Alexandra Jamison had always wanted a sister. Instead, she had three brothers. All older. Two were the spitting image and temperament of their father. Jacob, the third and her favorite, was not. And as though the world could not abide the anomaly, war had met him on the battlefield—and won. For that alone, if not for a thousand other reasons, she would never forgive that war.

As for the other two brothers, they'd escaped home and the shadow of their father as soon as possible. If only she could do the same.

If the carriage parked in front of her house on Sycamore Lane—the lushly treed thoroughfare home to some of Nashville's finest residences—was any indication, her father's plans for her were hardly "escape." More along the lines of "out of the frying pan, into the fire." A man nearly thrice her age waited in the study. She imagined his marble-knobbed cane propped just so against the bookcase beside his chair. To be fair, she'd never actually seen Horace Buford walking with a cane, but she felt certain there must be one looming in his very near future. A future she was determined not to share, no matter her father's opinion.

Which her mother would quietly support, never giving voice to her own thoughts on the matter. If she even had thoughts of her own. Which was another frustration.

Alexandra loved her mother; she simply didn't understand her. At times she felt as if she scarcely knew her.

And all of this, Alexandra thought, as she climbed the steps to the front porch, was what a sister was for. To share all the secrets, the heartaches and fears. The frustrations that came with seeking to honor the two people who had given her life. But how did she do that when her parents' hopes and plans for her life differed so vastly from her own?

At twenty-five, she'd expected to be beyond all this. But life hadn't turned out at all as she'd expected.

The daisies in the pots by the top step looked freshly watered, yet still showed signs of fatigue beneath the blazing August sun. She could commiserate. She felt more than a little worn herself. She'd wanted to forgo the midweek Nashville Women's League meeting that morning, but her mother had insisted she attend—while claiming she herself was too burdened by the heat to accompany her.

"The Jamison name must be represented, Alexandra," she'd said. "After all, we're one of Nashville's founding families, and we must stay abreast of all the latest goings-on. And the gossip there is always so rich."

All that talk of who was marrying whom, of what was best served at high tea, of Godey's latest fashions . . . Though the league did routinely undertake a number of worthy pursuits to help the needy, the trappings and topics of high society simply weren't Alexandra's cup of tea anymore.

Not after David. Not after Dutchman's Curve.

She reached for the front doorknob, aware of her defenses rising. This house had long ceased being a safe haven. Especially when she knew her father was home. Did all daughters feel this way about their fathers?

Yet another question for the sister she didn't have.

He hadn't approved of her choice in David. David was a teacher. And a gifted one. But that wasn't prestigious enough for Father.

The handsome brass placard by the front door bearing her father's name shone with a deeper luster than usual. He must have had Melba polish it that morning, which only meant one thing.

A prospective client. Alexandra glanced back at the carriage, heartened that perhaps it wasn't old Mr. Horace Buford waiting inside after all.

She opened the door as the blast of a train whistle split the morning air. Its shrill sound brought her up short and prodded memories best left undisturbed. Images of splintered railway cars and broken bodies. Screaming wheels and grinding steel that was heard over two miles away. She squeezed her eyes tight as the familiar sense of loss flooded back through her.

Tomorrow it would be one year. How could so much time have passed? Especially when a part of her still felt stranded back there on that horrific morning on Dutchman's Curve . . .

"As long as your loved one lives on in your memory, he'll never really be gone," people said. But that was a lie. David was gone. And he was never coming back.

The whistle blasted again, sounding closer this time, and she could smell the acrid scent of smoke and cinders in her memory, could feel the unearthly jolt of the train as the car she'd been riding jumped the rails. And she could still see David's broken, partially burned body that had been laid out in the cornfield alongside the others.

She hurried inside and slammed the door behind her, working to shut out the haunting sights and sounds.

"Miss Alexandra . . . you all right?"

Heart racing, Alexandra looked up. "Melba," she whispered, and saw concern swiftly gathering in the older woman's eyes.

"What's wrong, child? You comin' down with somethin'?"

Alexandra shook her head. "I'm fine. Just a little overheated, that's all." Did anyone else remember what tomorrow was? Surely Melba hadn't forgotten.

"It's hot as blazes out there today, ma'am. You shoulda taken that little parasol with you."

Seeing the hint of a smile on Melba's face, Alexandra attempted to return it. "You know how I love parasols, Melba."

The older woman laughed, the melodic sound like home itself. "Even as a child you didn't like them things. But your mama, she sure did. Made you carry one everywhere."

"Don't I remember . . ."

Alexandra set her reticule on a side table and watched as Melba arranged a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers from the garden in the antique vase on the center table. The former slave was as much a part of her life as anyone in this house. More so, in some ways. Because Melba saw things Alexandra knew her parents didn't. Even as a little girl, Alexandra had never been able to fool her.

Much like another slave she'd known as a child. A slave she'd loved with all her heart, but who apparently hadn't loved her in equal part.

She heard voices coming from her father's study. "A prospective client?" she asked softly.

Melba nodded. "Man new to town, your papa said."

Her father had moved his office into their home four months ago. He said it was because the building where he rented space in the center of town was not being properly maintained, but Alexandra secretly suspected it was due to finances. Six years since the war had ended, and business in Nashville appeared to be improving. But the number of attorneys still seemed inordinate to the need.

The door to the study opened and her father peered out. "Alexandra, you're home. Good. Would you join us, please? I could use your assistance."

"Of course."

He pushed the door closed again.

Knowing better than to keep him waiting, she quickly brushed the street dust from the front of her dress.

"Let me help you with that, ma'am." Melba came up from behind and gave her backside a good hand brushing. "Seein' what tomorrow is, Miss Alexandra, maybe we could get your blue dress back out. Or that teal one with the white lace collar that looks so pretty with your blond hair. If you're ready."

Alexandra turned. "I knew you'd remember."

Melba sighed. "That's a day this old woman will never be forgettin'."

Alexandra hugged her, appreciating the way Melba's arms came around her shoulders, strong and protective. And the way the woman smelled. Like fresh coffee and bread warm from the oven.

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 wing-back 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.