{"product_id":"the-quilted-heart-omnibus-isbn-9780307731142","title":"The Quilted Heart Omnibus","description":"\u003cb\u003eLike a beautiful patchwork quilt, the three novellas in The Quilted Heart tell stories of lives stitched together with love and God’s unending grace. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003eOnce a week, Elsa Brantenberg hosts the Saint Charles Quilting Circle at her farmhouse on the outskirts of the riverside town of St. Charles, Missouri. The ladies who gather there have all experienced heartache related to the intense hardships of the Civil War, and together, they are facing their painful circumstances with friendship and prayer. Can the tattered pieces of their hearts be stitched together by God’s grace? \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eDandelions on the Wind\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Maren Jensen took a job on Elsa Brantenberg’s St. Charles, Missouri farm, she never expected to call the place her home. As she grows to love Mrs. Brantenberg and her granddaughter, Gabi, Maren is transformed from a lonely mail-order bride-without-a-groom to a beloved member of the Brantenberg household. But when Gabi’s father, Rutherford “Wooly” Wainwright, returns to the farm unexpectedly, everything changes for Maren, and she feels compelled to find another job. Are her choices in obedience to God, or is she running from His plan? \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBending Toward the Sun\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dedicated to her education and to helping her father in his general store, Emilie Heinrich is convinced she doesn't have time for love. But when a childhood friend returns to St. Charles, Missouri, after serving in the Civil War, his smile and charm captures Emilie’s eye and her heart. Will she be forced to choose between honoring her father and a future with a husband and family of her own? \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eRipples Along the Shore\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Change is brewing in St. Charles. A group of brave souls are preparing to head west on the Boone's Lick Wagon Train, led by the mysterious and handsome Garrett Cowlishaw, who served as a Confederate soldier in the war that killed Caroline’s husband. Despite her dislike for him, Caroline is tempted to join the wagon train and start fresh somewhere new, but when Mr. Cowlishaw forbids her—a single woman—to travel with them, will one man’s prejudice destroy Caroline’s hope for a new future? Or will the ripples of God’s love bring the answer she needs?\u003cb\u003ePraise for The Quilted Heart Series\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like a warm breeze ripples across a lake, \u003ci\u003eDandelions on the Wind\u003c\/i\u003e offers a gentle crossing in this first-in-a-series novel. Mona Hodgson gives readers characters we care about, a bit of intrigue, love, and a satisfying ending that promises more in the second series book. Well done!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jane Kirkpatrick, best-selling author of Where Lilacs Still Bloom\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Filled with true-to-life characters and fascinating historical details, \u003ci\u003eDandelions on the Wind\u003c\/i\u003e is a heartwarming story of second chances in the turbulent days immediately after the Civil War. Don’t miss this, the first of Mona Hodgson’s The Quilted Heart trilogy. If you’re like me, you’ll be waiting eagerly for the second.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Amanda Cabot, author of Waiting for Spring\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dandelions on the Wind\u003c\/i\u003e is a sweet tale about the merging of two hurting hearts. The characters drew me, and I can’t wait to read more about their lives…and their love!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Tricia Goyer, best-selling author of thirty-three novels, including The Memory Jar\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“In \u003ci\u003eDandelions on the Wind,\u003c\/i\u003e Mona Hodgson weaves a tale of broken promises, wounded hearts…and the power of forgiveness—a heartwarming reminder that we walk by faith, not by sight. Maren is a heroine you’ll cheer for!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Carol Cox, author of Love in Disguise and Trouble in Store\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Mona Hodgson’s \u003ci\u003eBending Toward the Sun\u003c\/i\u003e captures Saint Charles following the Civil War so well. Quaid returns home—a man changed by the war. Emilie is a delight—a young woman pursuing her education, who knows her own mind. And even though the war has changed so many things, this story reminds us that some things, like love, never change.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Dorris Keeven-Franke, archivist, Saint Charles County Historical Society\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Mona Hodgson has written a warm, tender tale of family loyalties and forbidden love. When Emilie’s father objects to her seeing the handsome McFarland boy, recently returned from war, the couple struggles to do the right thing. But they are about to discover that God has another plan. Filled with charming characters and godly themes, this\u003cbr\u003eheartwarming story is pure delight.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Margaret Brownley, New York Times best-selling author of A Rocky Creek Romance Series and the Brides of Last Chance Ranch Series\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“With believable characters, an historic setting, and a gripping love story, Mona Hodgson gives the reader an uplifting account of a time when our country was recovering from a dark period and looking forward to a brighter future.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Martha Rogers, author of the Winds Across the Prairie Series and the best-selling Christmas at Holly Hill\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eMona Hodgson’s\u003c\/b\u003e publishing credits have grown to include nearly forty books, including The Sinclair Sisters of Cripple Creek Series, The Quilted Heart novellas, \u003ci\u003ePrairie Song\u003c\/i\u003e, children's books, and contributions to more than ten books for adults. Mona is a popular speaker for women's groups, schools, and educators’ and writers’ conferences. She lives in Arizona with her husband and has two daughters and a gaggle of grandchildren.Saint Charles, Missouri, 1865\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever mind that four months had passed since General Lee’s surrender. Maren never walked the apple orchard or the wheat field without careful watch for bushwhackers and jayhawkers. Four-year-old Gabi held tight to Maren’s hand while they followed Gabi’s grandmother to the field. When Mrs. Brantenberg’s walking stick sprung a branch in her path, the child’s gaze darted up the lane toward the orchard then back to the farmhouse and across the hillock to the\u003cbr\u003efive acres of wheat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are they coming again, Miss Maren?” Dread strained Gabi’s voice. Maren drew in a deep breath in the hopes it would remove any tension from her own voice. “The war is over, little one.” We should be safe. “God is with us. Like Oma said, ‘Fear is not of the Lord. We cannot live in fear. We must trust God.’”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabi gave a quick nod, then began swinging Maren’s hand at her side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFear is not of the Lord. We cannot live in fear. We must trust God. Maren willed her shoulders to relax into the child’s playful arm swinging. Still, she’d heard too many stories about raiders from the women in the quilting circle to let down her guard. To believe the fighting would ever end. The memories of the Union jayhawkers traipsing through the orchard picking apples and taking the steer from the pastures remained fresh in her mind too. She glanced toward the cabin at the far corner of the property, past the orchard. Now empty. She’d only heard about the Confederate bushwhackers who had raided the farm last year, but little Gabi remembered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaren fanned the side of her bonnet against her ear to cool the onslaught of hot August air. Thankfully, she saw no sign of trespassers today. And if any outlaws did show their faces, Mrs. Brantenberg had her stick ready with a stack of sorrows backing it up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Brantenberg stopped at the edge of the field. This close, Maren could see that two women didn’t do as even a job of planting as she and her father had in the old country.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabi stepped up to the three-foot-high lawn, giggling. “They have whiskers like the cats do.” Her hands brushed the tips of the wheat stalks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBent, the widow plucked one head and rolled the grains between her fingers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaren did the same on the thinner area, where the stalks didn’t reach as high. The grain was soft and green inside. She didn’t need to taste it to know it’d be bitter. “Still a ways to go here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen a covey of bobwhites exploded from within the crop, Gabi cried out and fell to the ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaren bent over the child. “Just thieving fly-by-nights. They learned their lesson, didn’t they?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabi nodded. “They scared me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Didn’t do my heart any good either.” Mrs. Brantenberg patted her chest. Then, smiling, she pressed the tip of her stick to the ground. “The wheat on the north end turned golden first. It’s more likely to be ready in just a few more days.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabi’s little hand slid into Maren’s. Together, they tromped around the stand of shimmering stems, the whiskers tickling Maren’s arms. This wasn’t the home Maren expected while traveling on the boat from Denmark four years ago. But back then, she’d still had more of her sight. Eight months ago, when the family that had taken her in gave\u003cbr\u003eup and moved away, Mrs. Brantenberg brought her out to the farm and provided her work in exchange for room and board. The widow, her granddaughter, and the quilting circle were Maren’s family here in America, but she missed her mum, her sister, and her little brother, left behind in the old country.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe promise to bring her family to America had disappeared, right along with Orvie Christensen. Lying in bed at night, all she thought about was going home to Denmark. But the only jobs she’d been able to find during the war barely covered her living expenses, with nothing left over to save for the cost of travel. Yet how could she stay not knowing\u003cbr\u003ehow long she’d have vision enough to work on the farm? She needed to make the long passage home while she could see well enough not to be a burden.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbout twenty yards from the north end, Mrs. Brantenberg stopped and they repeated the testing process. This time, when the grain separated between Maren’s fingers, she bit into a kernel and nodded to the widow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabi stretched onto her tiptoes. “Is it sweet?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Brantenberg pulled another head from the stock and handed it to Gabi. “What do you think, Liebling?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe little one rolled a kernel out of its sheath and bit into it like she’d seen Maren do. “Not sweet like Mr. Heinrich’s rock candy. Tastes like dirt.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Brantenberg tittered. “Well, most of us agree then—this section is nearly ready.” She waved along the northern edge. “Monday, the three of us will begin harvesting.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabi’s stomach growled and she giggled. “The bear in my belly is hungry now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey all laughed. Even in the midst of work and careful watch, the child had a knack for easing their tension.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It has been too long since breakfast. Gabi and I will fix us all an early supper while you tend the animals.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes ma’am.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the trio walked back toward the farmhouse and barn, the sinking sun began casting shadows on the path. Maren’s deteriorating sight robbed her of colors in low light, leaving everything tinted in gray. Now she knew the trouble her father had suffered in his blindness. Her own stomach growling, she picked up her pace, hoping to reach the familiar\u003cbr\u003einner yard before there was too little light to define the path. They’d worked in the vegetable garden right through the noonday mealtime, and she had chores yet to do before she could settle into the house for supper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the arbor, Mrs. Brantenberg and Gabi headed toward the house while Maren continued to the chicken yard. She needed to find a job in town where she could earn enough money to start saving for her return to Denmark. But they had the wheat fields to harvest this month, and then the twenty acres of apples would be ripe a few weeks after that. How could she even think of leaving the widow and dear Gabi alone out here? “Shoo. Shoo.” She spoke the words as much to her own thoughts as she did to the chickens pecking at her bootlaces. She reached into the scrap bucket hanging on a nail and tossed handfuls of potato peelings and grain in a wide arc. The cackling chickens scattered to be first to the bounty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInside the stifling hot coop, Maren dodged the roost and reached into the first of the five nests along the back wall. After all the eggs were gathered, she felt for the pole and ducked under it, taking the most direct route out of the smelly henhouse. Protecting her face with her hand, she stepped into the chicken yard, through the gate, and into the\u003cbr\u003eruts leading to the barn. The parching wind stung her eyes and whipped her apron.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe folded one of the double-hinged barn doors and clamped it open, then stepped inside, squinting against the near darkness. The strong, sweet smell of the hay filled her nostrils. The cow scent was strong too, but not so sweet. Both reminded her of the farm her family had lost in Copenhagen. And the farm Orvie had promised her in his letters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter Maren hung the basket of eggs by the door, she climbed the wooden steps to the hayloft. Cows bawled and horses whinnied below. Hay needed to be tugged from a stack and tossed over the edge into the swinging mangers at the stalls, then repeated on the other side. When she’d flung hay into Duden’s and Boone’s stalls, she dropped a couple forkfuls onto the center of the barn floor. At the top of the ladder, Maren brushed her hands together to dislodge any remaining hay stems from her woolen gloves before climbing down. Her plan was to feed the hogs and mules, milk the two cows, and then go inside for supper. She had planted her boots on the first two rungs of the ladder when a raspy baritone voice split the still air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Good day, ma’am.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaren jerked and her boot slipped, causing her chin to strike a step. Wincing, she released her grip and fell backward. Fear caught a scream in her throat. The fresh pile of hay on the floor broke her fall, but still she landed flat on her back. She fought to recover her breath and gather her wits. A staccato heartbeat pounded in her ears. She didn’t associate the deep voice with anyone who belonged on the farm. Blinking, she willed her eyes to focus in her limited circle of vision. Brown curls swerved every which way on the head of a man she did not recognize. Scrambling to right herself, she edged toward the wall near the cow stall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ma’am.” A Union accent. Not one of Mrs. Brantenberg’s German neighbors. “Are you well?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes.” She felt along the wall for a makeshift weapon. When she found the shovel, she lifted it off its nail and held it across herself. “I mean you no harm.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHolding the shovel steady, Maren widened her shoulders and raised her smarting chin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I apologize. I didn’t—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Didn’t what, sir?” This man may be harmless, but he was no less a nuisance. “You did not mean to burst into my barn and cause me to take a topple?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re not Mrs. Brantenberg.” It wasn’t a question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDid he know Mrs. Brantenberg, or had someone in town told him to expect an older woman?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I am Maren Jensen.” She couldn’t make out his facial features in the shadows, but she did see one arm in a sling. That could be a ruse. “And you are?” Silence ticked off the seconds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe removed his cap and moved closer. “People call me Woolly.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile repositioning her heavy weapon, Maren blinked to focus her vision. Her employer had never mentioned anyone named Woolly. If he wasn’t a troublemaker, he had to be a drifter looking for work. And with her own work to finish, she had no time to waste. “You’ll find Mrs. Brantenberg at the house.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank you.” His voice held a pleasant tone, although it sounded a bit gravelly, like he’d been out in the wind for a long spell. She should be nicer to the gentleman, but she couldn’t afford to be. Chores were obligatory. Niceties with strange men were not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe turned to leave the barn and quickly faded into the darkness. Maren lowered the shovel and listened as the door closed behind him. If she ever did have a home of her own, it wouldn’t sit beside a welltraveled road. Especially not during or immediately following a war. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWoolly felt like the prodigal son in the New Testament. Except it was his daughter, not his father, he was coming home to. He followed the path from the barn to the front of the brick Georgian-style plantation house. Its fluted porch columns needed whitewashing. The shutters framing the double-hung sash windows needed attention too. When the wind caught his kepi, he pulled the cap tight onto his forehead. The smell of fresh bread wafted on the breeze, taunting his hunger. He couldn’t say how long it’d been since he’d dined on anything but hardtack or bully soup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow that he was home, he had a lot to catch up on. But this wasn’t a Bible story, and he wasn’t a beloved son.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stopped at the bottom of the steps. If nothing else, perhaps his mother-in-law would let him stay long enough to meet the little girl he and Gretchen had created on this very farm, and to make a few repairs around the place. He owed her that much. And more than he could ever repay. He couldn’t change the past four years. Not for Mother Brantenberg. Not for his daughter. Not for himself. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oma!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe strained little voice drew his gaze to the window for a glimpse of sunny round cheeks framed in heaps of brown curls. Like his own. Tears stung his sleep-deprived eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A man, Oma.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bleib hinter mir, Liebling. Behind me.” He recognized the voice, and the endearing term. Mother Brantenberg was protecting her little one. His little one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe removed his cap, then spoke through the closed door. “Greetings, Mrs. Brantenberg.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door opened just wide enough for him to see the woman’s face. She gasped. “It is you.” Her color matched what was left of the whitewash on the door that stood between them, and her foot didn’t budge from its crossed position behind the door. Mother Brantenberg studied him, her gaze resting on the cloth that tethered his left arm to his neck.\u003cbr\u003e“You are hurt?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I got my arm caught in a rope whilst loading a barge and pulled my shoulder out of place.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis mother-in-law opened the door, but she hadn’t spoken of his identity. He so desperately wanted the child hiding in the skirts to know her father had returned home. But at least for now, he was only a visitor. Inside, good smells and memories of happier times hit him, and his stomach rumbled while his heart wrenched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe glanced from the woman to the child, who stepped out from behind her. He held out his right hand to her. “And who is this?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe little one leaned against her grandmother, dipping her chin and peering up at him with wide eyes. “I am Gabi.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShort for Gabrielle—the name he and Gretchen had discussed for a girl. Gabi’s face was a sweet miniature of her mother’s. “What a lovely name.” He hoped his smile hid the pain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank you.” Gabi curtsied like a princess, then pointed to the soiled cloth that cupped his elbow. “Does it hurt?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It isn’t so bad anymore. Thank you.” His daughter was already four years old, and so grown up. He turned to his mother-in-law. “The arm should be workable in another day or two. I can start on repairs soon. Harvest?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis mother-in-law huffed. Wrinkles framed her face. She still wore her hair parted down the middle with a braid, now white, encircling her head. But her eyes had dulled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mister.” Gabi’s sweet voice cut into his thought. “What’s your name?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Woolly.” Mrs. Brantenberg rested her hand on Gabi’s head. “His name is Woolly.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s what Gretchen had called him the first time they’d met on her father’s farm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabi swayed side-to-side like she had music in her. “Woolly like a lamb?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes.” He pointed at his head. “My hair is curly like lamb’s wool.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mine too.” Gabi patted her hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWoolly nodded, afraid to speak, sure the truth would come out before Mother Brantenberg was ready to reclaim him as family. Mother Brantenberg glanced toward the washstand at the top of the staircase. “It is time to wash for supper, Liebling.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabi offered him a forlorn glance, and sighing, she marched up the stairs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis mother-in-law studied him. “I did not expect your return.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I have come to see my daughter. I should never have left you.” He glimpsed the staircase and the little round cheeks pressed between the white oak spindles. The light in Gabi’s eyes pierced the darkness in his heart…until he returned his attention to his mother-in-law. Mrs. Brantenberg looked as if she’d just gulped camp coffee. A look that said he’d not be staying for supper.","brand":"WaterBrook","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300148105445,"sku":"NP9780307731142","price":14.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307731142.jpg?v=1767741138","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-quilted-heart-omnibus-isbn-9780307731142","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}