To Wager Her Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. And I appreciated the fine cut of meat served tonight. I take it that came from Belle Meade stock?”

  Selene nodded. “My father would serve nothing less.”

  Mr. Rutledge smiled. “Tasted almost as good as what I raise out West.”

  Selene laughed, and Alexandra joined in as best she could.

  She watched Sylas as he tasted his cake, then took another bite and chewed more slowly. He followed with a sip of coffee, appreciation in his expression.

  The ease with which he conversed with Selene was impressive. What was it he’d told her about himself earlier that day? That he was beer and bullocks, and the Hardings were champagne and thoroughbreds. That was certainly true. And though the coat and trousers he wore were not the black tails and tie every other man had known to wear, he still cut a dashing figure. And stood out from among the crowd.

  Yet even as charming as he could be, she didn’t think he would be the man General Harding would choose to build the rail line to Belle Meade. And once the general found out about the man’s stepfather, surely he would send Sylas Rutledge packing.

  Which couldn’t happen soon enough to suit her.

  Scarcely a word from General Harding all evening, which Sy knew didn’t bode well for his standing.

  He slowly sipped his port and listened, nodding on occasion, as the ill-fated Mr. Walker regaled him, Mr. Fike, Mr. Maury, and Harding’s son-in-law, General Jackson, with recent woes regarding railroad hires.

  After Mr. Walker’s serious miscalculation at dinner, General Harding’s opinions on freedmen had been made perfectly clear. Not that Sy planned on backing down if asked directly about the subject. But just as he’d told Miss Jamison that it was wise for a person to hold his cards close to the vest, likewise it would be foolish for him to show Harding his entire hand as it was being dealt.

  Best wait until the time came to lay his cards down.

  Sy glanced through the open door of the study across the entrance hall to the central parlor, where the ladies had retired following dinner. No doubt Alexandra Jamison was wishing she could wring his neck. An occurrence that might not be all that unpleasant, when he thought about it.

  “Why, yes, General Harding. I’m certain I can build your stretch of railroad within a couple of weeks.”

  Sy glanced across the room to see Gould leaning, hand braced against the mantle, swirling the brandy in his glass as though he were railroad king Cornelius Vanderbilt himself.

  “Or even one week,” Gould continued, “if your schedule demands it. I have supplies and men standing by simply waiting for my command.”

  General William Giles Harding regarded him. “That’s an aggressive pledge, Mr. Gould. I’m not a man who likes to be disappointed.”

  “And I’m not a man who ever disappoints, General Harding.”

  Sy shook his head. Harold Gould was always overpromising and underdelivering. The man was a lying, scheming, overinflated, pompous—

  “So you don’t agree with that assessment, Mr. Rutledge?”

  Sy pulled his attention back to Mr. Walker, who was eyeing him. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but the look of discomfort and even embarrassment on the faces of the other men in the circle proved most intriguing.

  “The facts are clear, sir,” Mr. Walker continued, “and have been substantiated. There is a slight grade and plenty of curve along that stretch of track outside of town, not to mention a bridge that reduces the line of sight. All of those factors, when combined, mean that stretch of railway is definitely not a track for straight-line speeding. And though both trains were running full out that morning, the engineer of the No. 1 was clearly at fault, as the jury found. How could you not agree with that finding?”

  “I’ll tell you why he doesn’t agree,” Gould interrupted, walking toward them. “You’re apparently unaware of Mr. Rutledge’s close and rather embarrassing connection to the tragedy.”

  Sy’s grip tightened around his glass.

  “See here now, Gould.” General Jackson cut the man a stern look. “Now is not the time or place to—”

  “It’s all right, General Jackson.” Sy glanced back at Gould, and at General Harding standing beside him. Then he turned to Mr. Walker.

  “It would seem, Mr. Walker, that everyone here but you knows that my father, Harrison Kennedy, was the engineer driving the No. 1 that morning. As I’m sure you understand, it is most difficult for me to accept the jury’s findings. Their rendering is especially challenging in light of the fact that my father was one of the most dedicated and conscientious engineers in the history of the railroads. Not a single blemish on his record, not even a reprimand in nearly forty years of service. But of course”—he forced a smile—“you would expect me, Harrison Kennedy’s son, to say that.”

  To a man, Sy met each of their stares, and to their credit and decency, each looked away. Except for General Harding, who held his gaze, unwavering. And Harold Gould, who feigned compassion.

  “It must be hard, Rutledge”—Gould shook his head—“to live with that hanging over your head. And to show your face in public. In this town, especially. I don’t think I could do it.”

  Sy checked his tone. “I’m certain you couldn’t, Gould. Because you would’ve had to have a father like Harrison Kennedy.”

  The door to the central parlor opened then, and like moths drawn to a flame, every man’s gaze trailed in the direction of the women. Sy caught Miss Jamison’s eye as she entered the foyer, but she quickly looked away.

  Mr. Fike cleared his throat and smoothed a hand down his lapel. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, there’s a certain young woman I’d like to—”

  But Harold Gould had beaten him to it.

  “Miss Jamison!” Gould strode ahead into the foyer and offered his arm. “Would you care to take a stroll this fine evening? General Harding has offered to show us all the stallion stable, and I’d be most obliged if you’d allow me to accompany you.”

  To Sy’s frustration, she accepted.

  The entire party strolled from the mansion toward the stable, the setting sun sinking over the hills and bathing the estate in a golden glow. The stable ahead was an impressive structure, to be sure. Clearly Harding’s blood horses lived a fine life. Better than most people, Sy wagered.

  Mr. Maury came alongside him. “I appreciated your response back there, Rutledge. Regardless of my own opinion on the matter.”

  Sy looked at him. “So you share the prevailing opinion.”

  “I do, sir. Though I can clearly see how you would not.”

  Maury’s pace slowed and Sy matched it, sensing that the man wanted to say something more. Soon they fell to the back of the party.

  “I didn’t want to say this back in the study, for obvious reasons, Mr. Rutledge. But I was made privy to the court files on Dutchman’s Curve.”

  Sy paused. “You’ve read the actual court transcripts?”

  Maury nodded. “A colleague of mine was serving on Tennessee’s Railway Board at the time. He knew of my interest in railroad safety, and discreetly allowed me to review the documents.”

  “You wouldn’t still happen to have access to them, would you?”

  “I don’t. I can tell you, though, that considering the testimony I read, there’s little doubt in my mind where the fault lay.”

  “You say ‘little.’ So in your mind, is there some question?”

  “Without the witness of someone who was there at the scene that day, how can we ever know for certain? But based on the evidence in the files, I hold full confidence that the final rendering was accurate. I’m sorry to disappoint, Mr. Rutledge.”

  “You don’t disappoint, Mr. Maury. On the contrary, I appreciate your telling me this. By chance, would you share with me the name of your colleague who let you review the files? With your permission, I’d like to contact him.”

  “I would, but it won’t do you any good. He passed on four months ago. Cancer.” He briefly bowed his head. “I
wish I could’ve been more help.”

  Sy nodded.

  “And for what it’s worth, Mr. Rutledge, I don’t think I stand much of a chance of winning this bid now. But I think you do. And I hope you get it. Anybody but that Gould fellow,” he whispered under his breath as they caught up with the others. “Took me awhile to see it, but . . . what a buffoon.”

  Appreciating the man’s vote of confidence, Sy still fought a fresh wave of discouragement. Maury’s opinion didn’t exactly inspire hope. Yet his gut told him there was truth waiting to be discovered. Or maybe it was his love and gratitude for a man who had changed the course of his life—and his mother’s too—that was blinding him to the facts.

  Sy watched for an opportunity to speak with Miss Jamison alone, to give her the letter and ask her to reconsider their arrangement. But the woman seemed bent on avoiding him. She had yet to learn how persistent he could be.

  He caught a glimpse of Enquirer in a stall not ten feet away. The animal seemed to be faring well and was receiving the bulk of attention from the guests.

  “My daughter tells me you’re a cattleman, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Sy turned, surprised to find himself face-to-face with General Harding. “Yes, sir. That’s correct. Though my small spread isn’t nearly as impressive as what you’ve established.”

  “We all have to start somewhere, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Sy nodded.

  “In your bid, Mr. Rutledge, you stated it could take up to six weeks, perhaps even eight, for your company to construct the railway from town to Belle Meade. I realize your bid included laying the macadam road as well, where the others didn’t. But even then, I’m curious as to why the longer period of time on the railway. The other bids estimate two to four weeks at most for that portion.”

  “I’ve ridden every mile where the railway will be laid on your property, General Harding. And I’ve walked it too. There are some grade issues in a couple of places, so we’re not talking laying track on a straightaway. There’s also a stretch about halfway between town and Belle Meade where, if you’re willing, we could extend the track about a quarter mile south and build a bridge over the creek. That would give a first-time visitor to Belle Meade a nice view of your deer park. I caught a glimpse of some buffalo there the other day too. I think that’s a sight people coming here would enjoy. Kind of sets the stage, so to speak. Of course, it does add to the cost. And to the schedule.”

  “Yet your plan was moderately priced, Mr. Rutledge. Not the lowest bid, but not the highest either.”

  “Good to know that, sir.” Sy glanced over at Gould, who had Miss Jamison’s hand firmly tucked in the crook of his arm. “I hope I can conclude from your comments that I’m still in the running.”

  Harding smiled. “It’s not always the horse with the biggest lead that crosses the finish line first, Mr. Rutledge. He can fall behind and another takes his place.”

  Prospects boosted, Sy nodded. “Thank you, General Harding.”

  “Then again”—Harding fingered his long beard thoughtfully—“sometimes that first horse does come back to win, son.”

  Sy caught a glint of humor in the older man’s eyes, yet couldn’t quite share it. Talk about a man wanting to hold his cards close.

  “Interesting bit of news I got today, Mr. Rutledge, about the Silver Line in Boulder. You did say you own that railroad, is that correct?”

  Curious, Sy nodded. “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “My sources tell me that the Silver Line has quadrupled its track in the past three years. Along with its profit.”

  “You certainly do your homework, General Harding.”

  “Any man worth his salt does.”

  Sy had to agree, and wished Miss Jamison understood that.

  “Would you be available next week, Mr. Rutledge, to have lunch with me and a select group of my colleagues? Men influential in the city of Nashville. I’d like to introduce them to you.”

  “I would, sir. But is this about the railroad?”

  “Several of them own stock in the industry, yes. So they’ll enjoy meeting you. But this is more about an old man paying a debt forward.” Harding smiled. “I was young once. I remember what it’s like to struggle to raise capital, to find investors. So if I can help out a younger man who I believe holds great promise, then I believe that’s worthy of my time.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

  Harding extended a hand. “We’ll speak again soon, Mr. Rutledge. Come ready to share any ideas you may have. And about what happened in the study earlier. Opinions notwithstanding . . .” His grip tightened. “Well done.”

  As Harding walked away, Sy pondered the exchange, then turned in Alexandra Jamison’s direction, more determined than ever to speak with her. She was still flanked by men on either side, and as the party returned to the house, he hung back a bit.

  “Mr. Rutledge . . .”

  Sy turned and saw Mr. Maury holding out a piece of paper.

  “I thought of this a moment ago. It may prove to be nothing, but here’s the name of one of the judges my late colleague mentioned as having worked on the trial, along with his address here in Nashville.”

  Encouraged, Sy read the name on the paper. “Thank you, Mr. Maury. I appreciate this more than you know.”

  Sy shook the man’s hand again. Maury started for his carriage, then paused, his gaze earnest.

  “Mr. Rutledge, I hope that if I’m ever accused of having done something beyond the pale—whether I’m guilty or innocent—that my son would stand proudly beside me and still claim me as his father . . . as you did yours tonight.”

  Sy swallowed hard. “Thank you, sir.”

  With a quick nod, Maury walked on and didn’t look back.

  Sy waited until the other guests were in their carriages, then approached Miss Jamison as she and Miss Harding climbed the front steps.

  “A quick word, Miss Jamison, if you don’t mind.”

  She reached the front porch and turned. “It’s been a long day, Mr. Rutledge. And I promised Miss Harding that I would—”

  “Five minutes of your time, ma’am. That’s all I require.”

  Miss Jamison gave him a look that said she doubted that, but Miss Harding offered him a smile.

  “It’s fine, Alexandra,” she said softly. “Take your time.”

  Liking Miss Harding more by the minute, Sy read displeasure in Miss Jamison’s demeanor as she descended the steps.

  She stopped a few feet before him. “Yes, Mr. Rutledge?”

  He held up a hand. “Please don’t say no until you give me the chance to lay out my case.”

  “Mr. Rutledge, if this is about helping you—”

  “General Harding invited me to attend lunch with him and some of his colleagues next week. It’s an opportunity that could mean a great deal to my future, and that of my railroad. And as I said, I’m willing to pay you for your time. I simply need some insight into how to negotiate with these men in a manner that will translate well.”

  Her eyes flickered with an emotion he couldn’t define.

  “I realize you don’t care for me, Miss Jamison. Or at least you don’t care to be around me. And I have a good idea as to why. What I don’t know is what happened for you at Dutchman’s Curve. And I’m not asking you to tell me. But whatever it was, I’m deeply sorry. Not only for your loss then, but for the sorrow you still carry around inside you. That I can see in your eyes even now.” He took a step toward her. “I know you hold my father responsible for that . . . horrible morning. I understand. But I don’t believe he was responsible for the accident. And as I’ve told you, I’m working to uncover the truth.”

  She said nothing. Only stared, her beautiful features carefully composed. Only the sharp rise and fall of her chest revealed the emotion she was struggling to contain.

  Sy waited, sensing her pain from where he stood. But seeing her clenched fists and the firm set of her jaw, he finally nodded. “Well . . . you let me say my piece as I asked, so I’ll l
eave you now. Thank you, Miss Jamison. And good night to you.”

  He’d taken five or six steps down the brick walkway when she whispered his name. He paused and looked back.

  Arms at her side, she was trembling. Though not from cold, he knew.

  “You’re correct, sir, in saying that I do not care to be in your company.” She took a shaky breath. “It’s what you represent that makes it so difficult.”

  He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand.

  “You speak of that horrible morning as though you were present. You weren’t. You didn’t feel that train shudder beneath you like a beast writhing in pain. You didn’t hear the scream of steel on steel as the brakes tried to catch but found no purchase. I was on the No. 1 that morning,” she whispered, tears falling. “I was riding in the ladies’ car in the back, so I lived. But my fiancé, my life . . .” She took a shuddering breath.

  “While we were waiting to board in Memphis, he overheard workers talking and learned they couldn’t read their contracts. So he chose to ride with them in one of the freedmen’s cars, right behind the engine. To help them, so they would know what they would be signing once they got to Nashville. Only . . .” She shook her head. “They never did. Everyone in that car died. Either crushed by metal and steel, or pierced by splintered wood that acted like spears. Or scorched by steam from the locomotive or boilers that ripped open on impact.” She took a sharp breath. “So when you say that you understand . . . Please know, sir, that you do not!”

  Sy watched as she struggled to catch her breath. He wished he could go to her, comfort her somehow, console her. But he didn’t dare move. Her grief held him bound.

  How long they stood there, he couldn’t say.

  Finally she lifted her gaze, and with a single look she laid waste to every thought in his head but one. He had to find out the truth about his father, not only for his father’s sake, to clear his good name, but for this woman. For Alexandra Jamison and the love in her heart for a man who was gone. A love Sy envied more than he would’ve thought possible, even as he realized it was a treasure out of reach.

  He tried to think of something to say, but “I’m sorry” seemed too feeble and frail for the weight of the moment. She wiped her face, and he was certain she was about to excuse herself and go back inside when she sought his gaze.