Rosanne Bittner - Follow Your Heart

Jude walked past her. “I haven’t found one woman among our family’s snobby friends worth marrying. And I am doing what is expected of me. I’m the one Dad sent down here, remember?” He walked toward the door again. “I have to say, Mother, that if I’d known Mark wanted this glorious assignment, I’d have gladly given it to him. But until Dad tells me differently, I’ll do it myself and I’ll do it my way. Now, why don’t you have the engineer find out how soon you can get going on down to St. Louis to see dear Aunt Flo?” He opened the door, studying her pleading eyes for a moment, wondering if she’d ever once in her life been so terribly concerned about him instead of Mark, and then he walked out.

He picked his way over railroad tracks and to the engineer of the train that had brought him here. “Get me back to Plum Creek as soon as possible!” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Jude stormed inside his own Pullman, not even glancing back at his mother’s car. The woman was losing her mind. And her talk of marriage…Did she really think that would solve anything? How could he marry when he might end up with someone like his own mother? What a great life that would be! It would serve her right if he married some farm girl from Plum Creek. That would certainly wilt the feathers in her hat!

He slammed the door and opened every window in the car. Stink or not, he needed air. Fact was, he’d been around the smell of cattle and farming so long now that he was getting used to the pungent odor. The factory smells in Chicago weren’t much better.

He sat down with deliberate force, angry over the entire railroad matter. For some reason Ingrid Svensson came to mind then, probably because he’d intended to go and pay her that second visit today, until he’d got the telegram from his mother yesterday afternoon. He realized that was what he was most upset about. He’d actually been looking forward to going back out to see Miss Svensson. He’d meant it when he’d told her she was beautiful, in spite of all that dirt and that plain dress and her disheveled hair. He’d been so pleased to learn that the beautiful woman he’d first seen at the railroad depot was “Miss” Ingrid Svensson rather than a “Mrs.”

What a stark contrast a woman like Ingrid was to his mother, or any of the young women he knew back in Chicago. She wasn’t just more beautiful in looks. She was more beautiful in spirit and fortitude, stronger, more independent. From that one visit he could tell the woman didn’t have an ounce of vanity, but a lot of courage and pride. He was actually looking forward to seeing her again, in a way he’d never anticipated seeing any young woman he’d dated in Chicago.

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