Follow Your Heart. Rosanne Bittner

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.”