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
