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Follow Your Heart
Rosanne Bittner
Bittner is one of those writers whose talent has grown over the years; that talent truly blossoms. – Publishers WeeklyDevastated by the droughts and plagues that have ravaged her family's homestead on the Nebraska Plains in the 1870s, settler Ingrid Svensson regards wealthy Jude Kingman as her sworn enemy. But Ingrid gradually sees that Jude shares her commitment to seeing justice served, and when personal tragedy strikes at everything she holds most dear, this strong, independent woman must reconsider her previous assumptions and open her heart to forgiveness…and love.The award-winning author of over fifty books, Michigan resident Rosanne Bittner is a member of the service organization the Lioness Club, which supports needy families and other worthy causes. She and her husband of thirty-nine years have two sons.



Critical Praise for Rosanne Bittner
“Bittner’s characters spring to life…extraordinary for the depth of emotion with which they are portrayed.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rosanne Bittner retains her title as a premier romance writer…Poignant and startling.”
—Romantic Times
“True-to-life characters who stay with you long after you’ve turned the last page!”
—Los Angeles Daily News
And for WALK BY FAITH
“This standout novel is truly in a class of its own.”
—Romantic Times
“A tale that will touch the heart and engage the emotions on many levels.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Bittner shines with this new inspirational historical.”
—Library Journal
And for WHERE HEAVEN BEGINS
“Rosanne has written a truly inspiring high adventure that will invigorate your senses and reaffirm your faith in God’s wisdom.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Bittner bring to life the dangerous and beautiful Alaskan wilderness of the gold rush days. Clint is a hero who’ll pull at your heartstrings.”
—Romantic Times

Follow Your Heart
Rosanne Bittner


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The rich and poor have this in common:
The Lord is the Maker of them all.
—Proverbs 22:2
This book is for all those who believe that Love can conquer all…

Acknowledgment
A special thank-you to the “friend of a friend,” Karin Bernica, who is from Sweden and who helped me learn a few Swedish words and customs. Karin is neighbors with my friend and fellow writer Janet Wiist from Las Vegas, Nevada.
I also want to thank Terry and Jody Fanning, Indiana grain farmers who are related to my very good friend Sue Dahlquist. This Michigan author, who knows a good deal about fruit farming, knew nothing about corn and grain farming, so I had to find someone who could help me out. Terry and Jody were wonderful.

Contents
Chapter One (#u757776d4-36c2-5f69-a7b3-9a8de5fc4520)
Chapter Two (#uba83bf72-3827-5476-aacf-7a7c37e26c74)
Chapter Three (#u8cefb5e7-e492-52d0-adf1-622dd1921f83)
Chapter Four (#u5916fb55-4f83-5627-9270-8fcb5a11cf6c)
Chapter Five (#ue392d9fb-3f46-5ade-aa87-631902251065)
Chapter Six (#u668b6c24-b1e9-521f-86f1-d0ef38106a4b)
Chapter Seven (#u57810460-d256-5ed4-bf9d-6c61401639f1)
Chapter Eight (#udc0e302e-b287-5a38-aaaf-59ee8ba9afc6)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One
Late April, 1873
“The Union Pacific could go bankrupt if we don’t do this, Jude.”
Jude Kingman eyed his father closely, very aware that the mishandling of railroad stocks and shady investments by greedy investors were the real reasons for the railroad’s money troubles. The man now sitting behind the huge oak desk in the Chicago offices of Kingman Investments was no less guilty than the rest of the opportunists covertly making their fortunes off the general public, while openly crying bankruptcy.
Jude walked over to a window and stared out at the heavy traffic in the street below. Two men whose buggy wheels had accidentally locked together were arguing and shaking their fists at each other. “We both know the real reason behind these money woes,” he said, turning to face his father again.
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking we should play the role of martyrs here,” Jude’s brother chided.
Jude shifted his gaze to his younger sibling. He and Mark were Yale educated, both in charge of various factions of the Kingman empire; but Mark looked so much more like their father—in his short, stocky build, chin line and smile, in his light brown hair and pale gray eyes that turned a deeper, cold blue-gray color when it came to business dealings, like right now. Anyone who didn’t know them would not believe he and Mark were brothers. They were so different in looks and personality.
Smile to their faces, shake their hands, stab them in the back whenever necessary. That was Mark’s motto. In that respect he and their father were most alike. Jude’s disagreement with such an attitude often spawned arguments among them over business dealings.
“I’m not suggesting any such thing,” Jude answered Mark. “I’m just asking why we should force innocent people to pay for the grievous errors and greediness of the men who invested in the railroad and then pocketed money that rightfully belonged to the government and the railroad.”
“You yourself are benefiting from some of that greed, big brother,” Mark reminded him smugly. “You and I might not have made the decisions, but we’re living very nicely off some of that money, and I intend to help Dad protect his interests in this. I’m sure you want the same.”
Jude frowned. Mark always had a way of making it look as if he was the only son who was interested in their father’s welfare. He turned his attention to his father. “Some of those people worked their land for years before the railroads even reached them. Now we’re going to turn around and tell them they have to get out?”
“Or pay a big price,” Mark answered first. “It’s not our fault they fell for the underhanded dealings of disreputable land agents.”
Compelled to direct his attention to his brother again, Jude forced self-control. “Well, that’s just like you, Mark, isn’t it? Far be it from you to consider a person’s feelings if it might cost you an expensive cigar or caviar for breakfast.”
“That’s enough,” their father ordered. He scowled at Jude. “The point is, son, that we can find people back in New York and Boston and even overseas who would be happy to buy up that land at premium prices, especially now that it’s been worked and there are towns sprouting up all along the railroad. Don’t forget that those first settlers went out there with dreams of getting rich off the railroad, so they are no less guilty of greed than we are.”
“They were promised they could buy that land at rock-bottom prices,” Jude protested.
“No money ever changed hands, so they aren’t out anything. We have every right to take back the land and sell it. And think of what we can use that money for—branching lines north and south of the main route, as well as getting the railroad back in the black. This whole land situation has been a mess, and everybody knows it. This will likely end up in court. Why not get rid of some of those people right now, before it gets that far? They don’t have a chance anyway, let alone the money to fight us. Our family business has a lot to lose if the U.P. goes under.”
Jude raised his eyebrows and smirked. “I suspect we’ve already gained much more than we will ever lose,” he answered. He moved to sit down in a large leather chair next to Mark.
Jefferson sighed. “Those people were too ignorant and poor to put up decent money and get properly signed and registered deeds in the first place. Those farmers are now nothing more than squatters, Jude, and you have to face that fact. Why does this bother you so much?”
Jude sighed. “Because we aren’t dealing with other ruthless businessmen,” he answered, “men who would walk all over us to get what they wanted. These are simple farmers, most of them immigrants, who thought they were doing the right thing—people who came to America with dreams of a better life and who worked hard to make that happen.”
“Whoa! Whoa, big brother!” Mark said with a chuckle. “Get off your soapbox. When did you become such a supporter of the poor and downtrodden?”
Jude ignored him. “I just don’t want the Kingman name associated with hard-heartedness and walking all over poor people,” he told his father.
“Maybe he’d like to go live in a soddy and help plow the cornfields,” Mark suggested snidely.
“There must be some alternative to this,” Jude said.
“There isn’t,” Jefferson answered.
Jude noticed a familiar, cold look move into the man’s eyes, the look that meant he’d made a decision and there was no arguing with it.
“But since you’re better at dealing with the common people than Mark is,” Jefferson continued, “I’m sending you down to Omaha with the job of doing what you can to get rid of some of those settlers, Jude—and just as you mentioned, without making us look bad.”
Jude just shook his head. “Why do I get the feeling this is some kind of test?”
“It is. Dad knows I can run Kingman Enterprises better than you can,” Mark told him. “Here’s your chance to show him you can come through for him.”
“That’s enough, Mark,” Jefferson told him, keeping his eyes on Jude. “I’m getting older, Jude, and it’s time you and Mark both take on even more holdings of my businesses. And although Mark is younger, he seems to understand the necessity of keeping personal feelings out of business dealings, something you’ve always had trouble doing. However, you’re handsome and charming and intelligent. This is the perfect venue for you to show me what you can do. I want to go out of this world confident that you and Mark can both take care of Kingman Investments and Corporate Enterprises.”
Jefferson stood up, obviously becoming agitated, his face reddening slightly, his chest puffed out, pride making him raise his chin and speak a little louder. Jude thought how, when his father took on this mood, he seemed much taller than his five-foot-eight-inch frame.
“I came up from the bottom,” Jefferson continued. “You both know that. I started with nothing, and I scraped and saved and earned and fought my way to the top, investing, reinvesting, taking advantage of good deals, buying at premium lows, and, yes, sometimes walking right over people to get what I wanted.”
His words came as he paced, but then he stopped and came around to sit on his desk, facing both sons. His look turned harder. “You’ve heard the story before. My father was once wealthy, but he lost it all through a partner who stabbed him in the back financially!” His fists tightened. “My mother—your grandmother—died from lack of proper medical care when she became gravely ill and there was no money for a hospital and doctors. My father shot himself because he felt like a failure and felt responsible for my mother’s death. I vowed then and there that I would make up for all of it, and I have. That included putting out of business the very man who destroyed my father. Now I’m depending on my own sons to make their father proud, and to never let what I’ve spent my life building be destroyed.”
He sat down behind his desk again. “Remember that what you have will go to your own children some day. Do this for them. Handle this right, and all my railroad interests will go to you. Mark will handle everything else. I’m talking millions of dollars and a lot of responsibility, Jude. Do this not just for me, but for yourself.”
Jude studied his father’s eyes, trying to find love there. He saw a spark of it, but always it was mixed with a strange doubt. It was that doubt that had always made him long for approval and affection from both his parents. Here was a chance to find favor in his father’s eyes, and he longed to accomplish that.
“When do I leave?” he asked, already dreading the job.
“Within a week or two, after Corinne’s spring social. Your mother would never forgive me if either of you missed the event of the year.” Jefferson smiled, his mood lighter again.
“Ah, yes, the spring social,” Mark mused. “Mother’s time to shine.” He looked at Jude. “And your chance to make all the young girls swoon,” he added snidely. “When do you think you’ll marry one of them, big brother? Or do you plan to just keep breaking their hearts?”
“I prefer not to marry someone just for status and to add to my wealth,” Jude interrupted, rising.
Mark’s gaze darkened. “That’s not why I’m marrying Cindy.”
Jude glared at him. “I know you too well, little brother. You don’t fool me one bit. You’re about as capable of loving someone as a lion is capable of loving a lamb.” He walked out, not caring to get into a full-blown argument or to listen to his father defend Mark. He truly wished he could get along with his brother, but Mark’s jealousy and spoiled, immature determination to be the favorite made that impossible.
He decided his assignment to go to Omaha wasn’t so bad after all. At least he could get away from Mark’s incessant whining and insults, and from his mother’s petty lifestyle. Maybe he wouldn’t even stay for the all-important spring social. His mother’s deliberate and gaudy display of wealth and importance was not something he enjoyed. Nor did he look forward to the fawning of the available young women who attended, obviously hoping to marry into the Kingman wealth. He wanted something more in a woman than her being among the proper “class” for a Kingman. He wanted honesty and integrity. He wanted strength tempered with compassion. Most of all he wanted a woman who would love him for himself, not his station in life, or his money.
Such a woman would not be an easy find, which was why at twenty-nine years of age he was still single. He vowed never to end up married to a woman anything like his mother. Thanks to her, he wasn’t even sure how real love was supposed to feel.

Chapter Two
The hem of Ingrid’s dress hung heavy with mud, and she dreaded the mess her worn, black, high-top shoes would be by the time she finished gathering eggs and feeding the pigs. According to her diary entry of one year ago, Nebraska experienced a freak snowstorm this time last year. This spring was just the opposite. Although she did not doubt more cold weather was ahead, today was unusually warm and humid. Only partially thawed, the ground beneath her feet was a quagmire. In some places she literally had to yank her feet out of the mud.
Basket in hand, she made her way to the chicken coop, glancing first at a larger shed to see her ten-year-old brother throwing pebbles into a mud puddle. “Johnny Svensson, you are supposed to be milking the cow!” she shouted.
Looking startled, the towheaded boy turned and ran back into the shed.
“When will that boy learn to stay with one job until it is finished?” Ingrid muttered.
She stooped to enter a small sod chicken coop, wanting to hurry with her own chores so she could get breakfast started. Her father, always the first one up and out, was checking the fields to see if he might be able to plow some furrows to prepare for planting.
A farmer’s work was never done. Even in winter Albert Svensson was out in the barn every day sharpening tools, sorting baskets and taking care of other endless winter chores in preparation for spring planting and a long, hot summer of farming. In spite of a painful back problem that had plagued him the past two years, her tall, strong father never shunned work and considered it the only way to heaven.
“Perhaps it is,” she said to the chickens. Hard work kept a person busy, with no time to think about, let alone act on, sinful ways. She remembered her mother telling her that when she was just a little girl.
Hens pecked at her hands as she shooed them away from their nests so she could collect their eggs. She laid the still-warm eggs in her basket, glad to find plenty to cook a big breakfast.
She ducked out of the hen shed, enjoying the warm morning sun. It was times like this when she missed her mother the most. Yolanda Svensson would have gloried in a morning like this. Although she’d died ten years ago when Johnny was born, Ingrid still had vivid memories of the strong, brave woman.
She headed back to the family’s soddy, where coffee was still warming on her proudest possession, a Concord cooking range ordered from Pennsylvania through Grooten’s Dry Goods in nearby Plum Creek. In winter it warmed the house much better than their stone fireplace ever had. How her mother would have enjoyed that stove!
Before she reached the house, the long wail of another Union Pacific locomotive cried out through the morning air. That would be the 7:00 a.m. She’d never ridden a train—couldn’t afford it—but she could time her day by their regularity.
She went into the house and set her basket of eggs on a small table near the entrance, being careful not to get mud on the wood plank floor. After her father had laid that floor last year she’d felt as though she were living in luxury. The soddy’s mud-plastered walls were now whitewashed, and two real glass windows let in sunlight. The sod roof had been replaced two years ago with real wood beams, wood planks and shingles, so she no longer had to hang blankets under the ceiling to catch dirt and bugs, which pleased her greatly.
She turned around and made her way to the cowshed, stepping inside to see that her brother had collected enough milk to garner a good amount of cream for making butter.
“Good job, Johnny,” she praised him, taking the bucket. Together they headed back to the house, the disappearing locomotive still wailing in the distance and leaving a trail of smoke on the horizon.
“Ingrid?” Johnny asked.
“What is it?”
“What if I don’t want to be a farmer when I grow up?”
Ingrid stopped walking and faced him. “Of course you will be a farmer, Johnny. That is why Far is building up this land,” she reminded him, affectionately using the Swedish term for father. “This farm will be yours someday.”
Johnny looked across the flat expanse of farmland at the lingering smoke in the air. “Maybe I’ll want to be a locomotive engineer, or ride the caboose. Maybe I’ll just get on a train and go as far as it will take me.”
Ingrid could just imagine the picture of adventure trains conjured up for a boy of ten, the whistle beckoning a child’s spirit to explore a faraway land. “When you are older you will see what is truly important, Johnny. Honoring your father is important. Working the land is important. Perhaps you might leave for a while, but this is your home, and you will always come back.”
Johnny frowned. “How do you know?”
These were times when Ingrid missed her beloved mother the most, sure the woman would always have the right answers. “I just know it, Johnny, in my heart. The only thing that matters in life is our loved ones, the land and our faith in God.”
Johnny just shrugged. “After church Sunday can I go watch the trains?”
“You will have to ask Far. It depends on how much we need in the way of supplies and if we need your help loading them. I don’t want Far lifting too much because of his back.”
“Well…” Johnny regarded his sister. “Why don’t you marry Carl? He could help us a lot, and Far wouldn’t have so much work to do.”
Ingrid shook her head at her brother’s reference to their closest neighbor, another Swede named Carl Unger, who had hinted more than once to her father that he was interested in marrying her. “Marriage is not something to take lightly, Johnny. And I do not love Carl in the right way to marry him.”
“But he’s a real good man, and I really like him.”
“I know, Johnny, I know.” At nineteen, Ingrid knew she should most certainly be thinking about marriage, but there was so much to do on the farm, plus all the cooking and cleaning and helping raise Johnny, that she’d seldom had time to ponder marriage or to get involved in the process of being courted. Besides, no one had come along who’d made her heart beat a little faster with true feelings of love. Her father seemed to think she was getting old enough that she should no longer be too picky, and he felt Carl was by far the best man for her.
Ingrid was not sure of that at all. When she was little her mother had once told her to marry for love and love alone. Love, and your faith in God, can help you through just about anything life hands you, she’d told her. Since then Ingrid had held on to the dream that someday the right man would come along, and she would know it in her heart when he did.

Chapter Three
Early May
Wilson Beyer adjusted his tiny square spectacles, studying the list of names in front of him. As was his habit, he twitched his tiny mustache and cleared his throat every few seconds, which irritated Jude to no end, even though he liked the man.
“I prepared a list for you, just as you asked in your telegram,” Wilson told Jude. “And I have men ready to go out with you to order these settlers off their property.”
Jude took a thin cigar from his vest pocket, then put it to his lips and leaned down to light it from a tapered candle 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 who to this day barely spoke English, never having bothered to learn.
She removed a grate and stuffed some extra pieces of twisted corn husks inside the stove top where a few embers from breakfast quickly set fire to the fresh fuel. With hardly a tree in sight, corn husks or cobs and even dried buffalo chips or horse manure provided necessary fuel. All left a bigger mess than wood, but there was no other choice for heating and cooking.
“Vell, come in!” Albert greeted Carl in his own strong Swedish accent.
Ingrid replaced the grate and set what was left of the morning’s coffee on the burner.
“Hello, my friend!” Carl answered. “Your porch is dry, so I left my rubbers and my jacket there,” he continued in a familiar singsong accent they all used. “I don’t vant to get Ingrid’s floors vet and muddy.” The two men shook hands as Carl came inside. Johnny streaked out of his room to greet Carl.
“No running, Johnny,” Ingrid reminded her brother. Her mind rushed on, wondering what to say to Carl. She’d not given the slightest hint that she even remotely cared to be his wife. Still, he visited often and paid no heed to her obvious lack of interest. Her father was no help. He liked Carl and encouraged her to see the man socially.
“Hello there, Ingrid!” Carl greeted her.
“Hello, Carl. I am surprised you came all the way here in such a downpour.”
“Ah, vell, ve cannot do any vork, that’s for sure,” Carl answered in his booming voice.
“Ya, and I fear flooded fields,” Albert told the man. “But then, I never mind an excuse to sit once in a while.”
Both men laughed, and Ingrid smiled. For the next few minutes all three of them spoke Swedish, joined at times by Johnny, who’d been raised to know the language of his parents and ancestors. Still Ingrid knew it was important for her brother to speak good English, and she’d taught him as best she could, always practicing correct pronunciation herself. She’d learned from weekly trips to a tiny school at Plum Creek when she was younger. Albert had taken her there for lessons, insisting she learn “American” in every way. She was proud of how well she spoke English, her accent very subtle now. Johnny spoke even better English than she, having been born and raised in America.
Albert motioned for Carl to sit down at the wooden kitchen table, and then he and Johnny joined the man while Ingrid sliced some bread.
“I am vorried,” Carl said, losing his smile.
Albert waved him off. “The rain vill make the ground easier to vork,” he told Carl. “It vill stop soon, you’ll see. Things vill be fine.”
Carl shook his head. “It is not the rain that vorries me.”
Ingrid set a wooden bowl of butter and some knives on the table, along with a plate of sliced bread.
“Then what is it that bothers you, Carl?” she asked, sitting down to join them, glad the conversation was not about her and marriage.
Johnny grabbed a piece of bread and began buttering it. “Have some, Carl. Ingrid makes real good butter.”
Carl nodded. “Ah, yes, I vill have some of Ingrid’s fine bread and butter.” He beamed at Ingrid as he took a piece of bread, then sighed as he began buttering it. “It is the railroad that vorries me.”
“And why is that?” Ingrid asked, alarmed at the worried look on Carl’s face.
Carl finished buttering the bread and set it on a plate. “Vell, I vas in town two days ago, and the clerk at Hans Grooten’s dry goods store told me that George Cain from the bank just came back from Omaha—big meeting there with other bankers about possibly losing money loaned to settlers on railroad land, because now the government says that land should not have been sold to us. He said crooked real estate men told us the land vas ours to settle and buy at cheap prices later on.”
All grew silent for a moment as Ingrid and Albert pondered the statement.
“I do not understand,” Albert said with a concerned frown.
“Nor do I,” Carl answered. He bit into his bread and chewed for a moment. “The clerk, he said he thinks nothing is final yet, but this vorries me. After all our years of vork on this land, getting it to the shape it is in now, how can they come along and tell us it does not belong to us?”
A soft whistle from the coffeepot reminded Ingrid that the brew was warming. She rose to check it. “Surely that could never happen,” she suggested, wanting to reassure not just Carl and Albert, but also herself. “What on earth would we do if someone came along and told us we had to get off this land? It is like a part of us.” She turned back to face them. “Someone will come and tell us everything is just fine,” she added. “Neither the railroad nor the government would do this to us.”
She began pouring coffee into china cups, then set them on the table. She had to smile at how big and stubby Carl’s fingers looked against the dainty cup as he lifted it. She actually worried that if he squeezed it too hard it would shatter in his hand.
Carl looked at her with big blue eyes, and again Ingrid felt guilty for not being able to find feelings for the blustery, loud man. He had a good heart and was a hardworking man who, anyone knew, would always provide for his family.
“I do not like the sound of it,” Carl said after thanking Ingrid for the good coffee. “In this country the railroad is king. Ve all know that the government is owned by the railroad, and also the other vay around. If there is a legal problem, the railroad vill abide by what the government says because it is the government that gave them the land grants. There is big money involved here. This is a free country, yes, but it is run by the very rich. Do not forget that.”
Although Ingrid was relieved that Carl’s visit was not necessarily an excuse just to see her, she did not like the real reason he’d come. He was right about the railroad and the very rich. The two walked hand in hand.
“I think we should pray that these people are guided down the right path,” she told her father and Carl.
“Praying for rich people does not alvays bring answers,” Albert said despairingly. “The very rich are usually far from God and His vill.”
“God works in his own ways, Far,” Ingrid assured him. “A person’s station in life means nothing to Him, and only He can change men’s hearts. And we must remember that this land does not really belong to us, or to the railroad or even the government. It is God’s land, loaned to us to care for and to provide food for us.”
Carl scowled, and for the first time ever Ingrid saw a rather frightening anger in his eyes. “This might be God’s land, but He chose us to love and care for it. He brought my father to America and led him here, and for many years my father and I have vorked it and slaved over the land. My mother is buried here, as is yours, Ingrid, and no man—no power of any kind—vill take my farm from me, and most of all not from my father. It vould kill him!”
Ingrid’s heart went out to him. “Carl, don’t let your anger get the better of you. You don’t even know yet if anything will happen. It sounds like just a rumor right now.”
Some of the anger left his eyes. “Perhaps. But…” He hesitated, softening even more, his face taking on a red glow. “Surely you know my feelings for you, Ingrid. My plan is someday to make you my beloved and raise our children on that farm.”
Ingrid felt like crying from guilt. Why couldn’t she love Carl? Was she a fool to keep turning him down? “Carl, I dearly appreciate your feelings and dreams, and I promise to think about them. But for now I have to think about Papa and Johnny. Apparently we need to wait and see if there will be trouble with the railroad. We all must pray and hope and go ahead with spring planting as always, as soon as weather permits. Promise me you will be patient and wise about your decisions if there is trouble. Do not do something foolish. This land has laws, and we must follow them.”
Carl’s normally bright eyes darkened again. “Ve shall see.” He turned to Albert, who nodded in agreement.
“Ya. Maybe ve make our own laws.”
Carl nodded.
“I will listen to no such talk, especially not in front of Johnny,” Ingrid demanded.
Carl sighed, shaking his head. “I go now.” He rose. “Ingrid, you think about what I told you. I am getting no younger, nor are you. A marriage could strengthen our cause against the railroad if that becomes necessary. Putting out a single man is one thing. Putting out a family is quite another, and ve could lay title to both farms if ve married.”
What about love? Is that of only secondary importance? Ingrid wanted to ask. She turned away, pretending to check the Concord’s ash pan. “Be careful going home in this rain, Carl.” She heard him say his goodbyes to Albert and Johnny, heard the door open and close, then felt relieved he’d left.
She put her head in her hands. Relieved at his absence was not how a woman was supposed to feel about the man she might marry.

Chapter Five
Mid-May
Jude leaned to look out the window of his comfortable Pullman car as it rumbled into the unspectacular town of Plum Creek. The weather had warmed to seventy degrees, which would normally be comfortable. But he’d learned from other trips to Nebraska that the air here was often humid, as it was today, making the temperature seem warmer than it really was. Because of that, he’d lowered the windows on the railroad car, and the stench from a nearby pen of cattle wafted inside, causing him to choke on the air.
“Welcome to Plum Creek,” he muttered. “Don’t let the people here see you curling your nose at their town.”
He leaned his head back for a moment, not relishing his reason for being here. As soon as the humble inhabitants of Plum Creek found out who he was and why he was here, they might forget their Christian background and be anything but welcoming.
With a sigh he rose and walked over to a huge, gold-framed mirror at one end of his parlor car where he adjusted his small bow tie, ran his hands through his thick hair and donned a black felt hat. It was Sunday. He figured he’d dress appropriately. People should be getting out of church about now, and most of them would be dressed up. It just seemed the thing to do on a Sunday. It had been a long time since he’d set foot in a church himself, but he pretty well knew what people expected on the Sabbath.
He straightened his shoulders and walked outside, standing on the car’s platform as the behemoth steam engine farther ahead blared its whistle and let off huge bursts of steam, slowing gradually until the train stopped in front of the town’s small depot. A few people wandered about, some probably expecting someone, or perhaps waiting for supplies; others simply curious. Just as he’d figured, many were dressed up, and after a look at the gold watch he pulled from his vest pocket, it became obvious most had indeed just come from church. It was one o’clock.
A young man pointed toward his Pullman and said something to another man about “Kingman Enterprises.” The second man answered something about the railroad, and both ran off.
Here goes, Jude thought. Apparently the rumor had already spread that someone from the railroad might be paying the town a visit. Perhaps those who’d run off were going for their guns. He smiled grimly at the thought as he leaned against a support post, watching the usual bustle that ensued when a train pulled into a depot.
Jude stayed on the platform of his car and simply watched. Plum Creek was not unlike every other small town along the U.P.’s tracks from east to west. There was the proverbial white church with a steeple and a bell. He noticed a good deal of the people approaching had come from there. Usually the farther west a person traveled, the more saloons the towns sported. Since he saw only one in Plum Creek, he gathered this was a very Christian town, although that would indeed be put to the test when things became more heated over the reason he was here.
He noted a barbershop, a sheriff’s office, a house with a sign that said Doctor, a lumber supply, three or four other supply stores, a livery, a blacksmith, a grocery store—all the usual businesses, plus a few which he could not see from where he stood.
The engine let off more steam, and children playing nearby screamed and laughed. Children loved steam engines. Fact was, so did grown men. He agreed they were certainly something to see, and he admitted to admiring their beastly qualities, the huge steel wheels, the very mightiness of a locomotive engine. There was something very masculine about a steam engine.
Well, what’s this? he thought. He’d spotted something quite the opposite of masculine. She was as feminine as could be, and quite a sight for a lonely man’s eyes. A young woman approached, with hair as bright as a hot yellow sun, and eyes as blue as the sky. Although the dress she wore was a far cry from designer-made, it fit her divine figure in ways that were pleasing to the eye. In spite of its plainness, and the fact that the woman obviously wore no special color on her face and no jewelry, she was beautiful. It struck him he’d never seen a woman so plain yet so lovely.
The three men who accompanied the woman were as burly and rugged as the woman was beautiful and feminine. They were tall, light-haired, blue-eyed brutes who were obviously uncomfortable in their ill-made Sunday suits, men who were probably better suited to coveralls and pitchforks. No one could doubt they were farmers, especially from the way the sun had darkened and toughened their fair skin. Jude actually found himself feeling grateful that the woman with them showed little sign of sun-induced aging. She probably had sense enough to wear a wide-brimmed bonnet when out of doors, although today she wore a simple straw hat decorated with a few blue silk flowers.
He couldn’t help noticing the four of them, since they marched close to his Pullman, the three men showing obvious scorn at the sight of the car and its passenger. The woman, on the other hand, appeared more curious than angry, and since Jude had grown accustomed to young women fawning over him, he actually felt disappointment that this particular young woman showed no such interest. He gave her his most charming smile, and she immediately took on a look of wariness, accompanied by a bit of an air, her chin rising slightly, determined contempt coming into those amazing blue eyes. Two of the men with her appeared older, more fatherly, but one was younger, and that one stepped closer then, an obvious challenge in his eyes.
“Who are you, mister? You look like one of them fancy railroad men. Ve don’t vant no railroad men coming here!”
Jude guessed he was probably the woman’s brother or, heaven forbid, her husband. To think that she might have a husband greatly disturbed Jude, and then he realized how absurd it was to care. Because she wore gloves he couldn’t see her left hand. The younger man stood there with his fists clenched at his side, so Jude couldn’t see his left hand, either. Then again, maybe big, rugged Swedish farmers didn’t wear wedding rings. Deducing that the man was Swedish was quite simple, considering the easily discernible accent in the few short words he’d spoken.
“It might be nice to have a chance to introduce myself and be welcomed into your town,” Jude told him.
“Ve don’t velcome thieves in Plum Creek,” the big Swede answered.
“Yeah!”
“That’s right!”
More men had gathered and were backing up the Swede.
“You people don’t even know who I am or why I’m here,” Jude told them. Clearly, this job was going to be much harder than he’d thought. He hadn’t even set foot on solid ground in Plum Creek, yet these people were ready to ride him right back out.
“Carl, we just left church, for goodness’ sake,” the lovely young woman told the Swede. “Where are your manners?”
Good for you, Jude thought. She’s no withering flower. “Yes, Carl, where are your manners?” he spoke aloud, now that he’d heard the man’s name.
“Don’t need manners around the likes of you. Ve have heard a railroad man vas coming here to tell us ve must get off our farms. It is illegal! If you are the one come to tell us, go avay!”
Now even more people gathered. Jude eyed the young blond woman, who looked apologetic. A young boy of perhaps nine or ten ran up to her then, and Jude’s hopes fell. Though she looked too young, she must be the boy’s mother, which meant the big Swede was probably her husband. Now, why in the world did that disappoint him?
More voices were raised, and Jude put up his hands to silence them. “Look, everyone, my name is Jude Kingman, of Kingman Enterprises in Chicago. And yes, I am here to talk to some of you about your farms, but don’t go getting all excited and defensive. I’ll be here throughout the summer, and I am not here to tell you that you can’t plant and harvest your crops this year. Just go ahead and work your farms as you would any other time. I assure you I am only here to look things over and study the problems that might arise over a land issue with the railroad—and that I fully intend to find a way to absolve those problems without huge losses to anyone.”
“Fancy talk! That’s all you’re about!” another man shouted. “Go on back to Chicago!”
The blond-haired woman appeared completely exasperated with all of them. Glancing angrily at the big Swede, she turned to the young boy and grabbed his arm, walking off with him. Jude was actually disappointed he’d not got her name.
“I’m not leaving anytime soon,” Jude told the crowd. “I will probably make my railroad parlor car into an office while I’m here, and gradually I will be coming out to visit some of you on your farms—just to talk. Any of you are welcome to come and see me whenever I’m in town. I fully intend to hear your side of this matter and do my best to keep the peace.” He glanced around at all of them, an intimidating crowd indeed, made up of big, tough farmers and stern women who could probably hold their own against any of the men.
“You’ll talk to us, all right,” another man shouted, “then ignore everything we tell you and stab us in the back! Anybody can see you’re a rich man come here to do a rich man’s business, which is to walk all over the poor, so don’t be telling us lies about why you’re here.”
“I am not a liar, sir,” Jude answered. “I assure you, I have only the best of intentions, and I will be far more open to your needs than some of the other men who might have been sent here for the job. Don’t waste an opportunity to possibly save your farms.”
“There! You see?” the big Swede shouted. “He is already talking about saving our farms. You know what that means!”
“Yeah!”
“Yeah!”
“Is this how you always greet strangers in Plum Creek?” Jude shouted above them. He refused to show any sign of intimidation. “Perhaps I’d be better off talking with your sheriff and perhaps your town preacher. They might know a little more about how you should be conducting yourselves. I’ve not said one word about coming here to do you harm, nor have I been so rude and unwelcoming as all of you have been toward me. One would think I’d come here packing six-guns and a whip! I believe a good many of you walked over here from Sunday church services. Is this what God teaches about welcoming strangers?”
A few of them took on rather sheepish looks.
“I will hold town meetings as soon as I can get things organized,” Jude added then, keeping his voice raised. “I will be every bit a gentleman and I expect the same from good, Christian people like yourselves.”
He waited, hoping his talent for exuding charm and saying the right words when necessary would calm them. A few of the women stared, and he smiled and nodded toward them. Some blushed and covered their mouths as they quietly laughed, others just scowled and turned away. Some of the men seemed to change their initial feelings of anger and defense. They mumbled among themselves, and a couple of them actually apologized, saying they would be willing to listen but were not about to hand over their land to anyone. Jude assured them that no one was asking them to do so.
The big Swede never changed his attitude. He glowered at Jude a moment longer, then turned to the two older men who’d accompanied him. “Come on. Ve got supplies to get,” he said, stalking off with them.
Jude decided he’d better stay inside his private car for a while. He might be better off this first day waiting until most of the farmers had left with their supplies before exiting the Pullman to explore Plum Creek. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a headache coming on.
Thank you, Dad, for giving me this glorious job, he thought wryly.
He turned to go back inside, but then he caught sight of the young boy he’d seen earlier with the pretty blond woman. The kid had apparently run back to see what was going on. He waved at Jude, and Jude nodded to him. The blond woman came around the corner of the depot then, spotting the boy and hurrying over to scold him for coming back after she’d told him not to. She glanced at Jude, and all Jude could think was…Oh, my!
He tipped his hat to the woman and gave her a smile.
“I am sorry for the way you were treated,” she told him in good English, although there was a slight Swedish lilt to the words.
He bowed slightly. “Apology accepted, ma’am.”
She hurried away with the young boy, and again Jude chastised himself for not getting her name or doing his best to find out how she was related to the three men with her earlier.
He went inside his Pullman, shaking his head at his own ridiculous reaction to the blond woman. If she was a friend of, or related to the big Swede who’d been so rude to him, there was a good chance he’d see her again once he started visiting the farmers. He decided to go over the list Wilson had given him and see if he could figure out who she might be.
He threw his hat to the other end of the car and yelled for the butler he’d brought along to bring him a cool drink. He sat down in a plush velvet chair and kicked off his shoes, leaning his head back and groaning over the hideous job his father had given him. He could already see that this was going to be one long, hot summer.

Chapter Six
Ingrid stopped midrow and set down her gunny sack of corn kernels. She put a hand to the small of her back, stretching backward, then rolled her head forward and to the side, stretching her neck. Every fiber of her being screamed for rest, but planting time did not allow it. The only thing that mattered was temperature and weather, and the ideal time to plant.
Such was the life of a Nebraska farmer, along with a lot of praying that this year the grasshoppers would feast someplace else. But there was a positive side to both planting and harvesting. For both events, area farmers got together and helped one another, and for the past three days Carl and Stanley Unger had been on her farm with plows and horses. After making furrows, Ingrid, Johnny and Ingrid’s father followed, dropping kernels into the long trenches. Now, Carl and Stanley followed the planters with hoes, covering the kernels. The only thing left was to pray for just the right amount of rain and sunshine so that the harvest would be plentiful, with enough corn to store for their own use and plenty more to sell to buyers in Plum Creek.
She breathed deeply of the fresh, cool air. Since the downpours earlier in the month had ended, the weather had remained accommodating. She watched Carl and Stanley, again thinking what a fool she probably was for not committing herself to the strong and faithful Carl. He was not extremely handsome, but certainly decent looking, plain but stalwart.
“When will we be done?” Johnny asked with a pout, his face sunburned.
“You just asked me that five minutes ago,” Ingrid answered, shaking her head. “Just keep planting. The time will go faster than you think.”
Johnny frowned with impatience and rather reluctantly continued dropping corn into the furrows. Ingrid dipped her hand into her gunny sack, then noticed a carriage approaching along the narrow dirt road that led from Plum Creek to the farm. From what she could tell, the rig appeared to be fancier than any local visitor would use.
“Who on earth would bother us during planting time?” she muttered, irritated. Stopping now would upset the rhythm of plowing, sowing and covering the rows. She shouted to her father that someone was coming.
“This is no time for visiting!” her father yelled in reply, obviously annoyed. “Go see vat they vant, Ingrid. Then you might as vell quit and start supper.”
Ingrid shaded her eyes to see the buggy fast approaching, and she felt suddenly self-conscious of her appearance. Their visitor was indeed most likely a buyer, which meant it was a man of some importance from the city, and here she was a mess, her hands dirty from earth and kernel dust, her homespun dress stained, her hair falling from its bun.
She untied her slat bonnet as she hastily made her way between two furrows, hurrying as best she could in the loose dirt, feeling a little upset that a buyer, someone who should know better, had the audacity to come here during planting. More of her hair fell loose during the nearly ten minutes it took her to make her way back to the house. On the way she could see that their visitor had indeed arrived in a very handsome rig, pulled by a magnificently groomed black gelding wearing blinders. The rig was driven by a rather burly man wearing a plain brown tweed jacket and a brown felt hat. Beside him sat…
“Oh, my goodness,” Ingrid muttered. It was the railroad man, Jude Kingman. Her heart sank as she guessed the purpose of his visit.
The driver pulled at the reins to halt the handsome horse, and Jude Kingman climbed down. A gold watch chain hung from the pocket of his pale blue-and-black patterned vest, over which the strikingly handsome man wore a well-tailored, deep gray topcoat with black velvet lapels and black pipe trim.
Ingrid slowed her approach, feeling apprehensive, angry, yet slightly taken aback by her visitor’s dashing appearance. She hadn’t forgotten his stunning looks since seeing him two weeks ago at the train depot. He came closer and removed his hat, bowing slightly, then smiled…and oh, what a smile! His teeth were straight and amazingly white. His brown eyes were outlined with dark brows, and his straight nose was centered above a neatly trimmed mustache, full lips and a square-cut jawline. Thick, dark hair showed from the sides of his hat.
For some reason her visitor seemed somewhat surprised at the sight of her, and also pleased. He briefly adjusted a string tie at the neck of his white ruffled shirt before speaking.
“Well, if it isn’t the lovely woman I saw at the train depot! What a pleasant surprise. You must be Miss Ingrid Svensson. My records tell me that’s who lives here.” He looked past her at the men working in the field as though he didn’t quite trust them.
More conscious than ever of her appearance, Ingrid pushed a piece of hair behind her ear. “Yes, I am Ingrid.” She stood there feeling plain and embarrassed. “Please excuse my appearance, but we are planting today.”
Kingman looked her over as though she were not a mess at all, but rather something quite agreeable to the eye. “No excuses necessary,” he answered. “Your beauty overcomes the situation.”
Rogue! He was a smooth talker, this one. “I remember you, Mr. Kingman, also from that day at the depot. And I assure you, flattery will not help your cause.” Still, his smile seemed so genuine.
“Ma’am, my compliment was just a statement of fact, not a ruse to win your favor.” He looked around. “You have a nice farm here—well kept.”
“Thank you, but you have picked a poor time to talk about the farm. We do not stop planting to visit or to talk business, especially when the weather is as perfect as it has been lately. And now I have supper to fix. If you are here to discuss business, I suggest that you leave and come back in ten days or so. Better yet, do not come back at all, as we have nothing to talk about.”
Kingman’s eyebrows shot up in apparent dismay at her stance. “Ma’am, I admire your directness.”
Ingrid put her hands on her hips. “As you said a moment ago, Mr. Kingman, it’s just a statement of fact. I do apologize for the rude treatment you received at the railroad depot, but if you do not leave this minute, it could happen again. You are obviously not a welcome sight to farmers.” She glanced back at her father and Carl. “Please, do go now. I want no trouble on my land, and there will be trouble if my father and Mr. Unger realize who is here.”
Kingman seemed unfazed. “I do apologize for coming at such a busy time,” he told her, “but I truly am here just to look around. In the business world we, too, have schedules to keep. I’m just doing my job the same as you and your family and friends are doing, Miss Svensson.”
“Oh? And just what is that job, Mr. Kingman? To kick us out? I see you brought a gunman with you.”
He glanced at his man still in the buggy. “Benjamin is just a bodyguard. After that somewhat doubtful reception at Plum Creek, I thought it wise to have a little backup along when I visit you farmers.” He looked toward the fields again. “But then your father should be present when we talk, and apparently he’s not about to come in from the fields. I can certainly understand why on such a busy day.”
“If you knew anything about farming and hard work, Mr. Kingman, you would not have picked this time to come here in the first place.”
Kingman frowned. “I can assure you, ma’am, that I do understand hard work. I express my deepest apologies for disturbing you at this time. I am just out taking a look at the various farms on railroad property, getting to know the owners and getting an idea of the situation as a whole.”
Ingrid folded her arms. “The situation? What situation is that, Mr. Kingman? Would it be whether or not we should be ordered off of our own land? Would it be wondering if some farmers will fight you? I can assure you, they will, and I do not look forward to the strife your presence will cause for Plum Creek.”
Kingman put his hands to his waist. “I thought you were too busy to talk about these things.”
Ingrid closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “If talking about them is inevitable, then you may come back in two weeks, but be assured that if you are coming to tell us this is not our land, it is a fruitless trip on your part. This land is ours by right, for the simple fact that we have worked it for nine years now, longer than the transcontinental railroad has even existed, on land promised us by the railroad so that more people would settle out here and in turn use that railroad. So since you are such a busy man, Mr. Kingman, do not waste your time on small farmers like us.”
Ingrid turned to leave, and it was then she noticed Carl walking toward them. “Oh, dear!” she muttered. She turned back to her visitor. “Please, go now!” she told him. “The man walking toward us has a temper, let alone the fact that he is tired and will be very irritated to know it’s you who has interrupted this very important work. If you expect any kind of decent conversation with any of us, come back at a better time! I am telling you for your own good.”
Something about the way Mr. Kingman looked at her then seemed to open a window to the inner man, an odd spark of sympathy and understanding, something she would not have expected from a man of his wealth and power, a man she’d guessed had no concern at all for people “beneath” him. He tipped his hat again. “As you wish. I only came to meet you and look the place over, nothing more.”
“Hey! Who are you? Vat do you vant? Ve are busy here!”
Kingman looked Ingrid over again. “You know, ma’am, in spite of the condition you are in right now, I feel compelled to tell you that you are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever set eyes on.”
Leaving Ingrid rather stunned by the remark, he turned and headed back to the carriage. His bodyguard started to climb down when he saw Carl approaching, but Kingman ordered him to take it easy. “I want no trouble,” Ingrid heard him say.
“Vait up there!” Carl yelled. “You that man from the railroad? Vait there and I vill show you vat ve think of people who cheat others and rob from them!”
Ingrid turned. “Carl!” She reached out and grabbed his arm just as he got close enough. By then Jude Kingman was in the carriage seat. His bodyguard snapped the reins, urging the beautiful black horse into a modest trot.
“That vas that fancy railroad man, ya?” Carl demanded of Ingrid.
Ingrid stared after the carriage as she answered. “Ya.”
“Did he say vat he vanted?”
She finally turned and faced Carl, struck by the stark contrast between him and Jude Kingman. “You already know what he wanted. He said he was here to look over farms that are on railroad land and to meet the owners. I told him he’d come at a very poor time and that he should wait a couple of weeks before coming back.”
“Ya, vell he had better not come back at all! If he shows up at my place, he might not leave standing up!”
“Carl Unger, you stop that kind of talk! Nothing is worth committing violence against another man!”
“Nothing? I am not so sure.” Carl turned and walked off to finish his share of the planting. Ingrid turned and watched the buggy disappear over a low rise, heading toward Plum Creek. She put a hand to her heart, feeling guilty that although she was upset over the likely reason for Jude Kingman’s visit, he’d left quite an impression.
Shame on you, Ingrid Svensson! she told herself. The man is after your farm of all things! She marched into the house to prepare supper, hoping against hope that “that railroad man” would not come back at all.

Chapter Seven
Mid-June
Still irritated at the intrusion on his time and work, Jude disembarked his private Pullman after it pulled into the Omaha train yard. He had no trouble spotting his mother’s extravagantly decorated private cars attached to a nearby train. Gold trim accented her “home on wheels,” a sleeper car, dining car and also a lounge car for receiving visitors. Along the edge of the rounded rooftops was the name Union Pacific in small letters. The words, Kingman Enterprises, however, were written in much bigger and fancier gold letters on the sides of the cars.
A young woman whom Jude recognized as one of his mother’s personal servants gingerly made her way across several tracks that lay between the two trains. She spotted Jude and then yelled above the roar of a burst of steam from a nearby engine.
“Mrs. Kingman is in her private car just over there,” she said, pointing. “She’s been waiting for you, sir.”
Yes, let’s not keep Her Highness waiting, Jude thought. He climbed down from his own Pullman, wondering what on earth was so important that his mother had come clear down here from Chicago to talk to him. Far be it from her to conveniently meet him in Plum Creek or at his railroad office here in Omaha. Mrs. Jefferson Kingman wouldn’t be caught dead setting foot in a town she considered inferior to her standards, let alone get dust on the hem of one of her expensive dresses.
Jude dreaded one-on-one visits with Corinne, which was how he thought of her most of the time, a woman named Corinne, not his mother. It irked him that she could still stir emotions in him only a younger child should have—the hurt of feeling unworthy, unloved and unwanted. He steeled himself against her hard, dark eyes before he even climbed up the platform to her car.
The door opened before he could knock, and there stood the woman he seldom saw. They both led such busy lives in different ways, and there was no closeness between them to warrant going out of their way to see each other, which made this visit all the more odd. Even when they were all home at the sprawling Kingman mansion, they seldom ran into each other or dined together.
And, of course, there was that look—not a “glad to see you, son” look, but more like “it’s about time you got here.” Corinne was accustomed to snapping her fingers or ringing a bell and receiving almost instant gratification.
“Come in quickly,” she said curtly. “The train yard here smells of cattle, and I’m trying to keep the odor out of this car.”
Jude walked inside the richly carpeted train car. Heavy velvet curtains at the windows kept it so dark that light had to be provided with small gaslights on the walls. “It’s hot in here,” he complained. “I’d rather smell cattle than sweat to death.”
“I will open the windows when I leave, which will be soon,” his mother answered, turning to walk to a satin-covered chair. “Your father doesn’t even know I am here,” she said, sitting down. “I told him I was going to see my sister in St. Louis.”
Jude folded his arms. “Well, I’m glad to see you, too, Mother. May I sit down?”
“Of course, Jude. Don’t be silly.” She suddenly softened somewhat, but Jude knew the woman well. Her moods could change in an instant, and usually were designed to get whatever she wanted. “I’m sorry to take you from your work,” she added.
He didn’t believe that. He sat down in a chair across from her, removing his hat and taking a handkerchief from a vest pocket to dab at perspiration on his forehead. “You should be sorry. I had to take a train all the way back here from Plum Creek, and on a Sunday, which is the best day to be in town to talk to settlers. A lot of them come into town on Sundays for church and to buy supplies.”
Corinne, too, dabbed at perspiration with a lace handkerchief. “I can’t imagine having to stay in that horrible little town. There isn’t even a decent hotel here in Omaha, let alone a little farm town like Plum Creek.” She sniffed. “What a quaint name.”
Jude noticed that in spite of the heat, her form-fitting dress was tidy and unwrinkled. Every one of her graying hairs was in place, a jeweled comb perfectly positioned in sausage curls on top of her head. His mother was still beautiful and slender—too thin, actually. She was like a piece of china that might break if touched the wrong way.
“Plum Creek isn’t that bad,” he answered. “Besides, I stay in my Pullman, just like you do in such places, although I am establishing an office there.” Jude leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re here? You’d never come to Omaha just to visit. And what’s wrong with Dad knowing about this?”
Corinne fussed with the lace trim on her dress. “Because he doesn’t like it when I come between him and his decisions, especially when it involves you and Mark.”
Jude understood immediately. His mother would never come here just to see him, but she’d probably go to Plum Creek herself and dig in the dirt with the farmers if it meant doing something to help Mark. “I should have known this had something to do with my brother, although I can’t imagine what it is.”
Corinne stiffened and raised her chin. “Jude, dear…” She hesitated.
Jude almost laughed. Dear? The woman must be ready to beg!
“I know about the job your father has given you. However…”
Her hesitation made Jude wary. “However what?” He felt his anger building, imagining how nice it would have been if she’d really come here just to see him—as any normal mother would do. He saw her put on her authoritative demeanor then.
“Mark came to me about this—this assignment, or whatever you want to call it. He’s very upset that your father gave you this job. Mark feels it should have gone to him, in spite of how much he’d hate going to a place like Plum Creek. You’ve been here a month already, and hardly anything has been accomplished, according to Mark. He wants the chance to prove to his father that he can do better in a situation like this. I came to ask—well—I just wish you’d go back to Chicago and tell your father you’ve decided you can’t do this and that Mark is the better one for the job.”
For a moment Jude just stared at her, dumbfounded. Then he shook his head. “You know, Mother, I’ve always known you favored Mark and that he could get anything he wanted out of you, but to go crying to you at his age about this—it’s like a little kid begging his mother to let him have a certain toy instead of his brother.”
“Don’t insult him! He doesn’t even know I am here. He simply complained to me about it, that’s all.”
Jude snickered. “Do you know how ridiculous your request is? I’m not going back to Chicago like some whining child and ask Daddy dear to please not make me do this. Besides, Dad knows what Mark can do. Personally I don’t think he is the right one for the job, because he would use tactics that would only enrage the farmers and cause possible riots and damage to the railroad and who knows what else? I have some ideas I am trying to utilize to make this all happen peacefully and without making the Kingman name look bad. That’s why it’s taking some time. So you can go back to Chicago and tell Mark to get to work on the things he’s supposed to be doing!” He rose. “I’ve really enjoyed our visit, Mother. I hate to cut things short, but I have to get back to Plum Creek.”
“Jude, just think about it, will you? Mark is anxious to come down here and take care of this.”
Jude studied her eyes. “You know, Mother, I’d 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 to shoot you if you show up at his place. We have time to talk. I have as much say in what happens to this farm as he does.” She brushed at her dress. “Forgive my condition, but yet again you have come on a very busy day. That is the life on a farm in summertime.”
Kingman looked her over. “Miss Svensson, I can’t imagine you being in any condition that could possibly hide your beauty. Never apologize for how you look. If you knew anything about me and some of the people I know, you’d realize that the way you look is absolutely refreshing to me.”
Ingrid frowned. “Am I amusing you, Mr. Kingman?”
He lost his smile and looked completely serious. “No, ma’am. I am definitely not laughing at you. I am admiring you.” He glanced at the soddy, curiosity in his eyes. “I’ve never seen a house like this. Can I look inside?”
A bit confused and wary, Ingrid opened the door. “Be my guest, Mr. Kingman.” Now she was the one who wanted to laugh. The man seemed utterly fascinated with the soddy. She followed him inside and waited while he took a look around. She couldn’t help wondering what he thought of the dirt walls and mostly handmade furniture. The braided oval rug in the center of the main room was also handmade.
“You have a very nice little house here, Miss Svensson,” he told her, turning. “I never knew these places could be so pleasant and cool.”
“My father and neighbors built it with their own hands, which is one of the reasons it would break our hearts to have to leave it,” she answered with a warning look. “Come back outside and we’ll sit on the porch and talk. Would you like some coffee?”
He nodded. “That would be very nice. And what is that wonderful smell?”
Ingrid felt compelled to be pleasant to the man, as he was behaving so gentlemanly. “It is either the rising bread dough that you smell—” she held up her hands “—or the kerosene on my hands.”
Kingman laughed, and she groaned inwardly. What had made her joke with this man? He walked back outside, and Ingrid poured some still-warm coffee into two china cups and carried them out, then handed one to Jude. She sat down in a nearby chair, girding herself for whatever was to come.
“I am sure you are accustomed to being served in some fancier way, Mr. Kingman, but this is the best I can do. This china came all the way from Sweden. It was my grandmother’s.”
“I’m surprised it made it all the way across the ocean and clear out here to Nebraska in one piece.” Kingman studied the cup. “It’s exquisite—as fine as I’ve seen.”
“Thank you. It is lovely, isn’t it? It was packed in straw all the way here. My mother was overjoyed when she discovered none had broken. I remember the smile on her face.” She sipped some coffee. “I miss my mother. She died when my brother was born.” She met Kingman’s eyes. “Is your mother still alive, Mr. Kingman?”
He took another drink of coffee. “Yes,” he answered rather blandly, apparently having nothing more to say about the woman.
“Then you are a lucky man.”
He cast her an odd look of doubt. “Some might say so.” Before Ingrid could comment he quickly changed the subject. “I don’t suppose any of that wonderful-smelling bread is already baked?”
“No, but if you wish I could hurry and bake some for you. The dough only needs to rise a few more minutes. I don’t suppose I could buy you off with fresh loaves of bread?”
Her comment brought more laughter. What was it about the man that made her feel rather easy with him in spite of his occupation and the reason he was here, let alone his social standing? He seemed the epitome of the wealthy American businessman about whom she’d heard stories, people like the Vanderbilts.
“I just might consider that offer,” he told her. He looked at her with sincere appreciation in his eyes. “You know what I like about you, Miss Svensson? There is nothing pretentious about you.”
Ingrid found herself blushing. “I don’t even know what that means,” she admitted, then immediately wished she hadn’t.
He chuckled, and Ingrid wondered if he was laughing at her. “It means you are genuine—you don’t put on airs and pretend to be something you’re not.”
Was the man being “pretentious” himself, handing out compliments because he wanted her cooperation? “Perhaps we should quit all this small talk and discuss why you are really here,” she told him, “although I think I already know. You’re here to tell me to get off this land or buy it. I will not do the first, but I can try to do the second. The problem is, forcing us to buy this land for far more than we were originally promised is like coming here with your gunman and asking me to hand over my purse. It is robbery, Mr. Kingman, plain and simple.”
He drank more coffee before answering. “I’m sorry you see it that way.” He studied her with dark eyes, his smile gone. “Truly I am. All I can say, ma’am, is that in spite of all the help we’ve received from the government, the railroad is still nearly broke. There are still not enough people out here and farther west to support railroad expenses, which is why we have to ask such high prices to travel by rail. That in turn keeps business down, so we’re caught in a vicious circle. We either ask for more money for the land the government granted us, or we sell it to the highest bidder. If we can do that, we can also lower our prices for passengers, which will in turn encourage more settlement farther west. When towns along the railroad grow and more industry and business come west and—well, I think you get the picture. It all starts with the proper use of the government land grants.”

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