Threads of Love

by Andrea Boeshaar

  WHAT OTHERS ARE SAYING . . .

  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

  Andrea Boeshaar has long been one of my favorite writers. Her blend of heartwarming romance is compelling and not to be missed!

  —COLLEEN COBLE

  AUTHOR OF THE HOPE BEACH SERIES

  If you enjoyed the first book in Andrea Boeshaar’s Fabric of Time series, you’ll love the second, Threads of Faith! As always, Andrea offers her readers a cast of believable characters, a rich and inspiring story that overflows with faith and hope, and a conclusion that will leave them breathless . . . and looking forward to the next book in the series. Dust off your “keepers shelf,” folks, because this is a novel you’ll want to hold on to!

  —LOREE LOUGH

  BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF NEARLY NINETY AWARD–WINNING

  NOVELS, INCLUDING FOR LOVE OF ELI, PART OF ABINGDON’S

  QUILTS OF LOVE SERIES

  Threads of Faith by Andrea Boeshaar is another fabulous, page-turning winner with its spunky heroine, hunky hero, and sweet romance. A real keeper.

  —DEBRA ULRICK

  AUTHOR OF NEW YORK TIMES AND CBA BEST SELLER A LOG

  CABIN CHRISTMAS

  Sweet, heart-tugging, page-turner; these are words that Andrea Boeshaar’s books always bring to mind. Threads of Faith is no exception. Boeshaar has given us a beautiful and complex heroine, a compelling plot, and a heartfelt reminder that family ties are strengthened through forgiveness and grace.

  —SANDRA D. BRICKER

  AWARD–WINNING AUTHOR OF LAUGH-OUT-LOUD FICTION FOR

  THE CHRISTIAN MARKET, INCLUDING THE ANOTHER EMMA RAE

  CREATION SERIES THAT BEGAN WITH

  ALWAYS THE BAKER NEVER THE BRIDE

  Ambition, family, and honor are at the heart of Threads of Faith—the story of a man who has prospered at the cost of his family and faith and comes to realize what matters most in life. Heartwarming and touching, this is a book to “cozy down” with and enjoy.

  —KATHRYN ALBRIGHT

  AUTHOR OF THE ANGEL AND THE OUTLAW AND

  THE REBEL AND THE LADY

  Rich detail, lively dialogue, and downright smart storytelling make this second book in the Fabric of Time series a marvelous read. Andrea Boeshaar delivers another masterpiece!

  —SHARLENE MACLAREN

  AUTHOR OF FAITH-BASED CHRISTIAN FICTION

  LITTLE HICKMAN CREEK, DAUGHTERS OF JACOB KANE, AND

  RIVER OF HOPE

  ANDREA BOESHAAR

  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 LOVE 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.

  Copyright © 2013 by Andrea Boeshaar

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Bill Johnson

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

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  An application to register this book for cataloging has been submitted to the Library of Congress.

  International Standard Book Number: 978-1-62136-239-5

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62136-240-1

  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.

  First edition

  13 14 15 16 17 — 987654321

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my beloved readers.

  May the Lord bless you and keep you,

  make His face shine upon you, be gracious to you,

  and grant you peace.

  A very special thank-you to editor Lori Vanden Bosch for

  praying for me, helping me with this story, and believing

  in me during a time when I didn’t believe in myself.

  And to Annie . . . thank you. You were a friend when I

  needed one. I will always have a special place for you in

  my heart.

  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

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 1

  May 1902

  Manitowoc, Wisconsin

&
nbsp; AN EXPLOSION OF shattering glass sounded from directly behind Emily Sundberg, and a thunderous weight crashed into her. The world spun, and then she fell hard and facedown on the dirty Franklin Street plank walk.

  Breathe! Breathe! She struggled to inhale.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” A male voice spoke close to her ear. “I’m terribly sorry about knocking you over.”

  He helped her sit, and a moment later a rush of sweet, springtime air filled Emily’s lungs. She let out a breath of relief.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Emily spit dirt from her mouth. Her left cheek began to throb. Her vision swam.

  He steadied her, his arm around her shoulders. “Easy there.”

  She took several deep breaths.

  “Allow me to help you up and over to the bench. Like I said, I’m sorry ’bout knocking you over the way I did.”

  Emily wiggled her toes inside her ivory-colored boots. Nothing broken. She moved her jaw. Despite the pain around her cheekbone, she seemed all right. Her hand moved to the back of her head. Her fat braid had come out of its pinning and her hat—her hat!

  She pointed to the paved street seconds before a set of buggy wheels rolled over it, grinding the lovely creation into the paved road. Not once. But twice!

  Emily moaned.

  “Careful, now.” The man helped her to stand. “There’re shards of glass everywhere.”

  Emily thanked God she hadn’t slammed her head into the nearby hitching post.

  “Hooligans!” A woman’s voice rang out amidst the strangely silent street. It sounded like Mrs. Hopper’s. “Hooligans, ever’ one of ’em!”

  Definitely Mrs. Hopper’s.

  The man held Emily securely by her upper arms, and Emily’s gaze fell on his walnut-colored waistcoat. “You sure you’re not hurt?

  “I–I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I hope you can forgive me, ma’am.”

  Emily’s gaze finally reached the man’s tanned and golden-whiskered face. Shaggy blond hair framed his face and blood stained the corner of his mouth. In his canvas duster and matching trousers, the stranger looked out of place for Manitowoc, Wisconsin. But odd costumes weren’t totally uncommon, given the city’s lively port.

  And yet, he seemed a bit familiar too . . .

  “Unhand that girl, you hooligan!” Mrs. Hopper rushed forward and whacked the man on the shoulder with her cane.

  He winced and released Emily. “I meant her no harm.” As Emily staggered backward slightly, the man caught her elbow. His velvety-brown gaze bore into hers as if to ask yet again if she’d been injured.

  Funny how she guessed at his thoughts.

  “I’m just shaken.” Emily glimpsed the remorse in his eyes before he bent and picked up the dark blue capelet that her grandmother, Bestamor, had knit for her. He gave it a shake before handing it over.

  “And what about my hat?” Sadly she pointed again to the street.

  The man collected its colorful but irreparably flattened remains.

  “A travesty!” Mrs. Hopper’s age-lined face contorted in rage. “A travesty, I say!”

  Travesty indeed! It had taken months for Emily to save for that fine bit of millinery with its silk ribbons, Chantilly lace, and pink roses on a velvet bandeau. Now Andy Anderson would never see it. She took the mangled remnants from the stranger’s hand. “I certainly hope you plan to reimburse me for this. I paid one dollar and fifty cents for it.”

  “A dollar and a half? For a hat? I could buy a shoulder holster, cartridge belt, and ammunition for that sum.”

  Unimpressed, Emily extended one hand of her torn netted glove. Another casualty.

  Resignation softened his gaze before the man reached into his inside pocket and then placed two dollar bills into Emily’s outstretched palm. “This should more than cover it. Again, I apologize.”

  “Thank you.” Emily smiled. “Apology accepted.” She folded the money and put it in her reticule, still attached to her wrist.

  Mrs. Sylvia Hopper sniffed indignantly, but Emily caught the approving light in the older woman’s eyes. She’d known the elderly woman for a long while, as she had been Bestamor’s best friend back in Norway. She’d come to America just before Poppa was born, and now her granddaughter, Iris, was Emily’s best friend.

  A small crowd pressed in on the boardwalk to gawk. Emily’s gaze moved to the man who lay sprawled out and unmoving several feet away.

  She quickly turned away. “Is he dead?”

  “Probably not.” The stranger bent and grabbed his hat that lay nearby and gave it a whack against his thigh. “My compliments. You took that tumble a far sight better than he did.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Name’s Wilcox. He’s wanted in five counties.”

  Emily glanced at the motionless figure again. He didn’t look familiar.

  “It’s actually amazing that you’re not out cold yourself. For a moment I feared I’d killed you.”

  “And you could have killed her, you low-life hooligan!”

  “Please, Mrs. Hopper . . . ” She glanced around, hating to be the subject of such a scene. “I’m fine. No need to worry.”

  Muttering, the elderly woman walked to where several women stood a ways down on the boardwalk, holding parasols and whispering behind gloved fingers.

  Emily felt suddenly unnerved. “I guess I’m sturdy for a woman. Even so, I haven’t taken a hit like that since my brothers jumped me and I fell off my horse. Those rascals pretended they were US marshals and I was one of the James Gang.” Emily moistened her lips, her gaze fixed on the handsome stranger. “They flung themselves at me from a tree limb. It’s a miracle we didn’t all break our necks. ”

  A moment passed, and Emily wondered why this moment seemed sealed in time.

  The man narrowed his gaze.

  “Forgive my prattling.” She hadn’t meant to go on like that. “The fall must have shaken my tongue loose.”

  Despite the injury to his mouth he grinned, and Emily could swear she’d seen that smile before.

  “Both you fellas are paying for this damage to my front window!” Mr. Fransmuller stomped out of his restaurant and saloon. Emily knew him and his family, as young Hans had been in her class just the year before. “Look at what your brawl has done!”

  Emily took note of the gaping hole where the two men had crashed through the window.

  Mrs. Hopper limped over to the tavern owner. “There ought to be a law against such barbaric behavior in our town. Someone’s going to get killed. Why, Mr. Fransmuller, you should be ashamed, serving strong drink on a Thursday afternoon. Women aren’t safe to do their shopping in broad daylight anymore!”

  “Just for the record, I wasn’t drinking,” said the familiar stranger. “Just playing cards is all.”

  “And gambling, most likely.” Mrs. Hopper hurled another angry glare at him. “Gambling is a dirty sin.”

  Fransmuller frowned and wiped his beefy hands on the black apron tied around his rounded belly. “Now, Mrs. Hopper, don’t start in on one of your holier-than-thou rants.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Hopper brought herself up to her full height of four feet nine inches. “How dare you speak to me in such a way, Mr. Fransmuller!”

  “I’ve got a business to run, and I pay my taxes.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “But just look at my front window!” He gave a wag of his nearly bald head. “And you should see the saloon! One big mess!” Mr. Fransmuller marched up and stood toe to toe with the man beside Emily. “Who are you? I want your name. You’re paying for half the damages to my business!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Emily watched as the stranger moved his duster to one side. She glimpsed the gun, discreetly haltered across his chest, before he produced his billfold and a silver badge. “Deputy Marshal John Alexander Kirk Edgerton at your service.” After a courteous dip forward, he counted out several large-sum bills. “Will this cover my portion of the damages?�
�

  Emily gasped. Jake? Could it be?

  Mr. Fransmuller stared at the money. “Yes. This will do.” He gave a nod of appeasement before walking away.

  Mrs. Hopper moved down the boardwalk and continued her conversation with the other ladies.

  “Jake?” Emily eked out his nickname, scarcely believing it was him. He was several inches taller, filled out some, and had grown whiskers since she last saw him ten years ago. “Jake Edgerton?”

  His gaze slid to her and he smiled. “Well, well . . . Emily Sundberg.” He didn’t look surprised. Obviously he’d recognized her before she’d figured out his identity. “Look at you, all grown up—you even turned out pretty.”

  “Hmph! Well, I see you haven’t changed!”

  “It was a compliment.”

  She bristled. It didn’t sound like a compliment. What’s more, she suddenly recalled that Jake was part of that US marshal stunt her brothers pulled.

  Jake Edgerton was trouble. Trouble from the time they were thirteen and fifteen.

  “So what are you doing in Manitowoc?”

  “Attending my granddad’s funeral.”

  Emily felt a sting of rebuke. “Oh, I–I’m sorry. I didn’t know he’d passed. I mean, I knew Mr. Ollie had been ill for a long while, but . . .”

  “Happened just last night.” Jake eyed her speculatively.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too.” He glanced away for a moment. “So what about you?”

  His gaze returned. “Married? Working at your family’s shipping business?”

  “Neither. I’m a schoolteacher here in town. I only get home on Sundays.”

  “A schoolteacher, eh?”

  She nodded as the realization of Mr. Ollie’s death sunk in. A sweeping sadness prevailed. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss. Your grandfather was a good neighbor to our family.” She eyed the rugged man standing before her. Mr. Ollie spoke of him often, and Jake had been especially close to the old man. Oliver Stout, fondly called Mr. Ollie by Emily and her brothers, had been a respected attorney, one who’d boasted many times over the years that his only grandson would one day take over his law practice.

  But it didn’t look that way. Not if Jake was a deputy marshal.

  “I appreciate the condolences, Em.”