Follow Your Heart. Rosanne Bittner
really like to know what I’ve ever done to make you so prejudiced toward Mark. I graduated with top honors from Yale, far better grades, I might add, than Mark ever got. On top of that, I’m your firstborn son.”
There it was, that way she had of looking away slightly when he talked about being her son. Then she stiffened again as she rose. “That’s just it. You outdo poor Mark in everything. You’re bigger and far more handsome and young women beg for your hand, while Mark…” She peered at him intently. “The reason your father doesn’t give you the important jobs is because Mark needs to feel important. He needs the confidence it gives him to know he can handle anything Kingman Enterprises might expect of him, and your father recognizes that Mark has that slight ruthlessness that it takes to run a business as big as your father’s.” She seemed to plead with him again. “Why can’t you just marry into one of the wealthy families of Chicago and settle down and quietly do what’s expected of you and let Mark have more of the limelight?”
Jude walked past her. “I haven’t found one woman among our family’s snobby friends worth marrying. And I am doing what is expected of me. I’m the one Dad sent down here, remember?” He walked toward the door again. “I have to say, Mother, that if I’d known Mark wanted this glorious assignment, I’d have gladly given it to him. But until Dad tells me differently, I’ll do it myself and I’ll do it my way. Now, why don’t you have the engineer find out how soon you can get going on down to St. Louis to see dear Aunt Flo?” He opened the door, studying her pleading eyes for a moment, wondering if she’d ever once in her life been so terribly concerned about him instead of Mark, and then he walked out.
He picked his way over railroad tracks and to the engineer of the train that had brought him here. “Get me back to Plum Creek as soon as possible!” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
Jude stormed inside his own Pullman, not even glancing back at his mother’s car. The woman was losing her mind. And her talk of marriage…Did she really think that would solve anything? How could he marry when he might end up with someone like his own mother? What a great life that would be! It would serve her right if he married some farm girl from Plum Creek. That would certainly wilt the feathers in her hat!
He slammed the door and opened every window in the car. Stink or not, he needed air. Fact was, he’d been around the smell of cattle and farming so long now that he was getting used to the pungent odor. The factory smells in Chicago weren’t much better.
He sat down with deliberate force, angry over the entire railroad matter. For some reason Ingrid Svensson came to mind then, probably because he’d intended to go and pay her that second visit today, until he’d got the telegram from his mother yesterday afternoon. He realized that was what he was most upset about. He’d actually been looking forward to going back out to see Miss Svensson. He’d meant it when he’d told her she was beautiful, in spite of all that dirt and that plain dress and her disheveled hair. He’d been so pleased to learn that the beautiful woman he’d first seen at the railroad depot was “Miss” Ingrid Svensson rather than a “Mrs.”
What a stark contrast a woman like Ingrid was to his mother, or any of the young women he knew back in Chicago. She wasn’t just more beautiful in looks. She was more beautiful in spirit and fortitude, stronger, more independent. From that one visit he could tell the woman didn’t have an ounce of vanity, but a lot of courage and pride. He was actually looking forward to seeing her again, in a way he’d never anticipated seeing any young woman he’d dated in Chicago.
Chapter Eight
Early July
Ingrid and Johnny walked each row of corn, the eighteen-inch stalks tall enough to begin watching for corn borers. Each time Ingrid spotted a damaging bug or worm, she picked it off. Johnny held out a jar of kerosene and in the bug went, never to fly or eat again.
“So far it all looks good,” Ingrid commented.
Johnny grinned. “Far says if we get in a good crop, we might be able to buy our land from the railroad if we have to.”
Ingrid sobered, irritated that she’d lost many a night’s sleep since Jude Kingman’s visit. He’d not come back yet, which was fine with her, but a few other farmers had already received eviction notices, effective November first. That gave them barely enough time to know what their profits would be from the corn harvest.
Carl and Stanley Unger were already working hard at establishing a branch of the National Grange at Plum Creek, deciding there was power in numbers. Farmers were gathering together in protest over their treatment by the railroad, unfair pricing and the tyrannical attitude of the Union Pacific. Ingrid could see the deep unrest that was building to anger and very un-Christian behavior.
So far she’d convinced her father not to join the Grangers. She worried that could bring more trouble than it was worth. She’d heard rumors of destroying railroad property, and a few men, including Carl, talked of using guns to keep railroad men off their land. She hated Johnny hearing such talk.
Carl was beginning to show a side to his personality that gave her even more doubt about whether she wanted to marry the man. A few days ago he’d visited them to rant and rave about a neighboring German farmer, Vernon Krueger, who’d already given up his farm and was now working for the railroad. He called Vernon a money-hungry, penny-pinching, cowardly traitor, and the sight of Carl’s clenched fists haunted Ingrid.
To make matters worse, Ingrid felt pressured by both her father’s and Carl’s talk of how a marriage could ensure that at least one of the farms would be saved. Combining their profits this fall might leave them money to hire help, since Ingrid’s father’s back was getting no better. Perhaps they could buy one of the farms and live on it as one family.
What upset Ingrid the most was Carl’s suggestion she could “cook and clean for his father, too.” There was nothing romantic about his suggestion. It sounded more as though she was being bartered for a railroad deal and would be nothing more than a servant. Marriage to Carl seemed more and more like a business deal than an act of love.
God, forgive my thoughts. Help me to know what to do. The womanly side of her wanted love and gentleness and sweet words. Her practical side told her Carl was right. Marriage could solve their railroad problem as well as bring her father the relief he needed from hard work, maybe even prolong his life. And there was Johnny to think about.
“Hey, somebody is coming,” Johnny told her then, interrupting her thoughts. “Looks like that fancy buggy again.”
Ingrid looked toward the house, and against all that was right, her heartbeat quickened when she recognized the approaching buggy.
“Stay here, Johnny, and keep picking off worms.” She lamented that, again, she was not presentable for company, especially the likes of Jude Kingman. This time she was not only dirty and wearing a plain, gray, homespun dress, but she also smelled of kerosene. “So be it,” she told herself as she walked toward the house.
Why should she worry about how she looked to a total stranger who was here to steal her farm? Never once had she worried about how she looked when Carl came calling. She drew a deep breath, steeling herself to go head-to-head with Kingman. By the time she reached her soddy, the debonair man was already standing on the porch waiting for her. She deliberately gave him a look of cool greeting.
“I would say welcome, Mr. Kingman, if only I thought you were here for a good reason.” She glanced at his carriage. “Where is your gunman?”
Kingman removed a black felt hat. “Other than my driver, I came alone, ma’am,” he said, bowing.
Oh, but aren’t you smooth, Mr. Kingman, she thought. Today he looked as elegant as the first time he’d visited. He wore a neat black suit with a silver satin vest under his jacket, and his dashing looks made it difficult for a young woman to be rude.
“Sit down, Mr. Kingman,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “My father is at Carl Unger’s farm, which is probably just as well. Carl Unger is prepared