To Wager Her Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  Sy nodded. “Those songs are among my favorites that they sing. I’ll never forget that night in the hotel dining room when Mr. White called us to gather.”

  “Nor will I.” Alexandra folded the letter. “I’m so grateful people are finally hearing them and realizing how talented they are. There’s no telling what God is going to do with that troupe.”

  “And aren’t you glad you said yes to accompanying them?”

  She touched his arm. “Thank you . . . for giving me the courage to do that.”

  “God gave you the courage, Alexandra. I only gave you a nudge.” He took her hand in his. “Still nothing from Mr. White about your teacher examination?”

  She shook her head. “But he did write briefly and ask me to teach again come January. So I’m taking that as a good sign and have decided not to worry about it. Especially with all else going on here.”

  Over a meal of fried chicken with helpings of sweet potatoes and green beans at a restaurant in town, conversation came easily.

  “I’ve gone over my notes again and again.” Sy pulled his notepad from his pocket and handed it to her. “As much as I’ve wanted to find something, anything, to exonerate my father . . .” He sighed. “I can’t. There’s one more person I’m going to talk to. One of the signalmen who worked the shift that day for the outbound train.”

  She nodded, reading and turning the pages. “So many people.”

  “And so few answers.”

  “I’m sorry, Sy.”

  His smile held a sad quality. “On a brighter note, General Harding’s project is officially completed.”

  “Congratulations. I bet the Belle Meade Depot is lovely.”

  “I’m not sure ‘lovely’ is quite what I was aiming for, but General Harding is pleased.”

  She smiled. “And the other project is going well?”

  He gave a nod. “Labor issues in West Virginia are resolved and track is being laid from both directions as we speak. The North Carolina crew is slightly ahead of schedule, and we’re only a week or so behind on the West Virginia side. So General Harding and the other investors are pleased. And so far they haven’t balked at the recent request for more capital. Which is good.”

  “That connection with General Harding certainly turned out well, did it not?”

  “Better than I could have ever imagined.” He looked across the table. “Thank you, Alexandra.”

  She raised her glass of water in mock salute.

  After lunch they headed in the direction of the post office, but when they turned the corner, Alexandra slowed.

  Sy looked over. “What is it?”

  She gestured to the shop to their right. “They publish the newspaper I was telling you about.”

  “The one Thomas reads so faithfully. Searching for his mother.”

  She nodded. “I’ll meet you later? At my parents’ house?”

  He continued on and she stepped inside. A young woman greeted her.

  “Welcome to the the Colored Tennessean. How may I be of help?”

  Alexandra approached the counter. “I saw a friend of mine reading your newspaper recently. And I learned that you place information-wanted ads.”

  She smiled. “Yes, ma’am. That’s very helpful for freedmen who are trying to find and reconnect with family members.”

  “Do you have copies of all your back issues?”

  The woman looked at her. “We do. But that’s a lot of newspapers. May I ask . . . Are you searching for someone, ma’am?”

  Alexandra nodded, surprised to find herself getting emotional. “I am. Someone very dear to me. A woman by the name of Abigail.”

  As Sy entered the Nashville train station, he knew he was here on a long shot. But this was the last lead he had, however flimsy. And he owed it to his father to see it through.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Rutledge. How are you, sir?”

  Sy recognized the young porter but didn’t know his name.

  “I’m well, thank you. Could you tell me in which office the signalman logs are kept?”

  “Yes, sir. Down that hallway, up the stairs, and second door on your right.”

  Sy headed up. No one was behind the desk, but he heard footsteps. An older gentleman walked from the storage closet, spectacles at half-mast on his nose. “Help you, sir?”

  “Yes, please. I’m wanting to find out the last name of a signalman.”

  “Oh, I know all the signalmen, sir. Who is it you’re looking for?”

  “Fellow by the name of Hank.”

  The man’s expression sobered. “That’d be Hank Lloyd.”

  “Do you know where I could find him? I’ve got a few questions for him.”

  “I do, sir. But I’m afraid Hank Lloyd won’t be answering any questions. Not anymore. He died about seven months back. Got his arm caught in a coupler between two freight cars. Gangrene set in fast. He was gone in less than a month.”

  Sy briefly bowed his head, disappointment knifing deep. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Hank was a good man. Good at his job too. Doesn’t seem fair, what happened to him. Some days I come in, and I still expect to see him perched up there in that tower.”

  Sy looked out the window at the wooden signal tower and thought again of what Luther Coggins had told him about the man who’d saved his life. Sy realized he’d come here today hoping the very same man might save his too, in a way.

  Sy cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir. Sounds like Hank was a good friend.”

  “That he was.” The older man nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “But when you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn that most of the time justice doesn’t come in this world. Not like it should.”

  Sy looked out the window again and down the long line of track leading to Dutchman’s Curve. “No, sir. It doesn’t. But it’s sure a comfort at times to know that it comes in the next.”

  Later that evening, Sy sat with Alexandra in the central parlor of her parents’ home, having dreaded telling her that his last lead had led nowhere. “So . . .” He sighed. “All that and I’m right back where I started when I first got here.”

  “No, you’re not.” She reached over and took hold of his hand. “Neither of us is where we were when you first got here, Sy.”

  He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “As long as I live, Alexandra, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept that my father was to blame for that accident. Not the man I knew. Not the engineer he was. And yet I have no way to prove otherwise.”

  “And you don’t have to. At least . . . not to me. The more I’ve come to know you, Sy, to know the man you are, to hear you speak about the man your father was . . . I know that your father wouldn’t have knowingly done anything to cause that crash. And if . . . if,” she said softly, “his actions did contribute to it in some awful way, it doesn’t change your love for him. Or his for you. And it doesn’t change how grateful I am that God brought you into my life.”

  He cradled the side of her face, needing to say the words even while believing his father was faultless. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and tears welled up in her eyes.

  He drew her against him, and she slipped her arms around his waist. After a moment she looked up, and her gaze sought his, her desire clear. He kissed her, slow and long, the softness of her lips, the way she pressed closer to him and whispered his name, giving him hope that they had a future. And that someday far from this one, after a lifetime of loving this woman, she would know just how cherished and beloved she was.

  The next morning Sy walked downstairs on his way to the hotel dining room for breakfast when the manager waved him down.

  “Mr. Rutledge . . . A note was delivered for you, sir, only a moment ago.”

  Sy opened it. From General Harding. The man requested a meeting with him at ten o’clock that morning—and made a point of stating that all the investors would be in attendance.

  Which Sy knew didn’t bode well.

  Chapter
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  THIRTY-FOUR

  Sy arrived early to the meeting and found General Harding and the rest of the men already present and seated around the table.

  General Harding locked eyes with him. “Come in, Mr. Rutledge. And have a seat.”

  Sy shook the general’s hand, then did likewise to the investors, sensing a shift in the partnership and wondering if it was due to his request for more capital. He took a seat, eager to share the most current details of the North Carolina/West Virginia venture and the changes they were making. But he knew General Harding well enough to know the man liked to steer his own meeting.

  “Mr. Rutledge,” the general began, “it has come to our attention that you have made some decisions that do not necessarily align with the way we do business.”

  Sy looked at him, then around the table. “Are you referring to the safety measures I’m putting into place in the—”

  “This has nothing to do with safety measures, Mr. Rutledge,” another of the investors said. “It has to do with decisions that do not reflect our own values.”

  Again Sy scanned the faces around the table. For a moment, he wondered if this had to do with his father. But General Harding had known all about that and would have certainly shared that with the other men from the outset. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’m not following you. Can you be more specific?”

  Mr. Stewart leaned forward, hands clasped tightly in front of him. “Pullman Palace cars, Mr. Rutledge. Is that specific enough for you?”

  “Pullman Palace cars?” Sy repeated, seeing the anger registering in their expressions, but truly not understanding what was—

  Then it occurred to him. “Are you referring to my loaning one of my Pullman Palace cars to the Jubilee Singers?”

  “That’s precisely what we’re talking about, Mr. Rutledge,” Mr. Stewart responded. “Perhaps it was simply a momentary lapse in judgment, sir. But it is one with which we do not agree and will certainly not abide.”

  Sy leaned forward. “So . . . you want me to take back my lending of the Pullman Palace car to them.”

  “Precisely,” another of the investors said. “And furthermore, you will cease any association with that university and will agree not to condone their efforts in any way.”

  “Or?” Sy asked quietly, his gut churning.

  “Or, Mr. Rutledge . . .” General Harding leaned forward. “We will be forced to withdraw our capital from your venture. Which is something we do not wish to do.”

  Thoughts spinning, Sy nodded. “And it’s something I do not wish for you to do either.”

  Relief filtered through Harding’s expression. “I’m glad to hear that, Mr.—”

  “However, sir . . .” Sy included the other men in his gaze. “If that’s the cost of keeping your capital, then I must tell you . . . the price is too high.”

  Stewart stared. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, but I am.” Sy rose from his chair, a calm moving over him even as his mind raced. And he knew it wasn’t a calm from within himself.

  Harding looked up. “But you’ll lose everything, Mr. Rutledge.”

  “We’ll make certain you lose everything,” Stewart added, and Harding shot the man a dark look.

  “I’ll wire my attorney immediately, gentlemen, and let him know the change in circumstances.”

  Sy held out his hand to each of them, but only Harding accepted, standing as he did.

  “I’m sorry things are working out this way, Mr. Rutledge. I’d held such hopes for this venture.”

  Sy nodded. “I did too, sir.”

  He left the office and stood for a moment outside, letting what had just happened sink in. To his surprise, his pulse wasn’t racing, his thoughts were calm. And yet . . .

  Where was he going to find investors now? And quickly enough to keep the venture alive? He thought of all the railway workers he’d met with during the labor negotiations. They had families to feed, bills to pay. Yet he didn’t regret his decision about the Pullman Palace car. He’d do it all over again if he had to.

  He took a deep breath and started walking.

  Sometime later, on his way to Alexandra’s house, he found himself humming one of the Jubilee Singers’ songs. He recalled the perfect blend of their voices, the intensity and conviction with which they sang the words—you can have all the rest, give me Jesus—and drew strength from them, even as a possibility came to mind about what to do next.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Fisk University

  December 16, 1871

  Alexandra sat nestled between Sy and her mother as President Spence read off the name of the next graduate. Amidst the applause, the young man made his way toward the makeshift stage to receive his diploma, to the delighted shouts of his family and friends.

  Without a building large enough to host the graduation ceremonies, the event was being held out of doors in the common area among the barracks. It was standing room only, but uncommonly warm temperatures and crystal blue skies made the December morning surprisingly pleasant.

  President Spence shook the young graduate’s hand, then briefly moved aside as Mr. White stepped forward—the two men sharing the honors of reading the names.

  Alexandra turned to Sy. “Perhaps there’s still hope for those two gentlemen to get along.”

  “Could be.” Reaching down to pet Duke, he looked over and winked. “But I doubt it.”

  Alexandra laughed softly, then looked at Mother and at Melba seated beside her. Her mother. Sitting in an integrated audience. In a public place. Something Alexandra never thought she’d see. And judging by the quiet attentiveness on her mother’s face, she was taking it all in.

  “Miss Virginia Walker Halkin.”

  Her mother had been right. Father had never awakened. As much as Alexandra had wanted to have that closure between them, she was slowly coming to accept that sometimes that simply wasn’t possible. Life wasn’t all neat and tidy. Along with joy and happiness, there were bitter disappointments and heart-rending loose ends. She looked at Thomas Rutling seated in the audience two rows up, thought of his search for his mother, and knew she still had so much for which to be grateful. She prayed that Thomas’s search would someday prove successful.

  The same as she prayed to find her beloved Abigail. She’d placed an ad in the Colored Tennessean, so time would tell.

  “Mr. Henry Alvin Slater.”

  They’d buried her father on a Tuesday, then had reburied Sy’s father beside his mother the following day. Sy had placed a small bouquet of flowers on his mother’s grave and a single white rose on his father’s. Clean, pure, free of any blemish. And Sy was finally at peace.

  She was so proud of how he had handled the situation with General Harding and the investors. And no one had been more shocked than she was when Sy told her that he’d contacted George Pullman himself—who’d already read in the newspaper about the Northeast Line providing the Jubilee Singers with one of his Palace cars—and had offered to sell Mr. Pullman his interest in the North Carolina/West Virginia venture. Knowing Sy wasn’t in a place to negotiate, Pullman ended up making a very profitable deal, even with the required investment. But so did Sy. His obligations here were fulfilled and his beloved mountains awaited. As did a position as Railroad Safety Inspector for the Colorado Railway Commission.

  She looked over at him, marveling again at how God orchestrated all the events of their lives.

  “Miss Constance Baker Worth.”

  “Thank you again, Sy,” she whispered, watching the young woman accept her diploma, “for encouraging me to pursue my degree. I don’t know that I would have decided to do it without you. Mr. White told me yesterday when the troupe arrived back into town that he believes I can finish sooner than I originally thought.”

  Sy smiled. “You’ll be done before you know it.”

  “And now, distinguished guests and faculty members,” Mr. White continued, “we have one last graduate whose name isn’t listed in the progra
m today.”

  Alexandra turned back.

  “And I will say this of her . . . She came to us late, some might say, but in my opinion she came at just the right time.”

  Mr. White’s gaze scanned the audience, then came to settle on her, and Alexandra felt a rush of uncertainty followed swiftly by one of excitement. And confusion.

  “Join me in congratulating a young woman who scored in the top five percent of Fisk graduates on the finishing exams . . . while serving as an instructor in our introductory classes this year. Miss Alexandra Jamison.”

  Alexandra turned to Sy and found him smiling. “You knew?”

  “Congratulations,” he whispered. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Alexandra felt a squeeze on her arm and turned to see her mother and Melba, tears of joy in their eyes. And maybe a little disbelief in her mother’s, which Alexandra couldn’t begrudge. She was more shocked than all of them.

  She made her way to the stage, able to hear Sy’s whistle over all the applause. And, if she wasn’t mistaken, she even heard Duke getting in on the celebration.

  Mr. White leaned close. “Congratulations, my dear.”

  Alexandra looked down at the diploma. “But I don’t understand. How did—”

  “It was Miss Norton’s idea to administer the finishing exams to you that day.”

  “The finishing exams?”

  He smiled. “It was also her idea to keep the results a surprise.”

  He gestured, and Alexandra turned to see Miss Norton cheering along with several students who had been in her introductory class.

  “She was so impressed with your marks, Miss Jamison,” Mr. White continued. “As we all were. I suspected early on, as did she, that you were much further along in your education than you gave yourself credit for. But knowing you as I believe I do”—he gave her a thoughtful look—“I feared that telling you beforehand would only make you more nervous.”