Moving away from the prostitute, Sy glanced in Miss Jamison’s direction again, only to see she’d stopped a ways back to speak to another young woman in the crowd. They were deep in conversation, neither of them looking his way. He searched again for General Harding and finally spotted the man crossing the station platform and entering through a door of an adjacent building.
The letter from Harding said the meeting would be brief and held at a location behind the ticket office. For a limited number of people, judging from the way it was worded. Immediately following the meeting, Harding would present Enquirer to the ever-growing crowd.
Sy headed in that direction, Duke trotting loyally at his heel. He couldn’t help glancing once more in Miss Jamison’s direction. She certainly had a quality about her that drew a man’s eye. And it wasn’t just her face and curves either, or that mass of blond hair piled atop her head begging to be taken down, though those attributes were plenty appealing. It was more in the way she conducted herself. With quiet confidence and decorum. She was intelligent too. That much was clear.
The fact that she hadn’t tried to draw his attention was probably part of it as well. The woman hadn’t seemed interested in him in the least.
But why was he even thinking about all that? He hadn’t come to Nashville looking for a wife. He was here to work a deal, find some answers, and return West with plenty of money in his pocket and a lucrative expansion to his railroad.
And anyway, from what he’d seen thus far, Southern women were far too soft and delicate for the untamed life of Colorado. Although . . .
He’d sensed an undercurrent between Miss Jamison and her father in the office yesterday. Like an invisible tug-of-war going on between them. And in his estimation, the daughter had been winning. With a single look, she could put a man in his place.
The father struck him as being a little desperate for business, and he talked a lot too. Which was good in one way, because Sy had left Jamison’s office knowing a great deal more about local businesses than he had when he’d walked in.
But confidentiality in this next project was crucial. So though he thought Jamison could manage it, could he trust the man to be discreet?
As he left the station platform and walked toward the building where the meeting was to be held, he passed vendors with carts laden with food. The aromas of freshly baked bread, sausages, and popcorn gave the event a festive feel. And reminded Sy of breakfast long past.
Scarcely pausing, he plunked down coins for a sausage and ate it as he walked. When he reached the stairs, he tossed the remainder to Duke, who caught it midair. Sy signaled for him to stay, and the foxhound found a patch of shade beneath the platform and hunkered down, the thump of his tail saying plenty.
Sy deposited his trash in a rubbish bin, then opened the door he had seen the general enter a moment before. At first he thought he was in the wrong place. The room was packed. Standing room only. But there was General Harding at the front of the room.
All of these men were here about Harding’s railroad venture?
He took closer count. Nearly sixty men. And finely suited dandies, every last one of them. All of them twittering away like banty hens on a Sunday picnic. Sy rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw and removed his hat, thinking he should’ve made acquaintance with a barber before coming here this afternoon.
While he hadn’t taken Harding’s written response to his bid to mean he had clinched the deal, he had thought—mistakenly, from the look of things—that it meant he was in the final running.
“Gentlemen, please . . .” General Harding raised a hand. “May I have your attention?”
A man seated toward the front turned, and when Sy saw who it was, his jaw tightened. Harold Gould. That was all he needed.
If this turned out like last time . . .
The man already controlled more than nine thousand miles of track, compared to Sy’s twenty-five hundred. Gould probably hoped to take advantage of Harding’s venture of bringing the railroad from Nashville to Belle Meade by then pushing the line on southward into Mississippi sometime in the future—if Harding was open to it. Which is exactly what Sy wanted to do.
Thing was, Gould probably already had the needed capital, after besting Sy out of the last deal in Colorado. Gould caught his eye—and smiled.
Sy did likewise and gave a confident nod, while his gut churned.
“Gentlemen!” Harding said again, and the crowd fell quiet. “Thank you for coming here today.”
As Harding offered a welcome, Sy realized the man had a presence about him, scraggly beard notwithstanding, along with an unmistakable air of wealth. The general’s war record was well known, as was the fact that he’d been imprisoned by the North for several months. Not that Sy or anyone else out West had spent much time thinking about that war.
He’d been too busy operating a mine and running cattle on the side while making a small fortune, then building his first railroad. All by the age of twenty-four. His father had been right, in that regard. Looking back, Sy could see that he’d been right about so many things.
“I appreciate your interest in my venture to bring the railroad to Belle Meade Plantation’s front porch,” Harding continued. “As most of you likely know, this is something I’ve desired to do for a long time. And with the annual yearling sales steadily growing in attendance, I want to do more than simply bring interested buyers to Nashville, the finest city in the South. I want them to arrive at Belle Meade in style!”
A round of applause and several hearty cries of “Hear! Hear!” rose from some of the men gathered. Sy wasn’t one of them.
He grudgingly admitted to himself that Harding did have a commanding quality about him. Sy shifted his weight. Thing was, he tended to rub men like Harding the wrong way. And those men had the exact same effect on him.
“My plans also include laying a macadam road from the turnoff at Harding Pike all the way to the plantation. This will ease the transportation of those still seeking to travel by carriage or wagon. I desire that the Belle Meade depot be designed and constructed in a manner that complements the style of the house, of course. And it’s my preference that eventually this railway be part of a route that would extend southward. After all, Belle Meade is the premiere stud farm in the country as well as a working estate, and we have much to offer railroad patrons. Now I’ll entertain a few questions, then we must adjourn for a special presentation of another exciting addition to Belle Meade that arrived a short time ago.”
“General Harding!” Gould rose from his seat near the front. “My name is Harold Gould, sir, and I want to tell you what an honor it is to meet you and to hear from you this morning. Indeed, it’s a privilege, sir, to be in the same room with such an esteemed businessman and ally of the railroad men of America.”
More applause rose, and Sy exhaled, glad he’d worn his boots.
“And now my question, General Harding,” Gould continued. “Have you narrowed down the top bids at this stage? And has any one bid in particular garnered your attention?”
Even though Gould didn’t glance back at him, Sy knew the man was goading him. He also knew Harding would never answer such a question in public.
Understandably, Harding’s smile was that of a man holding his cards close to his vest. “I’ve been in contact with several of you already. And while there are bids that have certainly gained my attention, if there is someone in this room who still desires to submit a bid, he may do so with my plantation manager.” He gestured to a man standing off to the side.
“But you would be advised to do so quickly, because I’m hosting a dinner tomorrow night at Belle Meade for all approved prospective bidders so that they may gain a clearer understanding of my vision for the project. Pursuant to that evening, I’ll make my decision and award the project the following week.”
“And just how do we know who’s on this approved list, General Harding?” Too late, Sy realized that his frustration over the number of bidders, and Gould’s being among them, had colored his tone.
Squinting, General Harding peered over those gathered. “And your name, sir?”
“Sylas Rutledge. Owner of the Northeast Line Railroad.”
Harding paused briefly as recognition—or was it irritation?—shaded his features. Sy hoped Harding would recall that it was the Northeast Line that had pulled into the station awhile ago with the man’s newest blood horse on board. But he wouldn’t bet on it.
“Well, Mr. Rutledge, as I was about to explain . . .” General Harding addressed his audience. “If those who have received a letter from me will visit the table set up in the breezeway outside after our meeting, my business manager will let them know if their bid has advanced to the next stage. Those approved will then receive an invitation to dinner. Does that answer your question satisfactorily . . . Mr. Rutledge?”
Cordial sarcasm of a distinctly Southern style tainted Harding’s tone, and Sylas managed a nod. His first exchange with the man had not gone as planned. He could all but feel Gould’s smirk, and made a point not to look in his direction.
Another man stood, stated his name, along with a string of banal compliments, then asked a question. Sy only half listened, fingering his hat in his hands. He already knew what he needed to know—that the odds of his winning the Belle Meade project were not as favorable as he’d thought. And that Harold Gould was going to do everything possible to shut him out.
After a few more questions and answers, Harding concluded the meeting.
Sy attempted to make his way toward the front to talk to Harding about Enquirer, maybe try to improve the man’s opinion of him a mite. But the swell of men pressing for the general’s attention prevented it.
Sy finally turned to wait by the door when he noticed a black man standing off to the side watching him. The man’s pristine white apron and distinctive black bowler made him stand out in the crowd. He had a kindly look about him, something that said he belonged.
Sy offered his hand. “Sylas Rutledge.”
The man’s grip was firm. “The Mr. Rutledge who brought the general’s new blood horse.”
It wasn’t a question. “One and the same.”
“You the owner of the Northeast Line too. Ain’t that what I heard you say?”
Sy nodded, getting the feeling an opinion was being formed. For better or worse, he couldn’t say.
“I’m Robert Green, head hostler at Belle Meade Plantation. But everybody calls me Uncle Bob.”
Sy nodded slowly. “Uncle Bob it is then.” This was the man responsible for all of General Harding’s thoroughbreds? Interesting . . .
“From what I hear, sir, you hire mostly black men for your railroad. Not just the porter jobs, but the other higher-ups too. That right?”
Sy raised a brow. “News travels fast in these parts.”
Uncle Bob laughed.
“I hire the best men for the job, plain and simple. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The man regarded him for a long moment, then smiled. “You ain’t from close around here, are you, Mr. Rutledge?”
Sy laughed. “No, I’m not. I’ve spent my life out in Colorado. Up until about three weeks ago when I finally ventured East.”
“Colorado, you say.” Uncle Bob’s dark gaze turned appraising. “Got me a friend out that way. Ridley Cooper. Good man. Owns a ranch near Denver. Got his start right here at Belle Meade.”
Sy shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve heard of him. But if he’s a good man, I’ll have to look him up when I get back. I’ve been to Denver many times, but have spent most of my life in or around the mining camps. Boulder, Breckenridge, and some others.”
Uncle Bob frowned. “You a miner, sir?”
“Used to be. For a while.”
“Any good come of it?”
Again Sy smiled. “You could say that. But the main good came from knowing when to stop mining and when to start managing a mine instead. And selling to the miners. I began raising cattle. Didn’t know much about it at first, but you learn real quick when you have to.”
Uncle Bob laughed. “That you do, sir. And them miners, they always gotta eat.”
“That’s the way I saw it. Or . . . came to see it, after a while.”
“What’d you mine for?”
“Gold, mostly. But some silver too.”
“And you found some?”
“A fair amount.”
The older man shook his head, his laughter pleasant. “I once had me a dream of goin’ out that way. Just to see it, mind you. Never had no plan to go and stay.”
“You should see it, if you can. It’s beautiful country. The Rocky Mountains . . .” Sy briefly closed his eyes, able to remember them better that way. “You’d swear the highest peaks reach straight up to heaven’s doorstep. But once you climb one of them, and you catch your breath—”
Sy gave him a look, and Uncle Bob chuckled.
“—you stand there and look up . . . and you realize just how much more sky there is to go.”
Sy could see the image so clearly in his mind. And as he had on those occasions when he’d scaled the mountains, he wished he’d had the ability to capture the image of those snowcapped peaks and the vivid blue of the sky. Their beauty couldn’t be communicated with words.
“Lawd . . .” Uncle Bob sighed. “I bet standin’ on one of them mountaintops makes a man feel all kinds of powerful!”
“That’s what I expected to feel the first time I climbed up there.” Sy exhaled. “But what I mainly felt was . . . small. By comparison.”
Uncle Bob said nothing for a moment, only looked at him, then nodded slowly. “So where’s the general’s new thoroughbred, Mr. Rutledge? He done made the trip all right, I hope?”
“He made it fine.” Sy gestured in the direction of the train. “Enquirer’s in the first stock car. Man by the name of Vinson is seeing to him. Go on down and see the horse for yourself, if you like. You can’t miss Vinson. He’s about the size of a mountain and—”
“He that boulder of a man I seen movin’ through down there awhile back?”
“That’d be him.”
Uncle Bob nodded. “I’ll find him.”
“You’ll find who, Uncle Bob?”
Sy turned to see General Harding walking up to them with Harold Gould in tow, smirk intact.
“I’s just telling Mr. Rutledge here, sir, that I’s gonna go check on Enquirer.”
Determined not to make another misstep, Sy stuck out his hand. “General Harding, I appreciate the opportunity to bid on your project. And also your trust in allowing me to transport your thoroughbred today.”
“Mr. Rutledge.” Harding gave a succinct nod, much like his handshake. “I trust you delivered him in excellent condition?”
Sy matched his gaze. “I did, sir. He’s one fine animal.”
Without a blink, Harding turned to Uncle Bob. “I’ll make my way to the podium while you go check on the horse. Make sure he’s ready for the presentation.”
“Yes, sir, General. We’ll be ready.”
Harding turned back. “Mr. Gould, would you care to join me as I walk?”
“Why, I’d be honored, General Harding.” Gould shot Sy a look. “Mr. Rutledge, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Harding paused. “You two know each other?”
“Oh, yes, General.” A glint sharpened Gould’s eyes. “Mr. Rutledge and I met about a year ago when we were bidding for the same railroad out West. A line that runs from Denver to Colorado Springs. I came out on top in that bid, sir. But as I recall, that was Mr. Rutledge’s first attempt to acquire a legitimate railroad operation. Up to then”—Gould smiled—“he had himself a little operation that ran between some mining towns in the Rockies.”
“Has an operation,” Sy corrected. “I still own the Silver Line.”
“Oh, do you? Quite a feather in your cap there, Rutledge.”
Harding’s brow knit. “So, Mr. Rutledge . . . You’ve only owned the Northeast Line for a year?”
“Actually, only about nine months, sir.” Sy slipped his hat back on. “The Northeast Line was all but bankrupt. I started turning a profit after seven weeks.”
Gould laughed. “Yes, how are the rail markets in the smaller eastern towns these days? Booming, I take it.”
Sy smiled. One quick jab, that’s all he wanted. That’s all it would take too. Gould was soft and spongy. The man hadn’t spent the last few years carving out his fortune from the unrelenting Rocky Mountains.
“Kind of you to inquire, Gould. The markets are growing steady and strong. After you, General Harding.”
Sy indicated for the general to precede him through the door, and Gould swiftly fell into step behind the man, tossing Sy a dismissive look as he did. Sy followed a few steps behind, all but certain there would be no envelope waiting for him at the table. Or if there was, it would likely soon be withdrawn. Along with his invitation to dinner.
He strode back to where he’d left Duke and whistled once. The dog hopped up and trotted toward him, tail wagging as though he hadn’t seen his master in days. Sy gave him a good rub, then headed back to the breezeway.
When he turned the corner he saw Harding’s business manager involved in a deep discussion with a man he’d glimpsed in the meeting room minutes earlier. He sighed to himself. Just what he needed. Yet another bidder on the project.
Then he spotted someone seated at the table to his right at the very moment she spotted him. An unmistakable spark of interest flitted across Miss Jamison’s expression—though she quickly tucked that interest back beneath an attractive countenance of confidence and decorum.
Not that any of that mattered, Sy quickly reminded himself. He was here to clear his father’s name, work a lucrative deal, then head back West with his pockets lined and that ranch outside of Boulder as good as his.