{"product_id":"hold-tight-the-thread-isbn-9781578565016","title":"Hold Tight the Thread","description":"BASED ON A TRUE STORY\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIn a land occupied by foreign powers and torn by confusion and conflict, a mother seeks to weave her family and her past into a fabric that will not tear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheir Lives Were Woven by Wars and Wilderness Places, and Tied by the Peace of Family and Faith.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the 1840s bring conflict to the Pacific Northwest’s rugged Columbia Country, new challenges face Marie Dorion Venier Toupin: the wife, mother, and Ioway Indian woman who crossed the Rocky Mountains with the Astor Expedition, the first big fur trapping expedition after Lewis and Clark’s. On French Prairie in the newly forming Oregon Territory, Marie strives to meet the needs of her conflict-ridden neighbors: British settlers and Americans, missionaries and disease-stricken natives, fur trappers and French Canadian farming families, and the surviving natives of the region.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the same time, as a mother, Marie must weave together the threads of an unraveling family. One daughter compares and judges as she seeks to find her place; another reaches for elusive evidence of her mother’s love. Marie’s memories are threatened with the emergence of a figure from the past. In the midst of this turmoil, Marie discovers an empowering spiritual truth: Unconditional love can shed light on even the darkest places in the heart.\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for Books 1 and 2 in The Tender Ties Historical Series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jane Kirkpatrick writes from a depth and richness of detailed research and from  a genuine affection and respect for her characters.  She gives us strong, admirable  women with sensitive spirits, courage, and the capacity for unconditional love.   \u003ci\u003eHold Tight the Thread\u003c\/i\u003e is a thoughtful, skillfully prepared feast for those of us  always hungry for more quality historical fiction.  Like her other novels, this is  a story that allows us to experience the struggles and adventures and faith of another  time through characters we can learn to know–and love.”  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e--B.J. Hoff, author of  The American Anthem series and \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eAn Emerald Ballad\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Hold Tight the Thread is such  a satisfying ending to a wonderful trilogy on the life of such a memorable woman,  Marie Dorion.  I learned so much even as I felt a range of emotions —sad, happy,  bittersweet, and triumphant.  I love this book!”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e--Linda Hall, author of \u003ci\u003eSteal Away\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eChat Room\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “I highly recommend \u003ci\u003eEvery Fixed Star\u003c\/i\u003e. Jane Kirkpatrick’s storytelling is deft and  true; she breathes life into the long-ago Oregon country with warmth, emotion, and  a deep understanding of the region’s people and past. With depth, creativity, and  inspiration, \u003ci\u003eEvery Fixed Star\u003c\/i\u003e provides a fresh view of this period in the Pacific  Northwest’s history, showing the complicated dynamics between settlers, fur traders,  missionaries, natives, and visionaries. Jane has vividly captured the history of  the fur trade for intelligent women readers.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e–Laurie Winn Carlson, author of \u003ci\u003eSeduced  by the West\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eOn Sidesaddles to Heaven: The Women of the Rocky Mountain Mission\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “Jane Kirkpatrick has a rare gift, for her novels touch both the emotions and the  intellect. She fills her stories with living history, each rich detail carefully  researched and woven into a very particular time and place–the Columbia Country of  the 1820s. And yet, \u003ci\u003eEvery Fixed Star\u003c\/i\u003e is far from a dry history; rather, it is the  moving, heartfelt story of one woman’s journey toward accepting her own failings  as a wife and as a mother–a struggle common to every woman in every century. Through  Marie’s ‘heart knowing,’ we are forced to examine our own hearts and lives and emerge  the better for it. Jane’s novels are more than a ‘good read’; they are a life-altering  experience.\"\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e–Liz Curtis Higgs, author of \u003ci\u003eThorn in My Heart\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “[An] evocative, imagined  retelling of the story of Marie Dorion, the remarkable Iowa Indian woman who crossed  the continent with her young sons and her mixed-blood husband in 1811 as part of  the first grand expedition after Lewis and Clark… As always, the historically accurate  details are woven in with care, and the characters are fully imagined. At the story’ s end, the reader absolutely believes ‘Marie was an Ioway woman of the Gray Snow  people; gray like the stuff that strengthened bones.’ A truly fine book.” \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003eThe Denver  Post\u003c\/i\u003e, in praise of \u003ci\u003eA Name of Her Own\u003c\/i\u003e, Book One of the Tender Ties Historical series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJane Kirkpatrick\u003c\/b\u003e is a best-selling author whose novels include the BookSense 76 Selection \u003ci\u003eA Name of Her Own, Every Fixed Star, \u003c\/i\u003eand the acclaimed Kinship and Courage series: \u003ci\u003eAll Together in One Place, No Eye Can See, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eWhat Once We Loved. \u003c\/i\u003eJane is a winner of the Wrangler Award from the Western Heritage Center and National Cowboy Hall of Fame.\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eShe is also a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, inspirational retreat leader, and speaker.\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eBright Shining Light\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAugust 1841, French Prairie, Oregon Country\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie let loose her daughter’s hand, then stepped behind her, gently guiding her into the darkness. \u003ci\u003e“Maintenant,” \u003c\/i\u003eshe said in French. “We go now.” She placed her hands on the young woman’s cedar-caped shoulders, inhaled the wood scent of her hair. They were nearly the same height, one of the few things they shared in common–that and a worry over whether they’d be enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We don’t have time for this, Mother,” Marguerite protested. But\u003cbr\u003eshe allowed Marie to prod her to an area of prairie grass where Marie\u003cbr\u003emotioned her daughter to sit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We need to make time for this,” Marie said. “Lie down.” She patted\u003cbr\u003ethe grass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA vast darkness arched over her and her oldest daughter. The women’s\u003cbr\u003eheads touched, as though they were two logs reaching out from a center\u003cbr\u003epost. The air felt moist. The moon would rise late tonight. The dry\u003cbr\u003egrasses tickled her ankles. She should have put on leggings before convincing\u003cbr\u003eher oldest daughter to walk a distance from their log home to\u003cbr\u003efeel the night air breathe in the dark sky. Getting Marguerite to come\u003cbr\u003ewith her at all had taken convincing. Dozens of tasks waited finishing\u003cbr\u003ebefore the big event tomorrow. “There will never be another night like\u003cbr\u003ethis one, not ever,” Marie told her daughter. Marie meant to savor it.\u003cbr\u003eShe’d begun to cherish these feathers of peaceful moments floating into\u003cbr\u003eher life, even when it took effort. It still took such effort to name the\u003cbr\u003egood in her days. Learning new ways, she found, both stimulated and\u003cbr\u003estrained her. This was a happy occasion. She refused to let worry scar it,\u003cbr\u003eand so she controlled her troublesome thoughts, even now, when they\u003cbr\u003epushed like a bullish child elbowing his way in uninvited.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Did you see that?” Marie asked. She pointed. “That light? There’s\u003cbr\u003ea special prize for the one who sees the first star.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarguerite shook her head, rubbing Marie’s hair as she did. “Papa\u003cbr\u003eJean’s spectacles must let you see something I can’t. It’s still just dark sky\u003cbr\u003eto me, Mother. Where did you see it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“East,” Marie said. She adjusted the lenses given her as a gift by her\u003cbr\u003ehusband just weeks before. “Toward Hood’s Mountain. An arc of light.\u003cbr\u003eThere’s another.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t see them. Maybe they’re coming to find us with the\u003cbr\u003elanterns.” Marguerite said. “Maybe they think I’ve changed my mind\u003cbr\u003eand have run away.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDid her daughter warn her of worries? The man was twenty years\u003cbr\u003eher daughter’s senior. He had sons already. Maybe Marguerite wished\u003cbr\u003emore time before she committed to this man Jean Baptiste Gobin.\u003cbr\u003eDoes a mother encourage her daughter to walk through the uncertainty\u003cbr\u003eof marriage, promising her that peace will come, or does she make a\u003cbr\u003esafe place for a daughter to turn around, to reconsider her heart’s\u003cbr\u003efuture?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat was right for a mother to do? was always Marie’s question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRipe gooseberries scented the August air. An owl hooted in the big\u003cbr\u003ecedar tree in the center of the timbered section that marked the border\u003cbr\u003eof their land. Prairie wolves howled in the distance, a sound distinct\u003cbr\u003efrom the larger wolves that roamed in packs. Marie took in a deep\u003cbr\u003ebreath. There were more blessings here than dangers; that’s what she\u003cbr\u003emust concentrate on, encourage her daughter to think this too. New\u003cbr\u003eways took time. Her friend Sarah had told her that long years before,\u003cbr\u003eand Sarah was seldom wrong. Unlike Marie, who was a mother named\u003cbr\u003eby her errors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe took another deep breath. She would count her blessings like\u003cbr\u003ethe beads of her rosary, designed, orderly, and obvious, the way the\u003cbr\u003epriests said God revealed himself in the created world. Hadn’t her husband\u003cbr\u003eof many years become her friend, someone with whom she preferred\u003cbr\u003eto spend her time? That must have been part of a grand design.\u003cbr\u003eWasn’t this prairie land they’d found to live in ripe with promise, predictable\u003cbr\u003ewith seasons of planting and harvest? Hadn’t she found a quiet\u003cbr\u003eway to ease the ache of a lost and troubled son, soothe the disappointment\u003cbr\u003eof rarely seeing distant friends, survive the deaths of a child and\u003cbr\u003etwo husbands? The landscape, her newly forming faith, and her family\u003cbr\u003epromised peace. These were the life threads that she wove into a healing\u003cbr\u003erobe of comfort.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMemory, too, served her. It brought the conversations she’d had\u003cbr\u003ewith her friend Sacagawea to mind whenever she wished. Memory\u003cbr\u003ereminded her of what she had endured in her fifty summers. Even\u003cbr\u003eKilakotah she called neighbor now, though to touch her fingers to her\u003cbr\u003efriend’s cheeks meant a three-day ride to the horse ranch of Tom McKay.\u003cbr\u003eStill, the two would see each other more now, when they gathered at the\u003cbr\u003eparish church on the Willamette River when the priests traveled south\u003cbr\u003efor Mass. And in between, she had the memories of those who brushed\u003cbr\u003eagainst her and changed her life forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe had troubling memories too, but surely she deserved now a\u003cbr\u003etime to set those aside, cut those ties. Her friend Sacagawea would tell\u003cbr\u003eher to expect kindness in life. This she would do, especially tonight.\u003cbr\u003eAfter all, she was a mother whose children told her their secrets and\u003cbr\u003ehonored her with their questions. What mother didn’t want to be\u003cbr\u003eknown for her careful tongue and modest wisdom? Her husband, Jean,\u003cbr\u003etolerated her many wonderings over varying views of faith of native\u003cbr\u003epeople, of Presbyterians, Catholics, and Methodists who populated this\u003cbr\u003eprairie area. Perhaps he understood that her baptism was a beginning of\u003cbr\u003eanother questioning journey and not one simply ending with acceptance\u003cbr\u003eas it had been for him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie questioned. It was part of who she was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie blinked again. She’d seen the pinpricks sometimes even in the\u003cbr\u003edaylight, when she stood too quickly or when she first awoke. Their\u003cbr\u003epresence interrupted her sleep, too, and she’d awake with a start, a gasp\u003cbr\u003ethat would wake her husband and stir the household trying to sleep in\u003cbr\u003ethe upper loft.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps her eyes were learning new things even while she slept. She\u003cbr\u003ehad spectacles to wear during the day, to stop the squinting that had\u003cbr\u003ebeen a part of her life for as long as she could remember. Yes, that was\u003cbr\u003eprobably all it was, her eyes adjusting to the dark and daylight, seeing\u003cbr\u003eclearly with spectacles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis piercing light tonight was likely just the first sign of the stars\u003cbr\u003efilling the night sky. Nothing to be alarmed about.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Will this always be my home?” Marguerite asked then. Her voice\u003cbr\u003ehad changed to wistfulness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’ll always have a place with us, but you’ll have your own home\u003cbr\u003eafter tomorrow.” Her daughter took in a sharp breath, and her breathing\u003cbr\u003equickened. Marie heard discomfort in the sound. “This is your\u003cbr\u003echoice, \u003ci\u003eoui? \u003c\/i\u003e” Marie asked. “To marry this man?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m glad we moved here with Papa Jean,” Marguerite said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHadn’t her daughter heard her? Or did she deliberately avoid?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You might not have met your JB if we hadn’t.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There are more French Canadians here,” Marguerite said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“More people like your papa.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There’s one,” Marguerite said, lifting her hand quickly to point.\u003cbr\u003eMarie felt rather than saw her daughter’s arm reach up. “In the northern\u003cbr\u003esky.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I see it too. \u003ci\u003eBon. \u003c\/i\u003eYou receive the treasure. You have the first star in\u003cbr\u003eyour basket,” Marie told her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s my prize?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It comes to you later.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You made that up, Mother. There’s no ‘first prize’ for seeing the first\u003cbr\u003estar of a night sky.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’ll see,” she said and smiled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie had coaxed her daughter away from the cheek bread pans,\u003cbr\u003ethose rounded tins that resembled a baby’s bottom when the dough\u003cbr\u003erose. She drew her from the chatter of Marguerite’s younger brother\u003cbr\u003eand sister so she could rest a bit before taking on the role of a bride. A\u003cbr\u003epeaceful moment was her daughter’s treasure. A new wife had few of\u003cbr\u003ethem after the wedding, and Marie wanted her daughter to have the\u003cbr\u003ememory of a special evening before the days filled up with the work of\u003cbr\u003eliving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie would have a prize too: a memory of a last quiet time with\u003cbr\u003eher oldest daughter alone, a moment of hanging on to a daughter before\u003cbr\u003eMarguerite became a wife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie thought to offer sage advice, to say something to sustain her\u003cbr\u003edaughter in this time of transformation when a woman became a bride.\u003cbr\u003eWords failed her at times, even French words, her first language. Marie\u003cbr\u003ethought of her mother. What might her own mother have spoken if she\u003cbr\u003ehad lived to see Marie’s marriage day when, as a young girl, she had\u003cbr\u003ecommitted herself to Pierre Dorion? Would she have been proud that\u003cbr\u003eher daughter chose a man affiliated, however briefly, with the Corps of\u003cbr\u003eDiscovery? Or might she have stepped in to intervene, suggested that she\u003cbr\u003ewas too young to wed?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo way to know. Her mother had died before Marie spoke marriage\u003cbr\u003evows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie was pleased her daughter had waited until she was twentytwo\u003cbr\u003eto marry. And her youngest girl, Marianne, while fifteen, showed\u003cbr\u003elittle interest in boys. A blessing. Marie touched the beads around her\u003cbr\u003eneck, ran her hand over the smooth metal cross that her friend Sarah\u003cbr\u003ehad given her. Blessings. Count the blessings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What are you thinking about, Mother?” Marguerite asked. The\u003cbr\u003egirl had a gravelly voice, husky almost, her throat scorched perhaps from\u003cbr\u003eleaning over the cook fires. Marie imagined the tiny wrinkles that\u003cbr\u003eflowed like rivers toward the pools of her daughter’s dark eyes, eyes that\u003cbr\u003etonight looked tired even before the wedding plans consumed her. As a\u003cbr\u003echild, Marguerite had been known by the French Canadians for her\u003cbr\u003ethick eyebrows lifting in question and by her firm lips reserving expression\u003cbr\u003efor rare occasions. Even with impending joy so close, Marguerite’s\u003cbr\u003efull round face hadn’t eased often into a smile. Marie wished something\u003cbr\u003edifferent for Marguerite.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Remembering,” Marie said. “It’s what a mother does on a day\u003cbr\u003ebefore her daughter weds. A bride-to-be should have stars in her basket,\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003en’est-ce pas?\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarguerite said, “To light the darkness she finds there?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You worry over darkness?” Marie said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just a rule of thumb,” Marguerite said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie shivered. Such a phrase. Could this JB Gobin be a man who\u003cbr\u003eused the rod against his wife? Had she missed some rumor about him?\u003cbr\u003eWhy otherwise had her daughter chosen the term \u003ci\u003erule of thumb, \u003c\/i\u003ethe\u003cbr\u003elegal size of a rod allowed by a husband to strike his wife?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Does he hurt you, this Gobin? You do not need to marry him,\u003cbr\u003ethen.” Marie sat up. Her daughter was asking for a way out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No. No.” Marguerite answered quickly, pulled her mother back. “I\u003cbr\u003eonly meant I’m just a little worried, a slender worry, the size of a rod.\u003cbr\u003eAbout…”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do your thoughts go to someone else? to Richard?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarguerite laughed. “That Nez Perce boy? No. He was just a\u003cbr\u003efriend.” Her voice sounded light, as though she coaxed a child to eat her\u003cbr\u003eporridge. “No.” Marguerite hesitated now. “I think of Paul,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie felt a chill go through her. “The day before your wedding you\u003cbr\u003ethink of your half-brother?” Marie moved her head, felt the hair at the\u003cbr\u003eback of her neck bristle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Didn’t he run away on the day Baptiste married Older Sister?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He did.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It was the first wedding I remember, and it ended in sadness. Papa\u003cbr\u003enever came back. Paul never came back. Even Baptiste left, and before\u003cbr\u003ehe returned Older Sister died.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Leave those hard thoughts behind now, Marguerite.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They never even said good-bye to me. None of them,” Marguerite\u003cbr\u003esaid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is what you think of when you prepare to marry?” Marie said.\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNon. \u003c\/i\u003eThis is not good. You were little then. You should think of other\u003cbr\u003ethings. You shouldn’t think of a sad time. See, there’s another star. This\u003cbr\u003ewill be a full sky night.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t you wonder where Paul is?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother light, as tiny as a pinprick, flashed before her eyes. Marie\u003cbr\u003eblinked, and the glimmer broke into flickers and disappeared. She felt\u003cbr\u003eno pain, but uneasiness snaked though the tiny hole as though the\u003cbr\u003eopening might rip into something larger that could consume her. When\u003cbr\u003ehad they started, these flickering lights, tearing at the fabric of memory\u003cbr\u003eand mind? She lived in safety, surrounded by family and friends. Why\u003cbr\u003edid the uneasiness pierce her now?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie held her jaws together, made herself breathe in through her\u003cbr\u003enose. “I have put my thoughts of Paul in a past place, to make room for\u003cbr\u003enew joys, like my daughter’s wedding.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie could hear voices in the distance. Marianne’s girlish pitches\u003cbr\u003epoked into her husband’s and her son’s low tones. Someone would be\u003cbr\u003ecalling them back soon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What do you think really happened to Paul? And to Papa?” Marguerite\u003cbr\u003easked. She sat up now. “They’re linked together for me, their disappearances.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They happened years apart,” Marie said. “Our memories tell tall\u003cbr\u003etales to us sometimes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not for me. I wonder about the stories I should tell my children\u003cbr\u003eabout their grandfather.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Papa Jean was more a part of your life. Tell your children of him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoments passed, and Marguerite sat so silent that Marie thought\u003cbr\u003eshe might have fallen asleep. Marie imagined her daughter’s long eyelashes\u003cbr\u003eclosed against her cheeks; she reached to touch the bone beneath\u003cbr\u003eher daughter’s left eye, a bone left flattened when a horse raised its head\u003cbr\u003eto Marguerite’s and cracked it long years before. Maybe Marguerite worried\u003cbr\u003eabout injury or death, this young woman on the eve of new living.\u003cbr\u003eMarie was no \u003ci\u003efemme sensé; \u003c\/i\u003eshe had no explanations. Her baptism weeks\u003cbr\u003ebefore had answered some questions but added even more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I want to tell my children stories of Papa,” Marguerite said, her\u003cbr\u003efingers clutching her mother’s now. “So they’ll know about a good\u003cbr\u003efather. He was good, \u003ci\u003en’est-ce pas? \u003c\/i\u003eHe had scars in his fingers. I remember\u003cbr\u003ethat. And he sang, didn’t he?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eOui. \u003c\/i\u003eHe loved music and he sewed with me. Even with his fingers\u003cbr\u003ethat would break open in icy water. Tiny stitches we used.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sometimes I think that Paul…”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What? What do you think?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nothing,” Marguerite said. She let loose her mother’s hand. “It is a\u003cbr\u003enever-mind thought.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor Marie, stories of Paul arrived on an arc of pain that hit new\u003cbr\u003emarks each time they were spoken as words. She wanted to forget that\u003cbr\u003ewound, put it away as she’d put other painful times behind her, times\u003cbr\u003ethat were better tucked away as forgotten thoughts, not brought into\u003cbr\u003epresent memory. “Tell your children of the good your stepfather\u003cbr\u003ebrought to your life. Don’t dwell on the death of your father or the\u003cbr\u003edisappearance of Paul or the death of your sister-in-law,” Marie said.\u003cbr\u003e“Baptiste married a woman he loved. Remember that. And he is happy\u003cbr\u003enow. He did come back. Not all who leave stay gone. Papa Jean lived\u003cbr\u003eaway for months trapping, but he always returned.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Older Sister lost her life…giving birth,” Marguerite said. Her voice\u003cbr\u003ewas so low the words sounded like the hum of bees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarie put her arm around her daughter. “You’re worried over childbirth?”\u003cbr\u003eWhy hadn’t she thought of that? Of course. What kind of mother\u003cbr\u003ewas she not to know a daughter would be concerned over such things?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“To have something and then lose it,” Marguerite whispered. “It\u003cbr\u003emight be better not to have it at all.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Look around this French Prairie. See how many children run here\u003cbr\u003eand there. Babies are a natural thing. You’ll see. This is an orderly world\u003cbr\u003ecreated for us. A peaceful world. Baptiste loved again. I loved again, after\u003cbr\u003etwo husband’s deaths. Our hearts are large enough to love more than\u003cbr\u003eonce, to fill the empty places of those who leave or are even sent away.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are they?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHad Marie gifted her daughter with a mind that always worried\u003cbr\u003erather than one that reveled? Was that the legacy she would leave this\u003cbr\u003echild on the eve of her wedding night? Not one of hopeful joy but of the\u003cbr\u003eweave of worry?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This match frightens you because JB was wedded before,” Marie\u003cbr\u003esaid. “I understand this now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Non,” \u003c\/i\u003eMarguerite said. Too quickly. “It is not the marriage that\u003cbr\u003efrightens.” Marie imagined Marguerite’s obsidian eyes piercing the darkness,\u003cbr\u003ecould almost see her daughter smooth her hair back, the lovely\u003cbr\u003ewidow’s peak marking the center of her high forehead. “It’s the unanswered\u003cbr\u003equestions that trouble me. We need to go inside. We have bread\u003cbr\u003eto bake while the night is cool.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was not the conversation Marie wanted to have with her\u003cbr\u003edaughter. She wanted to tell her of the joys of companionship, about\u003cbr\u003elight shed upon a marriage journey that moves two people back and\u003cbr\u003eforth across the bridge of separate and together. She wanted to tell her\u003cbr\u003enot to stay as unbending as her mother had. “I loved your father. The\u003cbr\u003euncertainties of his death still haunt me, but I can find no answers when\u003cbr\u003eI search there.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is hard to move to a new place in my life while old questions still\u003cbr\u003ehold a claim. What about Paul? Is his disappearance related to–”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t wait as long as I did to cherish good gifts, daughter,” Marie\u003cbr\u003esaid. “Desire met is more than longing for past pleasures. Desire\u003cbr\u003eattained is as sweet as molasses. Think about such sweetness instead of\u003cbr\u003eall that might be unfinished in a life.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarguerite moved to stand into the darkness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat could Marie say that would be supportive, encouraging, kind?\u003cbr\u003e“You can change your mind,” Marie said. As her daughter reached to pull\u003cbr\u003eher up, Marie grunted with the effort. She held Marguerite’s wide palm,\u003cbr\u003esqueezed her long, slender fingers. “Even now. At this moment. Though\u003cbr\u003ethe banns have been read, you can still decide to wait. JB will wait. The\u003cbr\u003eguests will understand. What you wish is what matters most.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAm I saying the right thing? Am I suggesting caution where it needn’t be?\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s just…there, see that one? Oh, it has a tail as it falls through the\u003cbr\u003esky. A falling \u003ci\u003eetoile.\u003c\/i\u003e” Marguerite sighed, and Marie knew that a moment\u003cbr\u003eof opportunity had passed, that she hadn’t comforted her daughter.\u003cbr\u003eShe hadn’t given her the gift of peace the day before her marriage. They\u003cbr\u003ehadn’t even had words Marguerite might someday wish to tell her\u003cbr\u003edaughter on her marriage day. She couldn’t say, “My mother told me\u003cbr\u003ethis wise thing the day before I married your Papa, and now I tell it to\u003cbr\u003eyou.” Her daughter was apparently as good as her mother at slipping\u003cbr\u003egood things into worries and intended affection into distraction. It was\u003cbr\u003enot the legacy Marie had hoped to give her daughter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Come, Mother.” Marguerite squeezed Marie’s hand now. “I have a\u003cbr\u003egarland still to weave for my hair. We’ve lain around enough.” She\u003cbr\u003eslipped her hand from her mother’s and walked on ahead, alone.The Tender Ties Historical Series, Book Three","brand":"WaterBrook","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304969130213,"sku":"NP9781578565016","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781578565016.jpg?v=1767729126","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/hold-tight-the-thread-isbn-9781578565016","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}