She tugged at the collar of her shirtwaist, then bent again to tie her boots, and her head swam. His arm came around her shoulders, and she caught the scent of bayberry and rum cologne. He smells nice, she thought. Like bay rum and spice. Then briefly wondered if she’d spoken the words aloud.
“Miss Jamison, would you like some help lacing those?” He knelt before her, but she waved a hand.
“No, thank you. I can manage.”
And she did. Though it seemed to take a great deal longer than usual as the stays in her corset dug into her side. Finally she stood. A breeze, hot but heavenly, hit her face, and suddenly the lure of a cool feather bed held great appeal. She hadn’t slept well last night, after all. In part, she remembered, due to this man.
He assisted her onto the horse, no small feat with so large an animal, then swung up behind her.
“Miss Jamison, how long have you been out here?”
She thought for a moment. “An hour. Maybe two.”
“And you walked all this way from town?”
“As I said.”
“When did you last eat?”
She thought for a moment. “Breakfast.”
He made a noise in his throat but said nothing else, which was fine with her. Conversation wasn’t the foremost thing on her mind. Rest, however, was.
On the horizon, puffy white clouds floated over the hills like tufts of cotton on a breeze, and as she watched them she found herself growing more relaxed. The rhythmic gait of the horse and the warmth of the sun didn’t help. Neither did her lack of sleep in recent days.
Feeling herself leaning back into him, she sat straighter and attempted to put distance between them. But the very act of riding tandem sabotaged that goal.
A haze moved over her, and for just a moment, she gave into it and closed her eyes. Gradually she became aware of a distant humming, a melody she recognized. But from where?
She listened, following its cadence, drinking in the deep resonance. And soon those notes blended with others from her memory, and she could feel the years-gone-by love in Abigail’s hands, could see it in her eyes.
You just climb yourself on up into that big ol’ cloud of a bed and let Abigail sing you a go-to-sleep song.
The memory, clearer and closer than it had been in years, tugged on her heart even as fatigue coaxed her under, fast and deep.
Chapter
NINE
When Sy reached the entrance to Belle Meade he reined in. Miss Jamison was still asleep against his chest, her breathing steady and deep. He gazed down the long tree-lined drive to where a mansion the size of a small mountain sat nicely situated, then prodded Thunder on down the road. He already had the sense that General Harding didn’t think too highly of him, and riding up with Attorney Barrett Broderick Jamison’s daughter napping on his saddle wasn’t going to help that any. But what else could he do?
He peered down at her again.
He hadn’t known what to think, coming across her lounging on that rock, face flushed, dirt smudged on her cheeks. And the misaligned buttons on her shirtwaist, as though she’d done it up in a hurry.
She’d said she was thirsty and he guessed she had been. Enough to down nearly an entire flask of Mrs. Taylor’s Fancy Cordial, which he’d be hard pressed to admit to anybody that he drank. It wasn’t wine so much as it was watered-down blackberry juice gone a mite wild. But it was right tasty and harmless enough, even when enjoyed in excess and on an empty stomach. For most people, anyway.
But as he was quickly learning, Miss Jamison was not most people.
He smiled to himself. “You are something else, woman,” he whispered, enjoying the feel of her in his arms while trying not to enjoy it too much.
“What in tarnation?”
Sy glanced back to spot Uncle Bob striding toward him in the same white apron, or one like it, the man had worn before, his face pinched in a frown.
“It’s not what it looks like, Uncle Bob.” Sy kept his voice soft and indicated for the man to do the same. “I found her on the road heading this direction. She’d walked all that way from town in the heat of the day. Got a little too much sun and then . . . drank a little too much of what was in my flask.”
The man scowled. “Which was?”
Sy glanced away. “Mrs. Taylor’s Fancy Cordial,” he said softly.
“Say again, sir?”
Sy turned back. “Mrs. Taylor’s Fancy Cordial. I get it at the mercantile. It’s not anything like you might—”
“I know what it is. I even know Missus Taylor. And you ain’t tellin’ me no fancied-up kinda berry juice did this.”
“I give you my word, Uncle Bob. That’s what it was.”
Miss Jamison stirred, and Sy gestured.
“I best get her on up to the house. I know she’s friends with the general’s daughter. Miss Harding will know what to do.”
“No, no, sir. You can’t take her up there. Not slung over your saddle that way, and not with her lookin’ like that. I hate to say it, Mr. Rutledge, but the general ain’t takin’ much of a likin’ to you, sir. And you ridin’ up with her ain’t gonna help your case none.” Uncle Bob sighed. “Seems he’s favorin’ that fella from New York City.”
“Harold Gould?”
Uncle Bob nodded. “Somethin’ ’bout him I don’t like, though.”
Sy scoffed. “With good reason.”
“Anyway, sir . . . I been knowin’ Miss Jamison since she was a girl, and she’ll skin you alive if you let all them people see her in this state. No, sir. Don’t you know nothin’ ’bout women?”
Sy shifted in the saddle. “For your information, yes, I do.”
“Uncle Bob . . .” Miss Jamison lifted her head, then groaned and pressed a hand to her temple. “My head is splitting.”
“You done got too much sun, Miss Jamison.” Uncle Bob spoke up quickly, shooting Sy a look. “You best come over to the cabin, and we’ll get you some cool water and a powder for your head.”
“Thank you, Uncle Bob, but . . . I think I’d rather go on up to the house. Is Mary home?”
“Yes, ma’am, she is.” Uncle Bob glanced at Sy again. “She’s helpin’ the general entertain the visitors who are already here. I think they’s sittin’ in the front parlor, ma’am. So they’ll see you comin’, one and all.”
Miss Jamison frowned and ran a hand over her hair. “Perhaps going to the cabin first would be a good idea. To get a powder for the ache in my head.”
Sy had to admit, Uncle Bob’s instincts had been right.
As soon as they reached the cabin, Miss Jamison drank her fill of water, along with the powder, then excused herself, only to return moments later with her shirtwaist properly buttoned and her color starting to return.
Wordlessly she moved to a shaded spot on the front porch and sank down into a rocker, her eyes closing almost immediately.
Sy paused in the doorway and studied her, trusting she’d begin to feel better soon. He still couldn’t account for her being out there on the road like that, though. Even someone who liked to walk didn’t walk on days like this. Not that far from town. And certainly not when her family had carriages galore at her disposal.
When he’d first spotted a woman on the side of the road, and then realized who it was, he hadn’t been at all certain what kind of reception he’d receive. She’d been upset to learn about his father, and that was putting it mildly, which still made him wonder what personal connection she had to the accident. But at least he’d learned one thing today . . .
Alexandra Jamison thought he “smelled nice.” And would be mortified if she knew he’d heard her say it.
With a smile, he grabbed the pail Uncle Bob had shown him and headed out back. He pumped fresh water into the trough, let Thunder drink, then tethered the horse to a nearby post in the shade. After filling another fresh pail he returned, admiring Uncle Bob’s home.
The log cabin, rudimentary but well built, consisted of a small two-building structure joined by a dogtrot, with por
ches that ran along the front and back. According to Uncle Bob, General Harding’s father had built the cabin some sixty years earlier after moving his family from the Commonwealth of Virginia. Having glimpsed the mansion on the estate, Sy had trouble picturing the General William Giles Harding he knew being raised in such a modest setting.
Yet he knew enough stories about successful, wealthy businessmen who’d had their start in humble beginnings, and he held the hope that his own story would have a similar ending.
He ducked into the left side of the cabin off the dogtrot, where the scent of brewing coffee greeted him. He spotted a ladder leading up to what he figured was a loft above them. The furnishings were sparse, but comfortable. And most decidedly those of a bachelor.
“Do you have anything she could eat, Uncle Bob? She hasn’t taken any food since breakfast.”
“Got some jerky in the jar over the stove. Or some cornbread left in the skillet from last night. Miss Alexandra’s welcome to either.”
Miss Alexandra . . .
Sy made a mental note and chose the latter. Somehow she didn’t seem like a jerky kind of gal. He cut a triangle of cornbread from the cast-iron skillet and took it outside, pleased to find her eyes open and her color much improved.
“Feeling better?” He handed her the piece of cornbread and eased down onto the top step.
“Thank you, and . . . yes, I am.” She ate the cornbread and drank her water intermittently, looking anywhere but at him.
“I have a favor to ask of you, Miss Jamison. Actually, it’s more of a business proposition.”
Her chewing slowed.
“I was going to ask you this yesterday, but we got a little . . . sidetracked. As you know, I’m not from here. And contrary to what I expected, I’m having some difficulty navigating the . . . Southern way of things, let’s call it. Especially when it comes to business. I saw you work with your father, and I’m betting you know your way around a business meeting and how these Southern gents broker a deal. So I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d consider helping me. Giving me some tips and whatnot. I’d pay you for your work, of course, and don’t foresee it taking up too much of your time.”
She opened her mouth to respond when Uncle Bob walked from the cabin with two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands.
“Here you go, Miss Alexandra. Mr. Rutledge.”
“Thank you, Uncle Bob.” She smiled up at him. “I truly appreciate your help.”
“Oh, I didn’t do nothin’ much, Miss Jamison. Just made some coffee, that’s all. It was Mr. Rutledge here who toted you halfway from town.”
Miss Jamison nodded and met Sy’s glance fleetingly.
“Yes. Thank you as well, Mr. Rutledge,” she said softly, the inflection in her voice not quite matching her words.
Alexandra wished she could blink and be somewhere—anywhere—where Sylas Rutledge was not. Embarrassed didn’t begin to describe how she felt. She’d managed to excuse herself earlier and had taken one look in the mirror over the washstand—and cringed. Her hair was a tumbling-down mess, her shirtwaist misbuttoned, her cheeks dirt-smeared. She’d cleaned up as well as she could, which wasn’t saying much.
What exactly had happened to her, she wasn’t sure. The combination of being exhausted and overheated, she guessed. Along with her blasted corset. She’d managed to loosen the ties, so she could finally breathe again. Amazing what a difference oxygen in the lungs made.
“Well, I best get on back to the stables.” Uncle Bob grabbed his customary black bowler from a peg by the cabin door and slipped it on his head. “They’ll be lookin’ for me, I’m sure. Stay here for as long as you need, Miss Jamison. Mr. Rutledge said he’ll stay with you.”
“I’ll consider it a pleasure, ma’am.”
Alexandra nodded her thanks, careful not to look in Sylas Rutledge’s direction. She was grateful to him for his assistance. That wasn’t the problem. But every time she looked at him she saw David and was reminded of why he was no longer here.
Uncle Bob paused on the porch steps and looked back. “Miss Alexandra, it’s been a whole lotta years since you and Miss Mary played out there beneath that old oak tree with your dolls and such, ma’am. It’s been kinda nice havin’ you back as my guest.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Uncle Bob.”
As he walked away, she felt Mr. Rutledge watching her, and the front porch seemed to shrink by half. He was no doubt awaiting a response to his business proposition. A response that—given every moment of her life up until this one—she would have flatly refused.
But considering what had happened that morning and her current financial situation—and that she wouldn’t get paid from Fisk until after working two full weeks—she found herself strongly considering it. If she didn’t choke on her swallowed pride first.
“So?” he said, looking back at her. “About that business proposition. I realize it’s not exactly a—”
“I’ll do it.” Alexandra took a deep breath. “Under one condition. Or two, actually.”
In a flash he stood, reached for a straight-back chair near her rocker, flipped it around, straddled it, and faced her square-on, smiling. The move was decidedly male. And decidedly disarming.
“First, Mr. Rutledge, I won’t help you cheat anyone.”
His smile faded. “I never cheat, Miss Jamison. And I never lie. If I tell you something, you can take it as truth. However . . .” He leaned forward. “Don’t ever try playing poker with me. I don’t visit the tables anymore, but I’m still very good at reading people. And weighing the odds. And I can bluff better than anyone you’ve ever seen.”
“You say that as though it’s something to be proud of.”
“Actually, I believe it is. Holding your cards a little closer to the vest can be quite helpful at times. And is a trait, I wager, you know a little something about yourself, Miss Jamison.”
Alexandra worked to keep the surprise from her expression, wondering if he knew more about her than she realized.
“Secondly,” she continued, “I prefer that no one else know we have this . . . arrangement between us.”
“And why is that?”
“Because while it’s innocent, Mr. Rutledge, it’s not wholly respectable. For a man to pay a woman in such a manner.”
“Why isn’t it respectable? You have information and knowledge I need. I have money to pay. It’s an equitable exchange. How is that not respectable?”
She shook her head. “Because it goes against the grain of etiquette. The centricity of a gentleman and gentlewoman’s association should never be founded upon a monetary exchange.”
He paused, then patted his coat pocket. “Hold on, I think I’m going to need to write that one down.”
She smiled despite herself and could tell he was pleased that she had.
“Tell you what, Miss Jamison. Why don’t we just base our association on . . . friendship. Will that work?”
She looked into his eyes and realized—much to her unease—that part of her would have liked that very much. If not for Dutchman’s Curve. If not for his stepfather and what he’d done.
“Perhaps, Mr. Rutledge, we should simply view our arrangement as what you stated it was a moment earlier. An . . . equitable exchange?”
The light in his countenance dimmed, but he nodded. “Fair enough. So where do we start?”
She blinked. “You want to begin right now?”
“Now’s as good a time as any. How about a dime per question answered?” He reached over, pulled a roughhewn table closer to them, and emptied the change from his pants pocket.
She stared at the assortment of coins, growing more uncertain by the second.
“You don’t think a dime per question is enough?” he asked.
“I think it’s more than fair, Mr. Rutledge. But—”
“Oh, I know what it is.” His smile came gradually. “You don’t like dealing with the actual exchange of money.” Still straddling the chair, he tipped it forward slightly. “All money is
, Miss Jamison, is a mode of trade. The way I view it, this money on the table can bring good or it can bring bad. What you get from it all depends on what you do with it.”
She thought about that for a moment.
“Do you have a dream, ma’am?”
His question struck a painful chord. “Yes,” she said softly. “I do.”
“First, does it require risk? Because no dream worth having doesn’t.”
“Yes, Mr. Rutledge. It does.”
“And secondly, does your dream require money?”
She thought of the life she and David had planned together. Then thought about all of his books, his papers, her teaching materials that she’d left behind, then about the lack of funding for Fisk University. “Yes again, Mr. Rutledge. It does.”
“Then this money here”—he touched a dime, then a quarter—“that you’re earning in a respectable fashion between the two of us—a most definite gentlewoman and a not-quite-so-gentle man—isn’t really just money anymore. It’s a step in achieving your dream. And from what little I know of you, Miss Jamison, that dream of yours will end up contributing to other people’s dreams. Which, frankly, is the only kind worth pursuing.”
Alexandra stared, surprised by his response. And almost convinced. Yet she had to remember that this man wanted something from her and would likely go to great lengths to get it. And that included complimenting her in ways he thought she might want to be complimented. All to win her favor.
“Now, if you’re ready, Miss Jamison, I have a couple of questions about tonight. Simple ones, granted. Having lived in Colorado all my life, and spent most of the latter years in mining towns, I haven’t attended many Southern soirées. Dinner is being served, I know. But beyond that, what’s expected? After-dinner dancing? Gentlemen’s poker?” He raised an eyebrow. “Cigars and port in the study?”
“I’m relatively confident there will be no dancing, Mr. Rutledge. So no need to discuss ballroom decorum. And I can promise you there will be no gambling. Fine cigars and aged port, however, are a definite possibility.”
“A threat I’ll do my best to weather.” Humor edged his handsome features. “Next . . . In Colorado, it’s acceptable to discuss business at a dinner like this. In fact, it’s considered a missed opportunity not to. Am I correct in assuming it’s the same here?”
To Wager Her Heart Page 10