Читать книгу Follow Your Heart - Rosanne Bittner - Страница 15

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.”