Follow Your Heart. Rosanne Bittner
burning on Wilson’s desk. Wilson actually thought burning a candle would somehow relieve him of some of his spring allergies. “I don’t need the extra men,” he told Wilson. He puffed on the cigar to get it burning.
Wilson’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh? I should advise you that these settlers won’t leave peacefully. It could even involve firearms.”
Jude shrugged. “I’d rather try a less forceful approach. I intend to go visit each settler on my own first.”
“Your father won’t be very pleased.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. I’ve never been able to please him anyway. Besides, all he told me was to come down here and prepare the settlers for the inevitable, so I will handle this the way I see fit.”
Wilson cleared his throat again. “Must you smoke that cigar? I have enough trouble with the pollen and dust and humidity in this cow town without breathing that wretched cigar smoke.”
Jude took the offending article from his lips and eyed it a moment. “Actually, it calms me, but if it stirs up your endless list of allergies, I’ll put it out for the moment.”
Wilson smiled, showing dark, tiny teeth. “Well, that’s kind of you, Jude. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I swear, if you didn’t pay me so well I’d hop the next train back to Chicago.”
“Yes, the air is so clean in Chicago,” Jude answered wryly as he stamped out the barely smoked tobacco. He looked around the plain, unpretentious office and sat down in a wooden chair across from Wilson’s desk. “Omaha is growing fast,” he added. “Someday it will rival Chicago.”
Wilson grunted a laugh. “I’ll be long dead from allergies by then.”
Both men laughed as Wilson handed over the list of settlers’ names and locations. “You have your work cut out for you, Jude. The people on that list will either have to get off their land or buy it at the going rate, which is more than most of them can afford.”
“I know.” Jude scanned the list, still irritated at the job his father had given him. “What do you think of all this, Wilson?”
Wilson thought a moment. “I like my job in land management, so I suppose I have to back the powers that be so we stay in business.” He pulled his glasses down to the end of his nose and looked up bare-eyed at Jude. “Is this really necessary?”
Jude ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could better control its thick waves. “According to my father it is, and I’m a Kingman, after all. I have a job to do.”
“I’m surprised Jefferson didn’t give this job to your brother. From what I know of you two, Mark seems the better man for the job, and I don’t mean that as an insult to you—”
Jude put up his hand to cut him off. “I know.”
“Sometimes I wonder about that brother of yours. He has a wicked streak, and your parents spoil him rotten. From what I’ve observed, you and Mark are like night and day—”
Jude waved him off again. “The fact remains the job was given to me.”
“Well, personally, I’m glad it was. I shudder to think of how he’d handle this. I have every confidence that you will take a more human approach. There are some good people on that list, Jude, hardworking, honest Christian people who came out here with big hopes and dreams.”
Wilson cleared his throat yet again. “I should warn you that, in spite of their normally peaceful ways, you’ll run into trouble with some of them. I suggest you take along at least one armed man. He can stay in the coach if you don’t want to appear too intimidating. I just don’t want to answer to Jefferson Kingman if you go out there alone and get yourself shot.”
Jude frowned. “You think it could get to that point?”
Wilson shrugged. “It could. I’d watch out for the one called Carl Unger. He and his father have worked their farm alone for years—ten, twelve, something like that. And my sources in Plum Creek tell me the man has his heart set on marrying soon, so he’ll want that farm for his future family. You might also have a problem with Albert Svensson. He has a son he intends to hand the farm to, and his daughter, Ingrid, is the one Carl Unger wants to marry. Their farms adjoin, so together they’ll be something to deal with. The Svenssons have farmed their section for nine years now. Ingrid’s mother is buried there. Of course, there are some who aren’t doing that well and might give things up without much of a fight.”
Jude sighed as he rose. “Well, as Mark and my father would say, business is business.” He took his top hat from where he’d set it on Wilson’s desk and put it on. “I suppose I’d better hop a train to the wonderful whistle-stop of Plum Creek and get moving on this.”
“There aren’t any fancy hotels there, Jude.”
“I figured as much. I’ll be staying in my private Pullman. It has everything I need.”
“Good idea.” Wilson rose and came around the desk to shake Jude’s hand. “Good luck, Jude. Watch out for yourself.”
Jude grinned and nodded. “I’ll be fine.” He turned and left, thinking about the names Wilson had mentioned. He’d never even met a real farmer, people who lived in houses made of sod. All he’d known was the Kingman mansion in north Chicago, one whole wing belonging just to him, with his own servants. He chuckled, imagining what his mother would think of women who lived on and helped work farms. Far be it from Corinne Kingman to actually touch dirt with her bare hands, to have even one hair out of place or ever to wear an apron.
Prim and proper, his mother was a respected philanthropist who perpetually found reasons to throw a fund-raiser dinner-dance so she could show off the third-floor ballroom of the family mansion and mingle with Chicago’s finest. She was unmatched as a hostess, probably owned more jewels and clothes than any other high-society woman of Chicago, had recently raised money for a new library, was head of a Chicago historical society and attended church regularly. People thought she was wonderful.
Little did they know that Corinne Kingman had no idea how to be a mother, or that in his whole life Jude could not remember ever once being held close by her or ever once feeling loved by her. Only Mark had been privy to motherly attention. As for being a regular at church, that was only an excuse for his mother to show off her newest hat or dress and pretend to be a proper and loving Christian woman. There were never any prayers at the table or any Bible readings in front of a fireplace, things he’d heard her tell others were a regular family tradition. The only thing he’d managed to garner from being forced to go to church for appearances’ sake was to realize, somewhere in his own vague memory of things he’d heard preached, that something wasn’t quite right about putting business and money ahead of hurting innocent people. Now he would be doing just that.
Chapter Four
Rain poured so hard that Ingrid and her father didn’t hear a wagon pull up outside. Someone pounded on the door, and Albert jerked awake from an afternoon nap in his favorite wooden rocker near the fireplace. Ingrid looked up from her knitting as her father rose.
“I’ll get it,” he said, grimacing at the pain in his back as he stretched. He walked over and slid aside the wooden bar that kept the door tight. “It’s Carl.”
“Oh, my!” Ingrid set her knitting aside and hurried over to the stove. “I will heat some coffee.” She knew the likely reason for Carl’s visit, although he would come up with an excuse, probably the foul weather. Not long ago Carl had again talked to her father about marriage, which irritated her. Carl apparently took it for granted she would want to marry him. Good and hardworking as he was, the man didn’t have an ounce of gentlemanly manners, or any idea how to properly court a woman.
Carl was ten years older than she, a huge man, at least six foot six, barrel-chested, loud and clumsy. Without a mother or any other woman around to teach him the gentle side of life, Carl was reared by a Swedish immigrant father