Threads of Hope

by Andrea Boeshaar

  Andrea Boeshaar never fails to deliver a story rich with spiritual truths and filled with God’s healing for broken relationships. In Threads of Hope, she truly gets to the heart of God’s healing grace in a way readers can carry into their own lives.

  —LOUISE M. GOUGE

  AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE GENTLEMAN TAKES A BRIDE

  Andrea Boeshaar plucks the home strings with her newest historical romance. Not only does she tell a ripping good tale about émigrés from Norway in early settlement times, she also draws from her own family history. As a Wisconsin historian, I am well pleased with her efforts to make life at the dawn of our state authentic. A worthy addition to Ms. Boeshaar’s delightful body of work.

  —LISA LICKEL

  AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF A SUMMER IN OAKVILLE

  Andrea Boeshaar’s story pulled me back into the middle 1800s. Her knowledge of the history of the times and her strong, three-dimensional characters kept me in the story. The feuding reminded me of Romeo and Juliet, but with an ending I liked much better. Human frailties were dealt with head-on with wisdom winning in the end. An excellent read that I didn’t want to put down until the last page.

  —LENA NELSON DOOLEY

  AUTHOR OF MAGGIE’S JOURNEY, BOOK ONE OF THE MCKENNA’S

  DAUGHTERS SERIES, AND THE WILL ROGERS MEDALLION AWARD–

  WINNING LOVE FINDS YOU IN GOLDEN, NEW MEXICO

  Threads of Hope is a beautifully tender story of the way God works in the lives of His own to teach lessons of forgiveness and love. Andrea’s talent at weaving genuine characters, vivid descriptions, and a compelling story line together drew me into the story from the first page, and I felt Kristin’s and Sam’s heartaches and joy. It touched my heart, and I highly recommend this book.

  —SALLY

  LAITY AUTHOR OF REMNANT OF FORGIVENESS

  AND COAUTHOR OF ROSE’S PLEDGE

  Author Andrea Boeshaar weaves timeless themes of honor, equality, and mercy in this tender love story. Heroine Kristin Eikaas is sweet yet resourceful as she faces difficult situations in a new land. Threads of Hope is a wonderful addition to historical inspirational fiction bookshelves.

  —KACY BARNETT-GRAMCKOW

  AUTHOR OF THE GENESIS TRILOGY

  Most CHARISMA HOUSE BOOK GROUP products are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational needs. For details, write Charisma House Book Group, 600 Rinehart Road, Lake Mary, Florida 32746, or telephone (407) 333-0600.

  THREADS OF HOPE by Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar

  Published by Realms

  Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group

  600 Rinehart Road, Lake Mary, Florida 32746

  www.charismahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  All Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  The characters in this book are fictitious unless they are historical figures explicitly named. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual people, whether living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Andrea Boeshaar

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Gearbox Studio

  Design Director: Bill Johnson

  Visit the author’s website at www.andreaboeshaar.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Boeshaar, Andrea.

  Threads of hope / Andrea Boeshaar. – 1st ed.

  p. cm. – (Fabric of time ; bk. 1)

  ISBN 978-1-61638-497-5 (trade pbk.) – ISBN 978-1-61638-637-5 (e-book) 1. Women immigrants–Fiction. 2. Norwegian Americans–Wisconsin–Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.O4257T48 2012

  813’.54–dc23

  2011036583

  First edition

  12 13 14 15 16 – 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  DEDICATION

  This novel is dedicated to the memory of my greatgrandparents, Andreas Johannessen Fluge (renamed Johnson here in the United States) and Louisa Hansdatter Eikaas. They came to America in the late 1890s to begin new lives, escaping the oppression in Norway at the time. Because of their courage, I enjoy the freedoms this great country has to offer!

  A big THANK YOU to my grandfather’s first cousin, Harvin Abrahamson, his wife, Mary Ann, and to their friend Kristin Wisely for sharing their extensive knowledge of Norway and checking over my use of the Norwegian language.

  Also special thanks to everyone at the Brown County Historical Society, the Hazelwood Museum, and the Wisconsin Historical Society.

  Additional “thank yous” go to Anne McDonald Editorial Services and Teresa Morgan for all the helpful insights and critiques.

  Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the LORD.

  —PSALM 13:24

  CHAPTER 1

  September 1848

  I T LOOKS LIKE NORWAY.

  The thought flittered across nineteen-year-old Kristin Eikaas’s mind as Uncle Lars’s wagon bumped along the dirt road. The docks of Green Bay, Wisconsin, were behind them, and now they rode through a wooded area that looked just as enchanting as the forests she’d left in Norway. Tall pine trees and giant firs caused the sunshine to dapple on the road. Kristin breathed in the sweet, fresh air. How refreshing it felt in her lungs after being at sea for nearly three months and breathing in only salty sea air or the stale air in her dark, crowded cabin.

  A clearing suddenly came into view, and a minute or so later, Kristin eyed the farm fields stretched before her. The sight caused an ache of homesickness. Her poppa had farmed …

  “Your trip to America was good, ja?” Uncle Lars asked in Norwegian, giving Kristin a sideways glance.

  He resembled her father so much that her heart twisted painfully with renewed grief. Except she’d heard about Onkel—about his temper—how he had to leave Norway when he was barely of age, because, Poppa had said, trouble followed him.

  But surely he’d grown past all of that. His letters held words of promise, and there was little doubt that her uncle had made a new life for himself here in America.

  Just as she would.

  Visions of a storefront scampered across her mind’s eye—a shop in which she could sell her finely crocheted and knitted items. A shop in which she could work the spinning wheel, just as Mor had …

  Uncle Lars arched a brow. “You are tired, liten niese?”

  “Ja. It was a long journey.” Kristin sent him a sideways glance. “I am grateful I did not come alone. The Olstads made good traveling companions.”

  Her uncle cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “But you have brought my inheritance, ja?” He arched a brow.

  “Ja.” Kristin thought of the priceless possession she’d brought from Norway.

  “And you would not hold out on your onkel, would you?”


  Prickles of unease caused Kristin to shift in her seat. She resisted the urge to touch the tiny gold and silver cross pendent suspended from a dainty chain that hung around her neck. Her dress concealed it. She couldn’t give it up, even though it wasn’t legal for a woman to inherit anything in Norway. But the necklace had been her last gift from Mor. A gift from one’s mother wasn’t an inheritance … was it? “No, Onkel.”

  She turned and peered down from her perch into the back of the wooden wagon bed. Peder Olstad smiled at her, and Kristin relaxed some. Just a year older, he was the brother of Kristin’s very best friend who had remained in Norway with their mother. She and Peder had grown up together, and while he could be annoying and bad tempered at times, he was the closest thing to a brother that she had. And Sylvia—Sylvia was closer than a sister ever could be. It wouldn’t be long, and she and Mrs. Olstad would come to America too. That would be a happy day!

  “You were right,” John Olstad called to Uncle Lars in their native tongue. “Lots of fertile land in this part of the country. I hope to purchase some acres soon.”

  “And after you are a landowner for five years, you can be a citizen of America and you can vote.” The Olstad men smiled broadly and replied in unison. “Oh, ja, ja …”

  Uncle Lars grinned, causing dozens of wrinkles to appear around his blue eyes. His face was tanned from farming beneath the hot sun, and his tattered leather hat barely concealed the abundance of platinum curls growing out of his large head. “Oh, ja, this is very good land. I am glad I persuaded Esther to leave the Muskego settlement and move northeast. But, as you will soon see, we are still getting settled.”

  “Ja, how’s that, Lars?”

  Kristin heard the note of curiosity in Mr. Olstad’s voice.

  “I purchased the land and built a barn and a cabin.” He paused and gave a derisive snort. “Well, a fine home takes time and money.”

  “Oh, ja, that way.” Mr. Olstad seemed to understand.

  And Kristin did too. One couldn’t expect enormous comforts out in the Wisconsin wilderness.

  Just then they passed a stately home situated on the Fox River. Two quaint dormers peered from the angled roof, which appeared to be supported by a pair of white pillars.

  “That is Mr. Morgan Martin’s home. He is a lawyer in town.” Uncle Lars delivered the rest of his explanation with a sneer. “And an Indian agent.”

  “Indians?” Kristin’s hand flew to her throat.

  “Do not fret. The soldiers across the river at Fort Howard protect the area.”

  Kristin forced her taut muscles to relax.

  “Out here the deer are plentiful and fishing is good. Fine lumber up here too. But the Norwegian population is small.

  Nevertheless, we have our own church, and the reverend speaks our language.”

  “A good thing,” Mr. Olstad remarked.

  “I cannot wait for the day when Far owns land,” Peder said, glancing at Mr. Olstad. “Lots of land.” The warm wind blew his auburn hair outward from his narrow face, and his hazel eyes sparked with enthusiasm, giving the young man a somewhat wild appearance. “But no farming for me. I want to be rich someday.”

  “As do we all!” exclaimed Mr. Olstad, whose appearance was an older, worn-out version of his son’s.

  Kristin’s mind had parked on land ownership. “And once you are settled, Sylvia will come to America. I cannot wait. I miss her so much.”

  She grappled with a fresh onset of tears. Not only was Sylvia her best friend, but she and the entire Olstad clan had also become like family to her ever since a smallpox epidemic ravaged their little village two years ago, claiming the lives of Kristin’s parents and two younger brothers. When Uncle Lars had learned of the tragic news, he offered her a place to stay in his home if she came to America. Onkel wrote that she should be with her family, so Kristin had agreed to make the voyage. Her plans to leave Norway had encouraged the Olstads to do the same. But raising the funds to travel took time and much hard work. While the Olstads scrimped and saved up their crop earnings, Kristin did spinning, weaving, knitting, and sewing for those with money to spare. By God’s grace, they were finally here.

  Uncle Lars steered the wagon around a sharp bend in the rutty road. He drove to the top of a small hill, and Kristin could see the blue Lake Michigan to her left and farm fields to her right.

  Then a lovely white wood-framed house came into view. It didn’t look all that different from the home they’d just past, with dormers, a covered front porch, and stately pillars bearing the load of a wide overhang. She marveled at the homestead’s large, well-maintained barn and several outbuildings. American homes looked like this? Then no wonder Mr. Olstad couldn’t wait to own his own farm!

  Up ahead Kristin spied a lone figure of a man. She could just barely make out his faded blue cambric shirt, tan trousers, and the hoe in his hands as he worked the edge of the field. Closer still, she saw his light brown hair springing out from beneath his hat. As the wagon rolled past him, the man ceased his labor and turned their way. Although she couldn’t see his eyes as he squinted into the sunshine, Kristin did catch sight of his tanned face. She guessed his age to be not too much more than hers and decided he was really quite handsome.

  “Do not even acknowledge the likes of him,” Uncle Lars spat derisively. “Good Christians do not associate with Sam Sundberg or any members of his family.”

  Oh, dear, too late! Kristin had already given him a little smile out of sheer politeness. She had assumed he was a friend or neighbor. But at her uncle’s warning she quickly lowered her gaze.

  Kristin’s ever-inquiring nature got the best of her. “What is so bad about that family?”

  “They are evil—like the Martins. Even worse, Karl Sundberg is married to a heathen Indian woman who casts spells on the good people of this community.”

  “Spells?” Peder’s eyes widened.

  “Ja, spells. Why else would some folks’ crops fail while Karl’s flourish? He gets richer and richer with his farming in the summer, his logging camps in the winter, and his fur trading with heathens, while good folks like me fall on hard times.”

  “Hard times?” Peder echoed the words.

  “Ja, same seed. Same fertile ground. Same golden opportunity.” Uncle Lars swiveled to face the Olstads. “I will tell you why that happens. The Sundbergs have hexed good Christians like me.” He wagged his head. “Oh, they are an evil lot, those Sundbergs and Martins. Same as the Indians.”

  Indians? Curiosity got the better of her, and Kristin swung around in the wagon to get one last glimpse of Sam Sundberg. She could hardly believe he was as awful as her uncle described. Why, he even removed his hat just now and gave her a cordial nod.

  “Turn around, niese, and mind your manners!” Uncle Lars’s large hand gripped her upper arm and he gave her a mild shake.

  “I … I am sorry, Onkel,” Kristin stammered. “But I have never seen an Indian.”

  “Sam Sundberg is not an Indian. It is his father’s second wife and their children. Oneida half-breeds is what we call them.”

  “Half-breed, eh?”

  Kristin glanced over her shoulder and saw Peder stroke his chin.

  “Interesting,” he added.

  “How very interesting.” Kristin couldn’t deny her interest was piqued. “Are there many Indians living in the Wisconsin Territory?”

  “Ja, they trespass on my land, but I show my gun and they leave without incident. Sundberg brings his Indian wife to church.” He wagged his head. “Such a disgrace.”

  “And the Territory officials do nothing?” Mr. Olstad asked.

  Uncle Lars puffed out his chest. “As of three months ago, we are the State of Wisconsin—no longer a territory.” Uncle Lars stated the latter with as much enthusiasm as a stern schoolmaster. “Now the government will get rid of those savages once and for all.” He sent Kristin a scowl. “And you, my liten niese, will do well to stay away from Indians. All of them, including our neighbors, the Sundbergs. You hear,
lest you get yourself scalped.”

  “Ja, Onkel.”

  With a measure of alarm, Kristin touched her braided hair and chanced a look at Peder and Mr. Olstad. Both pairs of wide eyes seemed to warn her to heed Uncle Lars’s instructions. She would, of course. But somehow she couldn’t imagine the man they’d just passed doing her any harm. Would he?

  Sam Sundberg wiped the beads of perspiration off his brow before dropping his hat back on his head. Who was the little blonde riding next to Lars Eikaas? Sam hadn’t seen her before. And the men in the wagon bed … he’d never seen them either.

  After a moment’s deliberation he concluded they were the expected arrivals from the “Old Country.” Months ago Sam recalled hearing talk in town about Lars’s orphaned niece sailing to America with friends of the family, so he assumed the two red-haired men and the young lady were the topics of that particular conversation. But wouldn’t it just serve Mr. Eikaas right if that blonde angel turned his household upside down—or, maybe, right-side up?

  He smirked at the very idea. Sam didn’t have to meet that young lady to guess Mr. Eikaas would likely have his hands full. Her second backward glance said all Sam needed to know. The word plucky sprang into his mind. He chuckled. Plucky she seemed, indeed.

  But was she wise enough not to believe everything her uncle said?

  Sam thought it a real shame. Years ago Pa and Lars Eikaas had been friends. But then Pa’s silver went missing, insults were traded, and the Eikaases’ prejudice against Ma, Jackson, and Mary kept the feud alive.

  The Eikaas wagon rolled out of sight, leaving brown clouds of dust in its wake. A grin threatened as Sam thought again of that plucky blonde’s curious expression. Maybe she did have a mind of her own. Now wouldn’t that be something? Sam thanked God that not everyone around here was as intolerant of Wisconsin Natives as the Eikaas family. There were those who actually befriended the Indians and stood up to government officials in their stead. Like Pa, for instance. Like Sam himself.

  The blistering sun beat down on him. Removing his hat once more, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He started pondering the latest government proposal to remove the Indians from their land. First the Oneida tribe had been forced out, and soon the Menominee band would be “removed” and “civilized.” As bad as that was, it irked Sam more to think about how the government figured it knew best for the Indians. Government plans hadn’t succeeded in the past, so why would they now? Something else had to be done. Relocating the Menominee would cause those people nothing but misery. They’d stated as much themselves. Furthermore, the Indians, led by Chief Oshkosh, were determined not to give up their last tract of land. Sam predicted this current government proposal would only serve to stir up more violence between Indians and whites.