Follow Your Heart

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.”