To Wager Her Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  He sighed. So much for putting the woman out of mind.

  “And what is it you do, Mr. Bliss?”

  “I’m a missionary singer! I sing and write church music.”

  Sy stared, wishing he could throttle Alexandra about now. Because the man obviously loved his work and was eager to talk about it. And all Sy wanted to do was sleep.

  But he did love music . . .

  “I work for a music publisher,” the man continued. “In addition to singing and writing, I conduct musical conventions, singing schools, and concerts for my employer. But my favorite pastime is composing hymns.”

  “Hymns . . .” Sy nodded.

  The man laughed. “I know. It’s not as romantic or colorful a life as the railroad, I’m sure. But it can be exciting, at times. Do you have any favorites?”

  Sy hedged a little. “I’m afraid I don’t know many church songs, sir.” Plus, he didn’t want to prime the conversation any more than he already had.

  “Well, I’m working on a hymn right now for an upcoming prayer meeting. But I can’t seem to get the right words to come.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of them soon enough.” Sy shifted in his seat toward the window, hoping to send a subtle hint.

  “Are you a God-fearing man, Mr. Rutledge?”

  Sy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Listen . . . Mr. Bliss,” he offered as politely as he could, “I’ve had a long week. Two weeks, actually. And all I really want to do is get some rest. So if you don’t mind . . .”

  The man held up a hand. “Say no more! I understand completely. You go on and get some sleep. I’ll sit here and write and give you the quiet you need.”

  “Much obliged.” Sy pulled his hat back over his eyes and settled into the seat, grateful to be spared that particular conversation. He took a deep breath and—instead of focusing on the scribbling going on two feet away—he willed the tension to leave him and tried to concentrate on the gentle rocking of the train, the almost hypnotic way the steel wheels had of lulling a person to—

  Nope. It was hopeless. He’d never get to sleep. And he didn’t dare shift positions, knowing that as long as he kept still, he at least stood a chance of enjoying a measure of peace.

  As the train rumbled down the tracks, he squinted from beneath the brim of his hat, looking to make sure Mr. Bliss couldn’t see his eyes. Safe. And besides, the man was busy writing in a notebook. Sy stared out the window and watched the sun setting on the distant horizon while it bathed the wheat fields in a golden blur.

  He hoped Alexandra had gotten a smile from the pies, and he was confident the students were making good use of the primers. He’d wanted to do something special for her after all she’d done for him. And he planned on doing more, despite her clear signal that he not.

  He’d known that taking her hand like that had been risky. But he also knew she cared for him more than she let on. A woman like Alexandra Jamison didn’t open herself to a man as she had unless she cared for him on some level.

  I’m grateful that we’re friends, Sy.

  He’d warned her never to try to bluff him. But that’s exactly what she’d done that night on the steps. And he’d seen right through her. While also seeing that if he rushed things, she might bolt for good.

  Talk about needing to play his cards close to his vest . . .

  He spotted a herd of deer in the distance, running and leaping about. It was the first day of September, and fall would be here soon, though not soon enough for him. Especially with the upcoming construction. He’d won the bid . . . That still felt good to dwell on. As did the look of disgust on Gould’s face when the man found out he’d lost. Sy allowed himself the tiniest smile. Some things just never got old.

  He’d assured Harding that, once supplies were on the ground, he’d have the entire project completed—Belle Meade depot, railway, and macadam road—in no more than two months. By the first of November at the latest. A tall order, considering everything that had to happen between now and then. But doable. Especially with Vinson overseeing things in his absence.

  Sy shifted on the bench, his back aching from being in one position too long. And he was hungry too. He should’ve planned better. No sooner did the pain in his back lessen than another began, on a different level. What if his father was responsible for that accident, even in some small way?

  But that simply wasn’t possible.

  For nearly forty years, Harrison Kennedy had been one of the most respected engineers on the Nashville, Chattanooga and St. Louis Railway. Proven experience like that didn’t simply disintegrate overnight.

  Sy pushed himself upright, deciding that what faced him across the bench was better than the questions burning a hole inside him. He reseated his hat and massaged the back of his neck.

  “Good rest?” Bliss asked, his easy smile in place.

  “Great.” Sy rubbed his temples, then checked his pocket watch. Only thirty minutes or so outside of Nashville.

  Bliss stood and reached into a leather satchel on the rack above and withdrew a cloth sack. He sat again and stretched out his long legs, then unwrapped a sandwich and held out a half. “My wife makes the best chicken mash you’ve ever tasted.”

  It did look and smell good, but Sy shook his head. “I’m fine, but thank you.”

  “You’ll be doing me a favor.” Bliss grinned. “She gave me two of these, and if they’re not both gone when I get back tonight, I’ll be in big trouble.”

  Hunger winning out, Sy accepted. “Much obliged, Mr. Bliss.”

  They ate in welcome silence, staring out the window. Then did the same with the second sandwich. It really was the best chicken mash Sy had ever eaten.

  “Please give my thanks to your wife, sir.”

  “I’ll do it. She packs an extra sandwich every time I travel. She can’t stand the thought of someone going hungry.”

  “Sounds like a fine woman.”

  “Oh . . .” Bliss’s expression grew gentle. “She is.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a worn photograph that had been folded down the middle. “Here’s my Lucy. And here’re our sons, George and Philip Paul. Ages four and one, respectively.”

  Sy took the picture, assuming from its condition that Bliss always carried it with him. “Handsome family.”

  “They mean the world to me,” Bliss said softly. “I truly don’t know what I’d do without them.” Then he laughed. “Odd how you can live the bulk of your life without someone. Then once you meet her and she becomes part of your life, you can’t imagine living another day without sharing it with her.”

  Sy stared at the image but was picturing another face entirely. “I know what you mean.”

  “So you’re married, too, Mr. Rutledge? Have a family?”

  Sy laughed. “No . . . Not yet anyway.”

  “Well, it’ll come. And when it does, you won’t regret it.”

  The train whistle blew—two long blasts—signaling the approach to Nashville.

  Bliss glanced at his notebook again and shook his head.

  “Words not coming?” Sy offered.

  Bliss sighed. “No, and that prayer meeting is this weekend. Say . . . you wouldn’t be interested in coming, would you? Dwight L. Moody himself will be speaking. Powerful man, full of the Spirit.”

  Sy did his best to look impressed, not having a clue who this Moody fellow was.

  “There’ll be dinner on the grounds with plenty of food, good fellowship, and”—the man’s smile grew wide—“some mighty fine singing.”

  “Or maybe only a little humming, if you don’t get that hymn finished.” Sy laughed, and was glad when Bliss did too.

  Bliss went back to work, and Sy was grateful. Because they were coming up on the place where his father had taken his last earthly breath. Sy stared out the window, imagining what it must have been like, how quickly the world had changed for the people on both of those trains that morning. How quickly it had changed for Alexandra . . .

  Everyone in that car die
d. Either crushed by metal and steel, or pierced by splintered wood like spears. Alexandra’s vivid descriptions rose to his memory with force, the sacred ground passing beneath him. Or scorched by steam from the locomotive or boilers that ripped open on impact.

  She’d been right. Though he’d told her he understood, he hadn’t.

  As the train pulled into the station, Sy looked across at Bliss. The fellow’s brow was furrowed in concentration, and Sy decided that perhaps the man wasn’t so annoying after all. The train came to a stop, and they stood along with the other passengers and retrieved their satchels.

  “I’m sure if I tell Lucy you’re coming to the meeting, she’ll make more of her chicken mash. Just for you.”

  “You’re kind, Mr. Bliss. And I thank you. But I need to decline.” Sy stuck out his hand. “You almost had me persuaded, though, with that chicken mash.”

  Bliss shook his hand, then grew still. And frowned. “That’s it,” he whispered, as though to himself. “Almost persuaded.” He grabbed his notebook and began scribbling something down. “That’s perfect, Mr. Rutledge! Sad and . . . so despairing, in a sense. But perfect.”

  Sy looked at him, not really knowing what he’d done. “Glad to be of service, Bliss. And again, I appreciate the sandwich. And . . . our meeting.”

  “As do I, Mr. Rutledge. May the Lord Jesus bless you and keep you, sir. May he guide you to the life he has for you.” Bliss leaned closer. “Which I earnestly pray includes the woman who, I dare say, has already caught more than only your attention.”

  Sy laughed and continued on down the aisle. As they waited to disembark, Sy heard the man softly humming a tune behind him. A tune he recognized. And he was reminded of his father, and of standing there at the edge of the cornfields on Dutchman’s Curve. Again, the lyrics returned with surprising clarity, and though he wasn’t about to burst forth in song, Sy couldn’t resist turning around.

  “Brightly beams our Father’s mercy,” he said, enjoying the surprise in Bliss’s expression, “from his lighthouse evermore. But to us he gives the keeping of the lights along the shore.” He smiled. “Turns out I do know a hymn after all.”

  A smile swept the man’s face. “You have made my day, sir. I wrote that song. After hearing a story about a shipwreck on a starless night. But . . . How do you know it?

  Sy quickly sobered. “It was my father’s favorite hymn in recent years.” He glanced away. “We just passed over the place a few minutes ago where he died. In the train accident about a year ago.”

  “On Dutchman’s Curve,” Bliss said, the light dimming in his eyes. “I remember reading about that accident in the paper. Heartbreaking. So many fatalities, so many injured. My deepest condolences to you, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Sy nodded his thanks, then disembarked, wondering if Bliss’s attitude would change, as others’ did, if the man knew his father had been the engineer of the No. 1.

  Bliss came alongside him on the platform. “You have encouraged this poor hymn writer’s heart, sir. Please, allow me to buy you dinner. I’d love to hear more about your father, if you’re willing. And though I’m not sure you have any interest, I know someone who was on the train that morning and survived, by God’s mercy. A woman I met in Ohio at a church meeting a few months back.”

  Sy bent to the unexplained prodding inside him. “I’d appreciate very much sharing a meal with you. But it’ll be my treat.”

  Later that night Sy walked back to the hotel in the dark, his conversation with Bliss having gone long. He thought of Alexandra and knew she would be asleep by now. And that Mr. White would likely be circling the campus on his nightly prayer vigil.

  He’d told Bliss about his father being the engineer of the No. 1, and Bliss had listened patiently, not a trace of judgment in his eyes.

  The city was quiet for a Friday evening, and once back in his room, Sy didn’t bother lighting a lamp. He stripped to his drawers, edged his window open a little more, and fell into bed, the sheets a welcome cool against his skin. But still his thoughts raced.

  He needed to meet with the three straggling investors and convince them to commit to the North Carolina–West Virginia venture. It was past time. Then as soon as the funds were secure, he’d wire the Charlotte attorney and tell him to move forward on the offers to the landowners.

  He turned onto his side and thought again of the parishioner Philip Bliss had told him about. Miss Riley Glenn. He hoped the connection between Bliss and the woman would prove to be more than merely coincidental. That it would lead him to the answers he sought.

  Because it felt like he was running out of resources. And time.

  The gentle thump of rain hitting the roof filled the silence, and from some distance away the low, mournful cry of a train whistle moved toward him, filling his room, filling him. He swallowed hard, thinking of his father and of honor lost that yearned to be restored.

  How empty the past two weeks had felt without Alexandra’s presence. He couldn’t pinpoint when it had happened, but she’d become a part of his life, and he didn’t welcome the thought of not sharing a future with her. She’d stated that she cared for him as a friend, but he didn’t buy it.

  Yet he knew there might be some wisdom in giving her a little time, a little room to miss him, perhaps. However difficult that would be for him. Still . . . He determined in that moment, no matter the outcome of his efforts surrounding Dutchman’s Curve, he would find a way to win Alexandra’s heart.

  Even if he had to wager everything to do it.

  Chapter

  TWENTY

  The low, mournful cry of a train whistle drifted in through Alexandra’s bedroom window. Maybe it was the late hour, or the dimly lit bedroom in the aging barracks, or the way the rain hit the roof above—a lonely pitter-pat, pitter-pat, pitter-pat—but the sound tugged at her heart.

  And also sent a tiny shiver up her spine.

  Sitting still on her cot, she could make out the distant thrum of the locomotive, and she closed her eyes, memory taking over, as she heard the echo of the explosion that shook the ground last summer, and shook her world to its core. She swallowed, seeing David’s face so clearly in her mind. Then seeing his broken body, so badly burned, in the cornfield when she’d had to identify him to the authorities.

  She dragged in a breath and rose from the cot, needing to move, needing to clear her mind. She was grateful it was Friday, and she had the weekend to prepare for next week’s classes.

  She’d seen Mary in town recently—an unexpected meeting but so welcome. Until Mary reminded her of the train trip they were to take together “sometime soon.” Alexandra had hastily responded that her teaching position at Fisk wouldn’t allow for any travel in the near future. Which was a valid enough reason.

  But Mary knew the truth. As did Alexandra. Would there ever come a day when she’d be able to put that fear behind her and board a train again?

  Needing a diversion, she crossed in stocking feet to the satchel Mary had loaned her and reached inside for her friend’s copy of Little Women. And saw the sterling flask beside it. Holding the flask in her palm, she ran her fingertips over the butterflies embossed on the front.

  She’d intended to return this to Sy that first night he’d come to Fisk for lessons. But in the course of that week she’d forgotten all about it. And hadn’t thought of it since. She would return it at her first opportunity. If he ever got back. Of course he might be back already, for all she knew. He might simply be—

  “You’re still up?”

  Alexandra turned to see Ella in the doorway. “Oh . . . I didn’t hear you come in. How was your day?”

  “Long, but good.” Ella deposited her books on the desk. “So . . . You haven’t given that back to him yet?”

  Alexandra shook her head. “But I will.”

  “It’s been a few weeks since Mr. Rutledge has been by.”

  “He’s been out of town. But he should be back any day now.” Eager to change the subject, Alexandra slid the flask back into the
satchel. “How was practice this evening?”

  “It went well. We’re working on a few new songs. Two of them hymns.” Ella unlaced her worn boots, dropped them by her cot, and collapsed onto her mattress.

  Alexandra looked over. “Does that bode well for the tour happening after all, do you think?”

  “Mr. White still hasn’t mentioned anything, and we’ve all decided not to ask. Best not stir that hive of bees.” Ella pointed. “I brought a newspaper with me. It’s inside the book on the top. It’s a few days old, but it’s still news. One of the other singers shared it with me tonight.”

  Alexandra claimed it and settled back on her lumpy cot, working to get comfortable. This was a part of her old life she missed—staying up with current events, reading about what was happening on the other side of the world. But it wasn’t the only thing. The sparse life here at Fisk was taking more adjustment than she’d anticipated. And as hot and muggy as it was in these barracks now, she could only imagine how cold it would be come winter.

  She scanned the front page, surprised to find the column headings only mildly interesting. A few of them even seemed familiar. She checked the date on the paper, wondering if she’d read this edition before. But she hadn’t. Seemed the new news was really only more of the same.

  She flipped through the pages, then stopped when an ad caught her eye. She held the paper closer to read the smaller print.

  “What is it?” Ella rose from her cot and began unbuttoning her shirtwaist.

  “Maybe a way to raise a little money.” Alexandra folded the newspaper back on itself and held it up, pointing to the ad.

  “‘Will pay money for iron,’” Ella read aloud, then looked back at her. “And where, Miss Jamison, do you propose you and I get iron?”

  “Well . . . tomorrow after class, we could walk along the railroad tracks. I’ve seen old scraps of metal and even nails lying along there before.”