To Wager Her Heart Page 8

  But it did, finally, and everyone drew a collective, audible breath. She felt a tug on her hand and looked over to see Mary, whose cheeks were also damp.

  Her friend leaned close. “I see someone I need to speak with, Alex. Wait here for me?”

  Alexandra nodded, grateful for a moment to collect her thoughts. Then she spotted him again. Sylas Rutledge. Standing across the way near the gangplank of the stock car. And his expression . . .

  Pained best described it. Or even anguished. But why would he be feeling such a sense of loss? Had he known someone who’d perished in the accident that day too? Doubtful, his being from so far away.

  Then again, he was a railroad man. Maybe that alone provided a strong enough link. After all, she’d read in the newspapers of train accidents in the Colorado mountains and of workers plummeting to their deaths while building trestles across canyons. She shuddered.

  The railroad represented progress, she knew. But at what cost?

  General Harding resumed his speech, yet all she could focus on was the thunder of those two massive locomotives as they’d met head-on in that cornfield, the grinding of metal on metal. From where she’d sat by the window in her railcar, she’d watched helpless as the forward-most passenger cars telescoped into one another, the wooden structures splintering like children’s toys, the impact fanning out and over the remaining cars on both trains in a wave of destruction. Then everything went still. A sudden, unearthly silence, as if the entire world had gone mute.

  Until the screams and cries arose.

  “In conclusion of our remembrance,” General Harding said, his voice strong yet compassionate, “thank you, dear neighbors, for honoring those who died that day. If they could speak to us, I believe they would challenge us to venture on with fresh courage. To live out our days not shrouded in grief, but in the bold hope that, through the compassion and mercy of our Lord, we will see one another again someday.”

  A wave of subdued amens rose and fell, and Alexandra added one of her own, the determination to start living again steeling inside her. And to live the life she chose, not one chosen for her. She’d already taken the first major step in that journey. Now to figure out how to tell her parents about her decision.

  Hot and tired, she found herself eager to get back home. Even if she didn’t secure the position at Fisk, she wasn’t marrying Horace Buford. She would tell them that much at least. And surely she would find someplace else to teach. A school that didn’t demand the higher education she didn’t have.

  But whatever she did, she needed to plan her departure quickly yet carefully. With as volatile a topic as this was, especially for her father, everything could go terribly wrong if she didn’t.

  “So in the spirit of looking toward the future,” Harding continued, “and also in the continuing vein of this city’s nationally renowned blood horse lineage, allow me to share with you the most recent addition to Belle Meade Plantation . . . a world-class thoroughbred of which Nashville can be proud. The best three-year-old of 1870, the winner of the Kenner Stakes at Saratoga and the Phoenix Hotel Stakes at Lexington! I give you . . . Enquirer!”

  Applause rose as all eyes shifted to the stock car where a tall, muscular Negro man was leading a massive horse down the gangplank. The magnificent bay stallion, standing at least sixteen hands high, snorted and tossed his head as the man coaxed him down to where Sylas Rutledge waited, Uncle Bob beside him.

  The two men were conversing like old friends. Then again, Uncle Bob seemed like a friend to everyone he met. He’d certainly always made her feel welcome at Belle Meade.

  “Alexandra!” Mary appeared at her side, breathless and face flushed. “You’ll never believe what I just heard. And on today of all days!”

  Alexandra might’ve been tempted to smile, if not for her friend’s sober expression. “What is it, Mary?”

  “It’s about Mr. Rutledge, whom we were talking about only awhile ago. The man in your father’s office yesterday.” Mary grabbed her hand and squeezed hard. “Mr. Rutledge’s father was the engineer driving the No. 1 that day, Alex. The train that you and David were on.”

  Alexandra blinked. She heard the words but couldn’t get them to make sense. “That can’t be right. His last name is Rutledge, and the engineer’s name was Harrison—”

  “Kennedy. Yes, I know. Harrison Kennedy was Mr. Rutledge’s stepfather. Apparently one of the other bidders was privy to the information and shared it with a friend of mine.”

  Alexandra found her attention drawn back to Sylas Rutledge, who was still speaking, and even laughing, with Uncle Bob. Harrison Kennedy . . . his stepfather?

  “Alexandra, are you all right?”

  She heard Mary’s voice from far away and nodded, her gaze still riveted. “Yes. I’m fine. But . . . I need to go, Mary. I need to get home.”

  “Would you like me to come with you? I will.”

  “No.” Alexandra turned, numb inside and suddenly feeling unwell. “I’ll be fine. You go see Mr. Jackson. He’s waiting for you over there with your father.”

  Mary looked across the platform and gave her fiancé a brief wave as the crowd pressed closer. “Alex . . . I’m so sorry. But I thought you’d want to know. And I truly don’t mind going along with you.”

  “I prefer to be alone, Mary. But thank you.” Alexandra forced a smile. “Let me know if a letter comes for me?”

  “I will.” Mary hugged her tight. “I’ll send it over myself. Take care going home.”

  Alexandra nodded, and as Mary maneuvered toward her father and fiancé, Alexandra felt herself being carried along by the crowd’s momentum as they pressed closer in the direction of the thoroughbred.

  How could Sylas Rutledge be here today? How could he be standing here among all these people, knowing what he knew? That his father was responsible for taking all of those lives? For taking David’s life? The audacity of it. The disrespect.

  It would seem her initial instincts about the man had proven true after all.

  Tears in her eyes, she tried to push her way back through the throng toward the street, but it was no use. She’d have to move forward, press off to the side, and then cut back.

  She hadn’t noticed it before, but stacked crates connected with lumber formed a makeshift paddock around the horse, and a couple of General Harding’s stablehands stood nearby as well. Measures to ensure the public’s safety, she felt certain, but also the safety of the thoroughbred, which represented a sizable investment.

  Makeshift paddock or not, Alexandra had no intention of getting any closer. She’d been around enough stallions to know they were dangerous animals. Handsome, to be sure, with a masculine strength and beauty that lured one in, then could crush a person in a single blow.

  Not unlike Mr. Sylas Rutledge.

  She looked back and found him looking in her direction. Their eyes connected, and he smiled at her. Then just as quickly, the expression faded. His brow furrowed, and a clear question showed in his features. But Alexandra looked away, and seeing a break in the crowd, she forced her way to the side, scarcely able to breathe for the pain in her chest.

  Even when she heard him calling her name behind her, she didn’t stop.

  Chapter

  SEVEN

  Miss Jamison!”

  Sy called her name again, knowing she’d seen him. But she continued walking. He cut a path between the railcars, Duke trotting close, and easily overtook her before she reached the street.

  “Miss Jamison . . .” He fell into step beside her, trying to catch her attention, but she wouldn’t look at him. “I was calling you, ma’am. Didn’t you hear me?”

  She quickened her pace. “Please excuse me, Mr. Rutledge. But I really cannot speak with you right now.”

  A harshness tightened her voice, similar to the distress he’d seen in her expression moments earlier, and he wondered again if she’d lost someone on Dutchman’s Curve. For an abundance of reasons, he hoped not.

  “Miss Jamison—” He didn’t da
re touch her, but did lean in a little in order to see her better. “Would you please slow down and tell me what’s wrong?”

  She suddenly veered to cross the street.

  He hesitated for only a beat, then caught up with her again, Duke shadowing his steps. Sy didn’t know what else to say. He only knew that earlier, things seemed to be fine between them, and now they were anything but. And to think he’d been planning on asking her for a favor.

  “Miss Jamison, I truly don’t wish to be a bother to you, but—”

  “You don’t wish to be a bother?” She stopped in the middle of the street. “You have the nerve to attend that gathering today knowing what you know.” Fire lit her eyes beneath unshed tears. “And yet you say you don’t want to be a bother?”

  Sy searched her expression and went a little cold inside. “What do you mean . . . I have the nerve?”

  A single tear trailed down her cheek before she wiped it away. “Harrison Kennedy. That’s what I mean, Mr. Rutledge. That man was your stepfather? The engineer who was driving the No. 1.”

  Hearing his father’s name from her lips felt like a punch to the gut, and Sy briefly bowed his head. How she’d found out, he didn’t know. But if she knew, that meant that others likely knew as well.

  “Yes, Miss Jamison.” His voice was surprisingly even. “Harrison Kennedy was my father. And yes, he was the engineer of the train coming from Memphis that morning. But Harrison Kennedy was one of the finest engineers any railroad in this country has ever employed. There’s—”

  He stopped himself, not wanting to say too much. Yet he couldn’t say nothing.

  “Miss Jamison, there’s no way that events happened as they say. That’s the main reason I’ve come East. To find out the truth and to clear my father’s—”

  She took off again and almost walked straight into the path of an oncoming wagon. Sy signaled to the driver in time, and the freighter slowed so they could pass.

  “Miss Jamison, at least do me the courtesy of hearing me out before you walk away.”

  “I don’t need to hear anymore, Mr. Rutledge. Especially knowing that you came to see my father yesterday under false pretenses.”

  “False pretenses? I did no such thing.”

  She whirled to face him. “You just admitted that the main reason you’ve come East is to clear your father’s name. I didn’t hear anything about buying land. I could tell yesterday in the office that you were only there to gain information. You had no intention of enlisting my father’s services. Well, I hope you got what you needed, because you’ll be getting nothing else from me or from him. And furthermore, the railroad conducted a thorough investigation of that crash, Mr. Rutledge. And while I know it must be very difficult for you to accept, the officials found your stepfather responsible for the collision.” Her eyes watered again. “His negligence killed over a hundred people that day and injured many more. People whose lives will”—her voice broke—“never be the same again.”

  She firmed her jaw, her chin trembling as fresh tears pooled in her eyes. Sy felt the same forming in his own and had to look away. When he looked back, she was still staring at him, a rawness to her pain that cut him down deep.

  “I won’t delay you further, Miss Jamison. Except to say this . . . Remember, ma’am, that I lost someone that day too. Someone very dear to me. So don’t for a moment think that the people who gathered here today are the only ones hurting or the only ones still mourning. Not a day’s gone by over the past year that I haven’t wished I could speak with my father again. That I wouldn’t give everything I own to know for sure what went on in that handful of moments before those two trains collided. But as certain as I’m standing here before you now, I’m going to do my best to find out the truth. No matter what it takes. Good day to you, Miss Jamison.”

  Her stomach in knots, Alexandra fingered the letter in her hand and knew it was time. She couldn’t wait any longer to tell her parents her decision. She’d slept fitfully last night, and a dull ache at the base of her neck throbbed even now.

  When the letter arrived during breakfast she’d been alarmed, thinking that Mr. White had sent his response to her home address by mistake. But a closer look at the missive cleared up that misassumption, even as it forced her hand on another issue.

  Seated at her dressing table in her bedroom, she still had trouble reconciling that the ornate, rather feminine-looking handwriting on the front of the envelope belonged to Mr. Horace Buford. But it matched the script within. And the romantic declarations the man had expounded upon . . .

  She didn’t dare read the phrases a second time for fear she’d unintentionally commit them to memory.

  She sighed and slipped the letter into the top drawer and ran through her opening argument, as it were, for a second time. Now if she could only deliver it with the same calm and forthrightness she’d displayed moments earlier when she squared off with her dressing mirror.

  She massaged her neck and shoulder muscles. It had taken forever to go to sleep last night, the day’s events replaying again and again in her mind.

  Yes, Miss Jamison. Harrison Kennedy was my father.

  Mr. Rutledge’s response echoed again in her mind with striking clarity. Not stepfather, but father, he’d said. Which revealed so much.

  The pain in his expression . . .

  For the past year, she’d not once, in all that time, considered the grief that Harrison Kennedy’s family must have been enduring. The guilt and shame, yes. But that they’d lost a husband and father and were grieving his passing? No. And she felt so much smaller a person because of it.

  Especially having stared that grief in the eye yesterday. And yet . . .

  Sylas Rutledge’s mourning and that of his family, sincere and heartbreaking though it was, didn’t alter the fact that the fault of the collision had been traced back to his stepfather’s negligence. To failing eyesight, the newspaper had recounted. And to the man’s misreading the signs on the tracks. Oh, that the cause of the accident had been something more complicated than that.

  Every time she thought about it, a wash of futility sluiced through her. So needless. So preventable. In that vein, she and Mr. Rutledge shared a common desire. She, too, would like to know for absolute certain what happened in those final moments.

  Something else occurred to her as well . . .

  Hadn’t the newspapers also reported that Mr. Kennedy had been a widower, and that his wife had preceded him in death by some years? Which meant that Sylas Rutledge was now without both of his parents. As much as she disagreed with her own father and mother and wished the three of them enjoyed more common ground, she couldn’t imagine her world without them.

  And yet, that’s exactly what she’d spent the last few hours doing. Because she had a good idea of how they would react when she told them her news.

  She took the framed picture of David from her dressing table and slipped it into the side of her satchel, then set the satchel and her reticule atop David’s trunk, which she’d packed during the night. With a last look around the room, she headed downstairs.

  She saw her father working in his office, then found her mother in the sitting room off the kitchen, knitting. “Mother, I’d like to speak with you and Father together, if you have a moment.”

  Her mother paused midstitch, a pleased smile lighting her face. “Of course, my dear.” She hurriedly stuffed the half-finished scarf into her kitting basket. “Was Mr. Buford’s letter to your liking? Is he as well-written a man as he is wealthy? And did he say anything about coming over later today? He told your father he might.”

  Hearing the happy expectation in her mother’s questions, Alexandra knew better than to encourage it. She also guessed now why her mother had offered to help her dress that morning and had cinched her corset so tight.

  Tiny waist, marry in haste.

  Alexandra rolled her eyes at the quippy little rhyme maids whispered when pulling the strings taut. She’d always hated the phrase.

  “No, M
other, Mr. Buford didn’t mention anything about visiting this evening. And regarding the letter, let’s simply say that the man is . . . verbose.”

  “Verbose.” Her mother nodded, a twinkle in her eye. “Perhaps the more words a man needs to use, the more insistent his feelings.”

  Somehow believing quite the opposite was true, Alexandra led the way to her father’s office and knocked on the open door. “Father, may Mother and I join you? I’d like to speak with you both.”

  Seated at his desk, he gestured for them to enter, the lines of his face appearing deeper than usual. The harsh morning light, no doubt. Alexandra closed the door behind them. Her mother claimed one of the two chairs in front of the desk, and Alexandra sat in the other.

  Looking between her parents, she felt as though she were balanced on a ledge and the slightest puff of air would send her tumbling over the side.

  “First, I want to say that I appreciate you both more than I’ve likely demonstrated in recent months. This past year has been a very difficult one, but it’s also caused me to reexamine what’s most important in life. And how I want to spend mine.”

  “Contemplation has its place, Alexandra.” Her father shifted in his chair, his grimace like a forewarning. “But what’s most important are our actions. What is your decision?”

  She hesitated. So much for presenting her opening statement. The temperature in the room was warm, and she was grateful for the raised windows. “After much reflection—and prayer,” she added hurriedly, “I recognize that Mr. Buford’s offer of marriage, and even his letter this morning, demonstrate a very generous and even forgiving nature on his part.”

  “Indeed,” her mother said softly, fragile hope composing her features.

  “Especially when considering how I responded to him earlier this week.” Sensing her father’s growing impatience, Alexandra cleared her throat. “And yet, marriage to Mr. Buford is not a choice I wish to pursue. What I really want to do is to teach. In fact . . .”

  Seeing her father’s expression harden even as her mother’s began to give way, she hurried to get the words out. “I had an interview for a local teaching position this week. And if it comes to fruition, which I believe it will, I hope to—”