Northeast Line was all but bankrupt. I started turning a profit after seven weeks.”

  Gould laughed. “Yes, how are the rail markets in the smaller eastern towns these days? Booming, I take it.”

  Sy smiled. One quick jab, that’s all he wanted. That’s all it would take too. Gould was soft and spongy. The man hadn’t spent the last few years carving out his fortune from the unrelenting Rocky Mountains.

  “Kind of you to inquire, Gould. The markets are growing steady and strong. After you, General Harding.”

  Sy indicated for the general to precede him through the door, and Gould swiftly fell into step behind the man, tossing Sy a dismissive look as he did. Sy followed a few steps behind, all but certain there would be no envelope waiting for him at the table. Or if there was, it would likely soon be withdrawn. Along with his invitation to dinner.

  He strode back to where he’d left Duke and whistled once. The dog hopped up and trotted toward him, tail wagging as though he hadn’t seen his master in days. Sy gave him a good rub, then headed back to the breezeway.

  When he turned the corner he saw Harding’s business manager involved in a deep discussion with a man he’d glimpsed in the meeting room minutes earlier. He sighed to himself. Just what he needed. Yet another bidder on the project.

  Then he spotted someone seated at the table to his right at the very moment she spotted him. An unmistakable spark of interest flitted across Miss Jamison’s expression—though she quickly tucked that interest back beneath an attractive countenance of confidence and decorum.

  Not that any of that mattered, Sy quickly reminded himself. He was here to clear his father’s name, work a lucrative deal, then head back West with his pockets lined and that ranch outside of Boulder as good as his.

  Chapter

  SIX

  Face-to-face with Sylas Rutledge again, Alexandra found herself annoyingly tongue-tied and blushing for no cause.

  “Miss Jamison, nice to see you again, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rutledge,” she managed, pleasantly surprised at his show of etiquette. “You as well.”

  He peered down at her from beneath the brim of his Stetson. “Don’t tell me that in addition to being an assistant attorney, you’re a plantation foreman as well.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “No, sir. Mr. Walters, General Harding’s business manager, is presently occupied. So the general requested that Miss Harding, his daughter, and I assist at the table.”

  Seated beside her, Mary was speaking with another of the bidders, so Alexandra searched the box for Mr. Rutledge’s envelope, trying not to think of how his voice sounded like the slow pour of fine bourbon into a glass. Or the rich taste of chocolate melting on her tongue. How had she not noticed that before? But then, he’d scarcely said a handful of words in her father’s office yesterday.

  She handed him the envelope. “Congratulations on being one of the final bidders on General Harding’s project. Once you read the letter, Mr. Rutledge, you’ll find that the general has extended an invitation for you to join his family for a soirée tomorrow evening at their home. The address and directions are included within. May I mark you as attending?”

  “You may, Miss Jamison.”

  Alexandra made a mark by his name on the list, catching a glimpse of the man’s faithful companion, who was watching her intently over the edge of the table. She smiled at the dog but didn’t dare try to pet him again.

  “The best of luck to you, Mr. Rutledge.”

  “Actually, I don’t hold much stock in luck, Miss Jamison. I quit that claim some time ago.” He eyed her. “You don’t think I need one of those special deeds to make it official, do you?”

  Alexandra laughed, surprising herself. How long had it been since she’d laughed so spontaneously? “No, sir. No quitclaim deed required in this instance.”

  He held her gaze a tad longer than necessary, and the thoroughness of his attention combined with that same indefinable quality she’d glimpsed yesterday summoned a heat inside her that traveled from her face down to her toes in the space of a heartbeat. And took her breath with it.

  “Much obliged to you, ma’am, for your help.”

  She responded with a polite, parting nod, then made herself look past him to the nex
t man in line. Yet she was aware of his every move as he and his foxhound made their way to the station platform.

  She noticed Mary eying him too and knew her friend would question her at the earliest opportunity.

  Perhaps the man wasn’t so wild and untamed after all. But she knew enough to know that General Harding preferred to work with likeminded businessmen. Namely, Southern gentlemen like himself. So Mr. Rutledge was at a disadvantage from the start.

  “And who exactly was that?” Mary whispered when the line at the table cleared momentarily. “And how do you know him?”

  “His name is Mr. Rutledge. And actually, I don’t know him. I’ve only met him once, when he came to see my father yesterday. I know he’s from Colorado and that he’s the owner of the Northeast Line Railroad.” And that he appreciates music, she thought, and adores his dog. Though she kept those two observations to herself.

  Mary slipped her hand into the crook of Alexandra’s arm. “He’s a bit rough around the edges, I’d say,” she whispered, turning to watch him. “But from where I sit . . . he’d be well worth taming!”

  “Mary Elizabeth Harding!” Alexandra glanced at her friend in mock alarm.

  “Well, look at him, Alex. Tall, dark . . . and a little dangerous.”

  Alexandra nudged her. “While two of those qualities can be considered desirable, the last is decidedly not. Besides, you already have your perfect Mr. Jackson.”

  Mary sighed. “Howell is rather perfect, is he not?”

  Alexandra loved seeing the light in her friend’s eyes. “How are the wedding plans progressing?”

  “Beautifully. My dress should be finished soon.” A shadow eclipsed her smile.

  “What is it?”

  Mary shook her head. “All this wedding planning makes me miss Mother.”

  Alexandra hugged her. “I’m so sorry, Mary. She would have loved to have experienced all this with you. Your mother had such wonderful style too.”

  Mary looked at her hands in her lap. “It’s hard to believe it’s almost four years since she passed.” As soon as she said it, empathy moved into her features. “And I know you’re missing David today, Alex. He was such a fine man. As perfect for you as you say Howell Jackson is for me.”

  Alexandra steeled herself against the emotions simmering just beneath the surface. “Yes, he was,” she whispered. “Even if he didn’t have five children to usher me into instant motherhood.”

  Mary’s grin found its place again. “I realize some people are talking, wondering how could I possibly want all those children. Even my aunt said she thought I had too much sense to take on that responsibility.” Mary shook her head. “But I’m twenty-four years old, Alex. I’m long past ready to be a mother and to have my own home.”

  “You’ve been ready since you were five. You’re going to be the most wonderful mother to those children.” Alexandra smiled, thinking again about what her own mother had said to her last night. “And your husband-to-be, esteemed attorney that he is, is bound for marvelous things too, Mary. I couldn’t be happier for you both.”

  Mary grasped her hand and squeezed. “I see you’re out of mourning garb, and I’m glad. You honored him properly, Alex, but I’m glad to see you in color again. Although I think we can do better than dark blue.”

  Alexandra shushed her with a look.

  “Is there someone . . . anyone who’s caught your eye of late? After all,” Mary continued hurriedly, as though anticipating a rebuttal, “it’s been a year. A lot of people aren’t even waiting that long anymore. I think the war has made us all more aware of time’s passing. Howell’s wife had scarcely been gone six months when he asked me to marry him. He said he didn’t wish to ‘act with unbecoming haste,’ but he does have the children to consider.”

  Alexandra met her gaze. “My dear Mary, while you may believe whatever you like about Mr. Jackson’s haste in marrying you, don’t forget . . . I’ve seen the way the man looks at you.”

  Mary’s eyes watered. “The same way David looked at you.”

  Alexandra nodded as her own tears welled.

  Her friend leaned closer. “Is there anything I can do to help you through today? And to help you . . . move beyond this difficult season?”

  “You’ve already done so much. Just remembering today along with me helps. But . . .” Alexandra raised a brow. “I did use your address today for correspondence regarding a possible position.”

  “You applied to teach somewhere?”

  “I did.”

  Mary squeezed her hand. “David would be so pleased, Alex. And so proud of you. But what did your father say?”

  “I haven’t told him yet. Or Mother.”

  Mary made a face that aptly described what Alexandra was feeling whenever she thought of that exchange.

  She was tempted to tell Mary more, but she knew that would only elicit questions she wasn’t ready to answer. And might not even need to answer, if she ended up not getting the job after all.

  She didn’t think Mary would fault her for wanting to teach at Fisk. But her friend was the daughter of General William Giles Harding, and everyone knew where he stood on the subject of educating freedmen. Exactly where her own father stood.

  “You’ll likely receive a letter for me in the next day or two. And if you can either bring it or send it over to my attention, I’ll be so grateful.”

  A gentleman approached the table, and Mary turned to help him, but not before she whispered, “I want to hear more about this. I hope it isn’t too far away. I don’t want to lose you!”

  Alexandra nodded. Mary was the closest thing she had to a sister, and it was sweet of her to say that. But Alexandra knew that she was the one about to lose Mary. To a wonderful man, granted. But why was it that every time a friend married, a page turned and a chapter closed? It was about to happen all over again.

  After distributing the remaining envelopes, the two women joined the crowd near the edge of the platform, where General Harding was speaking.

  A moment passed, and Alexandra felt someone watching her. She turned to see Sylas Rutledge looking her way. He nodded and smiled, and she did the same before turning back. He was a handsome man, as Mary had said. And as it turns out, he had a sense of humor as well. He was obviously successful. And intelligent, even if in a less formal sense.

  Alexandra felt a stab of guilt. How could she be having thoughts like that on this day? Her heart was still with David, as was her future now, in a way.

  “To the fine citizens of Nashville,” General Harding said, his voice carrying over the quieted crowd, “I pledge to do everything within my power to continue to rebuild this fair city alongside you, and to garner the much-desired attention it is due.” He paused briefly as applause momentarily drowned out his voice. “As one whose roots go deep into the soil of this city . . .”

  Alexandra eyed a certain stock car on the track, one with the gangplank lowered, surmising that’s where the thoroughbred was being held until the presentation. Then she glanced back in Mr. Rutledge’s direction, only to find him gone.

  The discovery brought both relief and disappointment.

  “So it is with deep remorse,” General Harding was saying, “and heartfelt sympathy to everyone who lost a loved one exactly one year ago today . . . that we pause to remember.” The general withdrew his watch from his pocket.

  “In just a moment,” he continued, “after the bell in the First Presbyterian Church strikes three o’clock, it will continue to strike one hundred and three times. Once for each life lost that afternoon on Dutchman’s Curve. And though the pain of loss remains, let us focus today on lives well lived and love that was shared.”

  Alexandra felt her throat closing.

  “Would you please bow your heads with me as we remember . . . and pray silently for one another?”

  Heart pounding, she bowed her head, not having expected this. Seconds passed in tense, almost painful silence, then from a few streets away the bell in the church tower struck three time
s. And continued . . .

  One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .

  She found herself counting along, feeling each strike resonating deep inside her.

  Which toll was for David?

  As she’d wondered many times . . . Had he died instantly? Or had he suffered beneath the weight of that train car, his body crushed and broken? Had he cried out for help? Only to die before they could reach him?

  The ache in her chest sharpened with each toll.

  Thirty-two . . . thirty-three . . . thirty-four . . . thirty-five . . .

  Though General Harding hadn’t mentioned it, the majority of the victims had been freedmen riding in the frontmost cars. Where David had been.

  Not far from where she stood, soft sobs rose. Slowly she lifted her eyes to see an elderly woman, her face buried in her frail hands. Nearby, a young Negro woman stood with a small boy cradled to her chest as she looked heavenward, silent tears trailing her cheeks. Even some of the men wiped unshed tears from their eyes as the bell continued to toll.

  Seventy-one . . . seventy-two . . . seventy-three . . . seventy-four . . .

  Suddenly it felt as though they’d been standing there for such a long time. Too long a time.

  Eighty-one . . . eighty-two . . . eighty-three . . .

  Too many people, Lord. Too many lives senselessly cut short that day. Needlessly, carelessly. Oh, David . . .

  How she missed him. Missed his laughter and the life they’d intended to share. Why had they not married sooner? If they had, he might never have been on that train that morning. But she knew why . . .

  She’d bent to her father’s will in that decision too. He’d wanted them to wait until after David began teaching at the university in Memphis. To make sure “the young man settles into the position well, Alexandra.” But looking back, she wondered if her father had hoped she might change her mind.

  Ninety-nine, one hundred. One hundred one, one hundred two . . . one hundred three.

  The final reverberation of the bell seemed to cling to the heat and humidity, and to the almost palpable grief now hovering over the gathering. For a moment Alexandra doubted if the sound would ever completely fade away.