Follow Your Heart. Rosanne Bittner

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ