To Wager Her Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  A quick glance in the mirror over the table, and Alexandra entered the office—and confirmed that the carriage out front most definitely did not belong to Horace Buford.

  The stranger who rose from his seat rivaled even her father’s height, which was saying something. His impeccably tailored black duster hit him slightly above the knee, and with trousers tucked into dark leather boots, he looked more like an outlaw or a gunslinger than a gentleman from Nashville, Tennessee. The shadow of a day’s growth along his jawline and the Stetson on his head—inside the house, no less, did the man have no manners?—only added to that persona.

  Something about him held challenge too. His stance, perhaps. Confident. Almost aloof. The opposite of her David, who could make any person feel at ease. A characteristic that had only enhanced his giftedness at teaching. Open, honest, compassionate—all attributes that had made her fall in love with him from the start.

  And reasons that—oddly, tragically—had contributed to his untimely death.

  “Mr. Rutledge, allow me to introduce my daughter, Miss Jamison. Likewise”—her father looked her way—“this is Mr. Sylas Rutledge, owner of the Northeast Line Railroad and recently come East from Colorado.”

  Colorado. Well, that part fit. A wild, untamed territory for a wild, untamed sort of man. “Good day to you, Mr. Rutledge.”

  He nodded. “Ma’am.”

  Ma’am? What kind of proper greeting was that?

  It was then she noticed the dog sitting at his feet. A dog! In her father’s study. Which told her the man must be wealthy. Because Barrett Broderick Jamison never allowed animals in his home, much less in his office.

  The dog, a full-grown foxhound by the look of him, stared up at her, his big brown eyes exuding a warmth his master’s lacked. It was a beautiful animal—brown and tan with white markings on his face and white socked feet. With tail wagging, he moved toward her. Alexandra reached out to pet him, but at a quick snap of Mr. Rutledge’s fingers, the dog dropped to a sitting position.

  Alexandra pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry, sir. I was simply going to pet him.”

  Without speaking, Mr. Rutledge looked down at the dog and nodded once, and the dog began inching toward her. Alexandra gave the hound a good rub behind the ears, feeling sorrier for the animal by the minute.

  “I need a standard property deed for Mr. Rutledge,” her father said, busy sorting through papers on his desk. “Mr. Rutledge, you can take that with you and review it. Or if you prefer, I can have my daughter fill it out for you right now, and then I can file it for a small fee. That will get the process started nicely.”

  “I’ll take it with me.”

  Alexandra did as her father asked, sensing that his prospective client wasn’t so much a prospect as he was a prospector. She’d assisted in enough of these meetings through the years to get a swift sense of whether a person was ready to sign. Mr. Rutledge from Colorado had no intention of signing anything today.

  Granted, she had just walked into the meeting, but her guess was that the man was on a fact-finding mission and not ready to commit.

  She took a step closer to him and held the form between them. “Mr. Rutledge, allow me to briefly review the legalities involved in a Tennessee property deed. This document transfers ownership of real estate, of course, and contains the names of the old and new owners as well as a legal description of the property—which will need to be verified at the county courthouse. Depending on the nature of your land purchase—”

  His eyes were fixed on her as she spoke, and the close attention made her a little self-conscious.

  “—we may also need to consider drawing up a warranty deed, a grant deed, and perhaps a quitclaim deed. A quitclaim deed releases—or quits—any ownership claims a person may have in a piece of property. Mineral or oil deposits, for instance.”

  She paused, but he said nothing.

  “Does all that make sense, Mr. Rutledge?”

  “Completely.”

  Guessing they were done, she handed him the form. He folded it and slipped it into the pocket of his duster without so much as a thank-you or even a nod. The man had a lot to learn about Southern gentility and working with the businessmen of this city.

  His coat shifted and Alexandra saw that he was wearing a pistol on his hip. Like one of those outlaws described in the dime novels. She could hardly believe it. Did the man not realize he was in civilization now? This was Nashville, Tennessee, not one of those lawless cities out West.

  He tugged the brim of his hat. “Mr. Jamison.” He glanced back at Alexandra without the slightest hint of a smile, yet she detected a gleam in his eyes. As though he knew a secret she didn’t. “Ma’am,” he said softly, then strode from the room, the dog following loyally at his heels.

  Her father followed him out, but Alexandra stayed in the office and watched from behind the curtain at the window. Owner of the Northeast Line Railroad. She surmised he was here to bid on the contract for the Belle Meade Station project that Mary Harding had told her about. Per Mary, her father, General William Giles Harding, had called for bids from railroad men around the country.

  Alexandra smiled, taking pleasure in the fact that Mr. Sylas Rutledge stood little to no chance of winning said bid. Because she knew General Harding, and the man did not take kindly to outsiders. She turned from the window as Mr. Rutledge’s carriage pulled away.

  Her father came back into the office. “Good. You’re still here, Alexandra.” He began straightening the papers on his desk, his manner brusque, which communicated his displeasure. “We have a dinner guest coming tonight, so please take extra care in your appearance and do your best to make him feel welcome.”

  Alexandra stilled. “A dinner guest?”

  Her father looked up. “I believe that’s what I just stated. Now let me be. I have another appointment.”

  She opened her mouth to inquire further, but his dark look dissuaded her.

  “So, Miss Jamison . . .” Horace Buford peered at her from across the dining table, studying her as he might a prized cow. “You are looking quite ravishing this evening. That color becomes you, my dear.”

  She’d chosen the plainest, highest-necked, most unflattering gown in her wardrobe. It being brown, her absolute worst color, was an added benefit.

  Feeling her father’s stare, she forced a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Buford. You’re most . . . kind.”

  Mr. Buford downed the last of his wine, then snapped his fingers for more, and Alexandra caught the fleeting shadow crossing her mother’s face even as she was reminded of Mr. Rutledge and his dog. Thinking of that man while looking at Mr. Buford served to frame Sylas Rutledge in a significantly better light than she’d viewed him earlier that day. Uncouth as the man may be, he was “a mite easier on the eyes” than what was currently in her line of sight. That’s what Mary Harding would say, with that coy smile of hers, and it would be a great understatement.

  Sylas Rutledge was darkly handsome. In a mysterious and not quite trustworthy sort of way. But she sensed he knew it, which always lessened such a man’s overall appeal.

  “Let me offer my congratulations, Horace, on the purchase of your new home.” Her father shot Alexandra a look that said she’d best join in the conversation. “The Morrison estate is quite a handsome one.”

  “Yes, indeed it is. And I got it for a steal!” Mr. Buford laughed, revealing a mouthful of veal. “It’s a pity, of course, that another of the once esteemed families of Nashville is no more. But if someone must benefit from the situation, why should it not be me?” What little appetite Alexandra had quickly dissipated. How was it she was sitting here again in the same situation? Staring across the table at an older colleague of her father’s, her mother furtively smiling from one end of the table, her father openly frowning at the other. The unspoken agenda of the evening was written plainly, painfully, between every line of forced conversation.

  Dinner dragged, and it finally came time to retire to the central parlor. Alexandra was about
to make her excuses not to join them when her father spoke up.

  “Alexandra, if you’ll escort Mr. Buford into the parlor, your mother and I will be there shortly.”

  She sensed something pass between them and stiffened. “Actually, I’m quite fatigued, Father. I believe that I’ll—”

  “That you’ll accompany Mr. Buford into the parlor, as I suggested. Thank you, Alexandra. Your mother and I will be there shortly.”

  The air crackled with dissent.

  Alexandra could feel Mr. Buford looking between them, and though she held not a trace of special feeling for the man, she also didn’t consider it fair that he be caught in the midst of this tug-of-war with her parents.

  “Mr. Buford—” She gestured. “Won’t you join me in the parlor?”

  “Nothing would please me more, my dear.”

  He touched the small of her back as she preceded him into the parlor, and her skin crawled. She chose one of the two wingback chairs, knowing her father wouldn’t be pleased. It was a small victory, but she would take it.

  Mr. Buford settled himself on the sofa. He glanced at the empty space beside him, then back at her. “Would you care to join me, Miss Jamison?”

  “Actually, I’m fine right here. Thank you.”

  She looked anywhere but at him. From her peripheral vision she could see the pendulum of the grandfather clock swinging back and forth, back and forth, slicing off the seconds. But not fast enough.

  “Miss Jamison, as I’m sure you are aware, I am a man of considerable wealth and well respected in this town. I am also of sound health and possess great vigor for my age. I’m not prone to anger, nor do I drink excessively.”

  Not wanting to meet his gaze, but unable to be outright rude, Alexandra slowly looked back. He smiled a smile she wished he hadn’t.

  “Some might say I have a great deal that would recommend me to one of the fairer sex, though I would never assume to say as much on my own behalf. Even if it were unabashedly true.”

  “Mr. Buford, allow me to interject. I sincerely do not wish to—”

  He rose from the sofa with surprising agility and came and knelt before her. “I’ve spoken with your father, Miss Jamison, and he’s of the mind that you and I would make an excellent match. I agree with him wholeheartedly. Hence, I’m here to—”

  “Mr. Buford, I must stop you.” Alexandra tried to stand, but he grabbed her hand.

  “You are such a delightful creature. I find I’m growing more fond of you by the moment.”

  He brought her hand to his mouth to kiss it, his upper lip glistening with sweat.

  Alexandra pulled away before he succeeded and rose to put distance between them. “Mr. Buford, my deepest apologies to you, but my father did not consult with me in this regard. Please forgive me, but I must speak plainly. More so than I usually would.”

  Using the arm of the chair for support, he stood. “There’s no need to be shy, my dear. I realize that while your family no longer possesses the level of wealth it once did, your connections in society and your family name have much to recommend you. And you personally have in abundance assets any man would find desirable in a wife.”

  “Mr. Buford—” Trembling with anger at her father, at his inconsideration, Alexandra forced out the words. “While I am . . . honored that you would consider me worthy of your affections, I cannot accept your proposal.”

  “But . . . your father assured me that you—”

  The door to the parlor opened and her father entered. She spotted her mother standing in the foyer beyond him, wide-eyed and watchful.

  “Mr. Buford, I mean you no ill will, but I’m feeling rather tired. I’ll leave you and my parents to your conversation.” As she left the room, her father grasped hold of her arm and pulled her aside in the foyer. She saw the sliver of patience he’d possessed evaporate from his expression.

  “You ignored my wishes once in this,” he whispered. “You will not do so again.”

  “You cannot force me to do this.”

  “Oh, but I can.” His grip tightened. “I am your father. I have every right to make such decisions for you. You are well of age. This is for your own good and the good of our family.”

  Alexandra jerked free, and the surprise in her father’s expression gave her unexpected courage. “I’m sorry, Father. But this is my decision.” She grabbed her reticule from the table where she’d left it that afternoon. Then heard her mother’s voice behind her.

  “Please, Alexandra,” she whispered. “Listen to your father.”

  Alexandra turned to see tears running down her mother’s cheeks. “Mother, you can’t believe this is best.”

  “He’s your father, Alexandra. He’s the head of this home, and you must see the wisdom in—”

  “No.” Alexandra shook her head, her own tears threatening. “I can see it in your eyes. You don’t agree with him. Why don’t you say something? Why won’t you stand up for me?”

  Fresh tears rose in her mother’s eyes. But hearing footsteps coming from the parlor, Alexandra raced out the front door and down the street.

  Chapter

  TWO

  Her chest tight with emotion, Alexandra walked and walked until a stitch in her side finally caused her to slow her pace. The sun had long set, and though she had no destination in mind, she kept going. She only wanted to put distance between herself and her father. And the well-meaning but ill-guided Mr. Horace Buford.

  The exchange in the parlor played again and again in her mind, and with each repetition she grew angrier. Yet a part of her knew her father was right. Not that she needed to marry Mr. Buford, but that the time had come for her to do something with her life.

  Because here she was . . .

  Nearly twenty-six years old and still living in her parents’ home. Most friends her age had married years ago and had children now. If David hadn’t died in that accident, they, too, would be married and she would be out from beneath the weight of her father’s demands.

  But even before then she should’ve found a way to leave after the war, as her older brothers had done—despite the hardships such a decision would have incurred. But those potential hardships were what had kept her in place. She’d been too afraid to venture out on her own.

  Then David came along. He was everything she’d ever wanted. He offered her love, safety, a nice—if modest—home, and she’d accepted his proposal without hesitation. Only to have the life they’d planned together wrenched from her grip without warning, because of a train engineer’s careless mistake.

  Harrison Kennedy. Would she ever forget that name, and all he’d taken from her?

  The image of David’s face rose clear in her memory, and she recalled their last exchange before they boarded the train that morning at the Memphis station. And after such an enjoyable two days of searching and finding a place to live that was located near the school’s campus.

  “The workers I was speaking with earlier can’t read, Alexandra, so they don’t even know what’s in the contract they were given. Yet they’re expected to sign it when they get back to Nashville, if they want to keep their jobs. Why don’t you and Melba go ahead and ride in the ladies’ car. They’ll allow her to ride in there since she’s with you. And I’ll ride up front with those workers.”

  She smoothed the perpetually crumpled lapel of his suit, which somehow befitted his occupation as a university professor. “Do you think they’ll allow it? For you to ride in a freedmen’s car?”

  “I doubt anyone will say anything. But if they put me out, I’ll come find you and Melba before we pull out of the station.”

  She had nodded, so proud of the man he was. And thankful to Melba, who stood off to the side, the perfect chaperone—and her trusted confidante. “Must you always be the teacher, Mr. Thompson?” she’d teased.

  He shrugged. “Any and all who would seek to learn should be allowed to pursue an education.”

  She smiled at his oft-quoted phrase. “West Tennessee State School is fortu
nate to have you joining their ranks.”

  “They’re fortunate to have us joining their ranks, Alexandra. I couldn’t be doing what I’m doing without you. I hope you know that.”

  She loved this man so much. His generosity and kindness, his intellect, the way he never allowed social mores to deter his beliefs and purpose in teaching. Being raised in an abolitionist family had shaped his views early on, and he had gently coaxed her to the truth that had resided just under her skin for as long as she could remember.

  “I’m so proud of you, David. You’re an excellent teacher.”

  “I don’t know about that last part, but at least I can review the contracts and explain what they’re signing. But about that first point . . .” He glanced around them, then winked and kissed her quickly on the forehead. “I feel the same about you. I’ll see you at home!”

  I’ll see you at home . . . I’ll see you at home . . . The words echoed toward her from that day.

  But she never saw him alive again.

  Alexandra wiped the tears from her cheeks as the void inside yawned wide and vicious in the growing darkness around her. It was then that she heard it.

  Singing. Somewhere in the distance.

  She looked around, then spotted light coming from the windows of a building at the far end of the street. Walking closer, she came to a billboard out front that read Wednesday, August 9, 7 o’clock, Masonic Hall presents Handel’s Cantata of Esther. Drawn by the familiar composer and his rendition of the biblical story, as well as the majestic voices, she opened the door and went inside.

  The lobby was dimly lit.

  Glad she’d brought her reticule along with her, she readied to pay an admission, but the lobby was empty. No one was minding the front table. Piano music swelled, as did a soprano voice so rich and full, so ethereal, goose bumps rose on Alexandra’s arms despite the warmth of the building. A chorus of voices joined in then, and she closed her eyes, letting the beauty of the harmonies soothe the edges of her lingering hurt.

  Compelled by the music, she continued down a hallway that opened into a small auditorium. To her surprise, the seats were only half filled with patrons. Difficult to believe, considering what she was hearing. But when she looked toward the performers on the stage, she stopped stock-still.