Johanna Ilg has lived her entire life in Main Amana, one of the seven villages settled by devout Christians who believe in cooperative living, a simple lifestyle, and faithful service to God. Although she's always longed to see the outside world, Johanna believes her future is rooted in Amana. But when she learns a troubling secret, the world she thought she knew is shattered. Is this truly where she belongs?
Berta Schumacher has lived a privileged life in Chicago, so when her parents decide they want a simpler life in Amana, Iowa, she resists. Under the strictures of the Amana villages, her rebellion reaches new heights. Will her heart ever be content among the plain people of Amana?
About Judith Miller:
Judith Miller is an award-winning author whose avid research and love for history are reflected in her novels, two of which have placed in the CBA top ten lists. In addition to her writing, Judy is a certified legal assistant. Judy and her husband make their home in Topeka, Kansas. Visit her Web site at www.judithmccoymiller.com.
My Opinion:
Having read Judith Miller's work before I knew I was going to have a great book to sink myself into. Set in Iowa in the Amana settlement the reader gets to take a look at a communal life of a segment of devout Christians. This is not your Amish fiction, it's a book that takes a peek into the lifes of those who believe in hard work, simple living and devotion to Jesus Christ while still keeping a fast moving plot line.
Thankfully there is no outward displays of affection or romance, even though the new family's daughter likes to ask her friend, Johanna whether or not she is in love with a man who works with her father. The only kiss comes at the end of the book and only after an engagement/courtship and impending marriage has been agreed upon - if I tell who is getting married then you'll not read the book.
Keeping up a fast pace with page turning dialogue and character conflict this book has it all when you're wanting to escape and leave behind the real world for awhile. There really was an Amana, which you can read about at the Amana Heritage website, so there is some truth weaved in making it an excellent historical fiction book.
**I was provided a copy of Somewhere to Belong by Mr. Hart at Bethany House Publishers in exchange for my honest review, no other compensation was given.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva Publicity Coordinator, Book Group Strang Communications for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar has been writing stories and poems since she was a little girl and has published articles and devotionals as well as 31 novels and novellas. In addition to her writing, Andrea is a certified Christian life coach and speaks at writers’ conferences and for women’s groups. She has taught workshops at such conferences as: Write-To-Publish; American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW); Oregon Christian Writers Conference; Mount Hermon Writers Conference and many local writers conferences. Another of Andrea’s accomplishments is co-founder of the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) organization. For many years she served on both its Advisory Board and as its CEO.
List Price: $10.99 Paperback: 291 pages Publisher: Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010) Language: English ISBN-10: 1599799855 ISBN-13: 978-1599799858
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
New Orleans, December 1861
Raindrops splattered against the garden’s cobblestone
walkway, forming puddles in low-lying areas.
Above, the heavens seemed to mourn in tearful shades of gray.
Staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, Valerie Fontaine realized
she’d forgotten the dreariness of the season. She’d been back
in New Orleans only a week, arriving Christmas Eve, but now
she questioned her decision to leave Miss C. J. Hollingsworth’s
Finishing School for Young Ladies, a year-round boarding school
in Virginia where she’d studied for the last sixteen months. She
let out a long, slow sigh. Life here at home was—well, worse than
the weather.
Closing the shutters, she stepped away and hugged her knitted
shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She strolled from the
solarium to the parlor, steeling herself against her father’s continuing
tirade. But at least they were talking now. He hadn’t said more
than six words to her since she’d been home. “You should have
stayed at school.” She had thought Father would be glad to see
her, given that it was their first Christmas without Mama.
But such wasn’t the case. Instead of spending the holiday with
her, he’d been at his gentlemen’s club almost continuously. His
actions hurt Valerie deeply. Nevertheless, he was the only family
she had left now.
“You should have stayed at school,” Edward Fontaine muttered
as he poured himself another scotch. His third.
“Yes, so you’ve stated. But isn’t it obvious why I came home?
I’m grieving, and I need the love and support of my father.” She
gave him a once-over, from the tip of his polished shoes to his
shiny, straight black hair. “And it might not seem like it, but I
think you need me too.”
“Need you? I should say not!” He teetered slightly but caught
her reaction. “And don’t roll those pretty blue eyes at me either.”
Valerie turned toward the roaring hearth so he wouldn’t see
her exasperated expression.
Holding out her hands, she warmed them by the fire. Although
temperatures registered well above the freezing mark, the cold and
dampness had a way of seeping into her bones. She shivered.
“I told you, ma fille, your efforts, as you call them, aren’t
needed.”
She flicked him a glance. “I think perhaps they are.” She
sensed her father mourned Mama’s death too. However, drowning
himself in scotch would hardly help, and he’d lose his good
standing in society if anyone found out about his . . . weakness.
Did neighbors and friends already know?
“Bah!”
Valerie turned to watch as he seated himself in a floralpatterned,
Louis XV wingback chair.
“You were to stay in Virginia and complete your education.”
Father gave a derisive snort. “I doubt Miss Hollingsworth will
give me a refund on your tuition.”
Valerie placed her hands on her hips. “How can you value
money over my well-being?”
“This is not a question of one or the other. These are
ous times . . . there are plans that you know nothing of . . . ”
“What plans?” Curious, Valerie tipped her head.
Silence.
“Father?”
He lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw a flicker of something
in his eyes—regret perhaps? Then his face hardened. “My plans
were for you to stay in school and marry a young man from an
established family.”
Valerie groaned. Running her hands down the wide skirt of
her black dress, she gathered the muslin in clenched fists of frustration.
How could she make him understand? She simply had
to follow her heart and come home. Otherwise, she surely would
have stayed at Miss Hollingsworth’s, as many students did. On
most holidays, like this one, time constraints restricted travel.
School let out the Friday before Christmas and began next week,
on the sixth of January. However, Valerie didn’t plan on returning,
and her reasons to leave boarding school ran deep.
She lifted her fingertips to her temples as a headache formed.
“Father, school proved too much for me after Mama’s untimely
death. I tried to make it, stayed all last summer, but after the war
broke out I had to come home.”
“Silly girl. You risked your life traveling through that part of
the country. Did you think I wanted to bury a daughter too?”
“No, of course not. But I thought you would have wanted to
see me at Christmastime.”
He didn’t comment on her remark. “So, what am I going to do
with you? I can’t very well send you back. It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s not as if I need a nanny.” Indignation pulsed through
Valerie’s veins. “I’m almost nineteen, and I can take care of
myself—and manage the household for you too.”
“I manage my own household.”
Hardly! she quipped inwardly. Thankfully for him, Adalia,
their precious and loyal maid, had seen to almost everything
since Mama died.
But Valerie wouldn’t tell her father that. She’d learned neither
retorts nor reasoning did much good when he’d been imbibing—
which was frequently of late.
She watched as he swallowed the dark golden liquid, emptying
the crystal tumbler in his hand. He made a sorrowful sight, to
be sure. And yet Valerie knew her father was an honorable man,
a capable man who owned and operated a large business. Her
grandfather had started Fontaine Shipping when he had come
from France. Father grew up near the docks and learned everything
about ships and cargo, importing and exporting, and then
he took over the business after he had finished his education at
Harvard. Grandpapa had been so proud. And now Father secured
his importance among the international shipping community as
well as in New Orleans’s society.
Or at least that’s the way she had remembered him.
“I see I’ll have to marry you off myself.”
“Oh, Father, I’ll marry when I’m good and ready. Right now I
can’t think of a single man I’m even remotely interested in.”
“And what of James Ladden?” Father asked
“James is . . . a friend. That’s all.” Valerie moved to the
burgundy-colored settee. Gathering her black hoop skirts, she sat
down. Her fingers played across the rose-patterned, embroidered
armrest. Her father’s gaze seemed troubled. She shifted. “Perhaps
I should ask Chastean to bring you some coffee.”
He gave her a blank look, as though she’d spoken in a foreign
tongue.
“Our cook . . . will bring you some coffee.”
He held up his empty scotch glass and said, “I’m fine with this.”
Valerie sighed when he rose to pour another drink. His fourth.
How she wished she could hide that scotch bottle!
“We’re having a houseguest tonight,” he said.
“What?” Her jaw slacked at the surprising news.
“You heard me.” He eyed the amber potion glistening in his
glass. “A houseguest.”
“Who is it?”
He lifted his slim shoulders and wagged his dark head. “Last
name’s McCabe. Don’t know his first. He’s the son of an acquaintance.”
He looked her way. “I extended the invitation before I
knew you would burst in from school unannounced.”
Valerie chose to ignore the slight. “Where did you meet him,
or rather, his father?”
Father’s gaze met hers. His brown bloodshot eyes watered
slightly, and his Adam’s apple bobbed several times as if he were
struggling to contain his emotions. “I met him,” he continued in
a pinched voice, “just after your mother passed away.”
Valerie swallowed an anguished lump of her own. He’d so
rarely spoken of Mama since her death.
Her mind drifted back to that terrible day she’d received the
news. She’d been at school, getting ready to paint with the other
girls when a telegram had been delivered. The weighty sorrow
that descended then returned now as she recalled the words:
Your mother took ill with a fever on 23 June 1861 and
has died. You have our sympathies and our prayers. The
telegram was signed Mrs. Vincent Dupont, the doctor’s wife.
Upon returning home, Valerie learned that a tropical storm
had detained the family physician when her mother had taken
ill. He hadn’t been able to reach Mama in time to help her.
Valerie had never gotten a chance to say good-bye or even
attend Mama’s funeral.
“I miss her too.” Valerie whispered the admission, hoping this
time it wouldn’t fall on deaf ears.
But Father drained his glass and poured another. Number five.
“Our guest will be arriving sometime tonight. I’ll be out. I’ve
left instructions with Adalia.”
“You won’t be here to greet him?” Valerie swiped away an
errant tear and squared her shoulders.
“Not tonight.” He suddenly hollered for his coat, hat, and
walking stick.
“Where are you going?” Stunned, Valerie strode toward him.
“The club. For supper.”
“Again? But I had so hoped you’d come to the Donahues’
tonight and celebrate the coming of the New Year with me.”
“You should know right now, ma fille, that hope is a useless word
in the English vocabulary. All of mine died with your mother.”
Valerie’s breath caught at the admission, tears obscuring her
vision as the portly British maid, who’d been part of the family
ever since Valerie could recall, entered the room carrying Father’s
belongings. He donned his winter coat.
“I hadn’t planned to stay home to entertain a houseguest.”
“I don’t expect you to.” He moved into the foyer and adjusted
his black top hat. “Adalia will show him to his room, and you
can go to your party.”
“But—” He swung open the front door and disappeared, closing it
behind him before Valerie could speak again. All she could do
was stand there, stunned.
At last she exhaled, her lower lip extended so the puff of air
soared upward and wafted over the strands on her forehead. “Oh,
this is a fine mess.” She folded her arms.
“You needn’t worry. I’ll be sure to tidy the gentleman’s room.”
“I know you will.” Valerie smiled at the good-natured woman.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, dearie. But here now—” Adalia bustled
across the room and slipped one arm around Valerie’s shoulders.
“Don’t look so glum.”
“I can’t help it.” Valerie’s bottom lip quivered as she peered
into the maid’s bright green eyes. “My father has no room in his
life for me, Adalia. I’m a burden to him.” She paused. “Maybe I
always have been, but I never noticed because of Mama.”
Adalia patted her shoulder.
When the moment passed, Valerie straightened. “Well, Father
said I can go to the party. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“Go. I’ll take care of Mr. McCabe. Now you’d best be getting
yourself ready.”
Valerie gazed down at her dark skirts. “And another thing. I’m
tired of this dreary mourning garb. It’s been six months.”
“That it has, and you’ve fulfilled your societal obligations and
behaved as any good daughter would.” Holding her by the shoulders,
she turned Valerie so they stood face-to-face. “I don’t think
I’m out of place to say that y’ mother’d want each of us to go on
with our living. So go and have fun tonight. As for y’ father’s guest,
he can occupy himself in the library. Plenty o’ books in there.”
Valerie sighed, remembering some of Father’s former houseguests.
“He’s probably some eccentric old geezer who’ll just want
to read and go to sleep anyway.”
Adalia snorted. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “We’ve
seen our share of those over the years, now haven’t we?”
“Yes.” A smile crept across Valerie’s face. “We certainly have
at that.”
****
Beneath the bright glow from her bedroom’s wall sconces, Valerie
studied her reflection. She selected a sapphire-blue silk gown
with satin trim around its off-the-shoulder neckline. The flouncy
creation matched the color of her eyes and complemented her
pale complexion. Adalia had expertly swept up Valerie’s dark
brown hair into a becoming chignon, although several tendrils
rebelliously escaped and curled around her face.
“Pretty as a princess, y’ are. Just like y’ mother.” Adalia stood
back to admire her. “You look just like her.”
“Thank you.” Valerie took the compliment as high praise. “But
do you think I seem a bit pale?” She pinched her cheeks until
they turned a rosy pink.
“Not anymore.” Adalia placed her hands on her hips. Valerie
smiled, then chuckled. Adalia turned and folded an article of
clothing on Valerie’s four-poster bed. “Now, you be sure to catch
the latest gossip, dearie. Chastean and I are dependin’ on you.”
Valerie whirled from the full-length mirror in a swish of silk.
“Why, Adalia, I don’t listen to gossip.”
“’Tis such a pity. We’ll be needin’ something to talk about
while we stir our soap.”
“Mama’s soap.” Valerie’s grin faded as wistfulness set in. She’d
almost forgotten how she and Mama used to create the specially
scented soaps from garden herbs and the essential oils that Father
had shipped in from around the world. The practice had started
with a church bazaar for which Mama had to bring something
she’d made, something unique.
She called her little square bars “Psalm 55 Soap” after her
favorite passage of Scripture. Mama gave them to friends or
left them near the basin in the guest room with a handwritten
portion of that psalm. Feeling a sudden deep determination to
hang on to the memory, Valerie decided to somehow keep her
mother’s custom alive.
“We’ll make a new batch soon,” she said.
“Good, ’cause we’re down to the last few bars of the lavender
rose.”One of Valerie’s favorites. “They’re from the last batch Mama
made?”
Adalia replied with a remorseful bob of her gray-blonde head.
That weighty sorrow descended again. Valerie’s shoulders
sagged.
Several long, reverent seconds ticked by, and finally Adalia
picked up where she’d left off. “I’m particularly interested in
hearing if Mrs. Field’s wayward daughter married that sailor she
ran away with.” She fidgeted with Valerie’s dress. “So listen up.”
“I’ll do no such thing. Besides, James told me yesterday that
Nora Mae married the man in a private ceremony.”
“Y’ don’t say!”
Valerie turned to her. “I shouldn’t have even repeated that,
except there’s nothing wrong with saying a wedding took place,
right?”
“Right.”
Valerie narrowed her gaze. Maybe she had succumbed to
gossiping after all.
“Now you’d best get downstairs.” Adalia wisely changed the
subject. “Mr. Ladden’ll be here soon, and you know how impatient
that one gets if he has to wait even a minute.”
“You go on down. I’ll be there in a bit.” Valerie wanted to
check her reflection one last time.
“Don’t tarry.”
“I won’t.”
The maid left, and Valerie checked her reflection once more. It
felt good to shed those black mourning clothes. She thought of all
her friends she hadn’t seen in the almost year and a half since she’d
been away at Miss C. J. Hollingsworth’s. They’d always been such
fun-loving girls. Valerie smiled, thinking about how they used to
laugh together with chatter of balls and beaus and fashion.
Would it be the same when they saw each other again tonight?
Sadness spilled over her when she thought things might have
changed. She felt so removed from those subjects now. They
seemed trite, considering her present circumstances. She’d
never imagined her life without Mama. But here her future lay,
stretched out before her in grim uncertainty.
Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee . . .
Valerie smiled as part of Mama’s favorite psalm waltzed across
her mind. Drawing in a deep breath, she plucked her satin shawl
from where it lay on her canopy bed. She pulled it around her
bare shoulders, admiring its ivory softness, and fixed her mind
on the gala. She’d laugh and dance, and maybe some semblance
of joy would return to her life.
Leaving her bedroom, Valerie made her way down the stairs to
the parlor. As it happened, she turned out to be the one who did
the waiting. It seemed forever before she heard James’s carriage
pull up in front of the house.
At long last he entered the foyer, looking dapper in his overcoat
with its fur-trimmed collar. He shed it and handed the garment,
along with his hat, to Adalia. Valerie noted his foggy-gray dress
coat, waistcoat, and matching trousers. The flame-red curls on
his head, usually unruly, were combed neatly back.
“Why, James Ladden, don’t you look handsome!” She held out
her hand in greeting, and he took it at once.
“Thank you, honey. I’ll have you know this suit is cut from the
best cloth money can buy.”
“It’s quite . . . nice.” Valerie felt a bit wounded that he didn’t
remark on her gown or the style of her hair.
Instead James puffed out his chest and smiled. “We have some
time before we have to go.” He ambled across the parlor’s large
Persian carpet. “Perhaps a drink to warm the blood would be
appropriate.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll call for Adalia.” She flicked a glance at him,
hoping he didn’t imbibe like Father. This was, after all, their first
public outing together. A moment later she decided to serve hot
cider in spite of the fact he hinted at something stronger.
She looked at him again. James had been a childhood friend,
an auburn-headed prankster who annoyed her by putting twigs in
her braided hair and calling her names. He threw slimy, creepycrawly
creatures at her and laughed when she screamed in terror.
But then James matured into a dashing young man, and when
he discovered that she’d come home from school, he offered to
escort her to every social event in New Orleans beginning this
New Year’s Eve. She’d accepted because . . . well, it was a kind offer,
and James seemed to have transformed into a gentleman.
“Is your father home?”
“No, he chose to ring in the New Year at the club.”
“He won’t be at the Donahues’, then?”
Valerie shook her head.
“I had hoped to speak with him tonight about an important
subject.” His frown turned to a smile. “You.”
“Me?”
“I have courtship on my mind.”
His news surprised her. “I thought we were just friends, James.”
“We are. But the way you look tonight makes me wish we were
more.”
So he’d noticed. That was something anyway. However, his
backhanded flattering didn’t change her feelings for him. But
unwilling to hurt him, she chose her words with care. “I am fond
of you. It’s just—”
“Y’ father’s houseguest just arrived.” Adalia poked her head into
the room. “What would you like me to do with him, dearie?”
Valerie grimaced. “Oh, yes . . . ” She’d almost forgotten about
the man. “Show him in.” Looking back at James, she said, “Excuse
me for a few minutes.”
“What’s this?” He stepped forward, frowning his displeasure.
“What houseguest?”
“Forgive me. My father only told me at the last minute.” She
moved toward the door. “I must see to him. It won’t take too
long.”
Putting on her best hostess’s smile, Valerie strolled into the
foyer in time to see a tall but shadowy figure of a man coming
down the hallway. He must have entered through the back way.
Over his shoulder he carried a large satchel and, in the opposite
hand, a valise. As he neared, she saw that he was soaked to the
skin. Rain dripped from the wide brim hat.
“Good evening.” He set his burdens down with a thunk onto
the tiled floor. “Name’s Benjamin McCabe.”
“Valerie Fontaine.” She held out her hand to him. He took
it politely, and Valerie felt how cold he was. He also appeared
young, in his midtwenties. Hardly the old codger she and Adalia
had envisioned.
“Miss Fontaine, I must say you look . . . lovely this evening.” He
spoke in a velvet baritone, and yet Valerie heard a hint of a twang
in his voice.
“Why, thank you.” It had been more of a compliment than
what she’d received from James.
He shifted his stance. “The liveryman is seeing to my wagon.”
He gave a backward nod. “I trust it will be safe in the stables.
Most of my equipment—”
“Your wagon will be just fine,” Valerie assured him. “Willie is
a very capable attendant.”
An awkward moment passed as Valerie tried to get a better
view of the man standing there in the dim, candlelit entryway.
“I apologize for dripping rain on your floor.” Mr. McCabe
glanced down at the puddle forming beneath him. “That last
downpour caught me.”
My Opinion:
This was a great book, set during the Civil War, I was able to really get into it and lose myself in the plot and characters. I could feel the pain of Valerie losing her mother and then later another close relative and of Ben's seemingly failing search for his brother. This book had the twists and turns that you can lose yourself in.
Andrea Boeshaar's love of writing is displayed in this book and the care she puts into each character, as if they were her own family. The care she has taken in crafting this story is one that can be relished wether in bite sized nuggets or sitting and reading it all at once. With no unseemly romance scenes this is a book that any lady could feel safe with reading and not sacrificing her beliefs.
The decade of the 'thirties was a time of enormous uncertainty--for the world, for America, and in particular for one lonely, struggling mother and her disabled son. Their story is one of unyielding love and incredible sacrifices in the face of circumstances beyond belief.
But then The Gift appears•where has it come from, and why? How can a young boy who cannot communicate provide comfort and direction to seekers who learn of the special ability? Whatever the source, its presence brings a single shaft of light and hope to Mary and her beloved son, Jack•. Will it be enough?
My Opinion: I'm a fan of the Love Comes Softly series directed and created by Michael Landon, Jr. and so when I saw that he has authored a new book (he's written one other that I haven't read) I wanted to read it for myself and find out if it was a great book. I was so happy! This book was not only good it was GREAT!!! I couldn't put it down, I read it in two days with little to no breaks.
From the first page I was drawn into Mary's life both as a mom and wife - well until she has to flee a cheating and hateful husband - then I was drawn into her life as a mom. I could feel the fear and the freedom once mom and son fled because of fear for their lives. I could feel the agony as she lost her money, tried to find a place to sleep and the relief as she found a job with room and board. Her son has a gift and it must be used wisely and Mary comes to realize this as she ends up losing what she values the most. This book is a wonderful read that will pull you in and take you to what the world was in the 30's.
**Thank you to Bethany House for providing a copy of this book in exchange for my review.
"The Carousel Painter" is a great book from author, Judith Miller. I'd like to thank Jim Hart at Bethany House Publishers for providing me a copy of this book in exchange for my review.
From the Bethany House website:
"When Carrington Brouwer receives the enviable job of painting carousel horses for a factory in Ohio, she believes her future is secure. But after an expensive necklace disappears from the home where she's been staying, she's caught up in a search for the truth that puts her entire livelihood--and her developing relationship with the factory manager--at risk. Can she lead police to the real culprit before she loses everything? "
My Opinion:
I really enjoyed this book, maybe it was the fact that it was set in Ohio or the fact that it's a historical fiction. The amount of historical attributes really had me drawn in from the first paragraph. I was also drawn to the characters which were well developed and I could feel myself actually feeling like they were my friends and I was able to feel the emotions that the book evoked. The emotions ranged from sadness as Carrie has to deal with a new home after loosing her father, anger at man who wants to court her friend, and happiness when Carrie finds loves.
At the very, very end of the book there are a couple times where two of the main characters do kiss but since they are planning their marriage it didn't fluster me too much, even if I would have preferred they waited until they were married. Also the man who turns out to be a "cad" makes a couple of advances towards Carrington but she quickly puts an end to it and the man is found out in the end. If you're looking for a light read that will sweep you away into another time then this is the book for you!
I have enjoyed reading Kim Vogel Sawyer's writing in the past and reading Fields of Grace was no different. A superb novel written by an author with a great talent and penchant for the Amish and Mennonite people - this book is sure to have you rallying, crying and cheering after you have finished it. It was a quick read for me since I couldn't bear to put it down, I HAD to know what was going to happen to this family to the new country of America!
Russian Mennonites are either forced to allow their adult sons to enter military service or leave for America. The Vogt family decides in order to keep their belief of non-resistance they are going to leave - and they have three sons one who will be conscripted in a few months if they don't leave. The five Vogt's and Uncle Eli board a ship bound for America, but as they travel tragedy breaks out. Can the mom, Lillian's, faith survive the hardship and the frontier - you'll have to read to find out.
Go on board with the Vogt's as they travel amid other emmigrants to a new country - one that promises land and freedom. Kim Vogel Sawyer does a wonderful job in making you feel as if you making the journey with the emmigrants. From the crummy food, to the stench of body odor and sickness and heartache and then on to the harshness of frontier life - the reader will definitely appreciate the feel of actually living with the characters. With characters who are well developed you feel like you are extended family dropping in for an intimate look at their life.
Also with Kim Vogel Sawyer's books you won't find lurid romance scenes or other un-Christian attributes (although at times the characters do question God - but it isn't un-Christian for them to do so) so it's safe reading for a married woman. Since there is an allusion to the husband and wife having consumated their marriage, I would caution for that, but again it's not in detail and nothing about it is untoward. I would definitely recommend this to friends without feeling like I have led them astray.
**I was provided a copy of Fields of Grace by Bethany House Publishers Book Reviewers in exchange for my honest review.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
***Special thanks to Amy Lathrop of LitFUSE Publicity Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tricia Goyer was named Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference "Writer of the Year" in 2003. Her book Night Song won Book of the Year from ACFW in the Long Historical Fiction category. Her book Life Interrupted: The Scoop On Being a Young Mom was a Gold Medallion Finalist. Tricia has written hundreds of articles, Bible Study notes, and both fiction and non-fiction books.
Ocieanna Fleissis a published writer and has edited six of Tricia Goyer's historical novels. She lives with her husband and their four children in the Seattle area. Connect with Ocieanna on Facebook!
Product Details:
List Price: $12.99 Paperback: 320 pages Publisher: Summerside Press (December 1, 2009) Language: English ISBN-10: 1935416294 ISBN-13: 978-1935416296
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The sound of little girls’ voices and the sight of the sun streaming through the tall, second-story window of the Open Door Home for Destitute Girls, a privately owned orphanage on upper Manhattan, told nineteen-year-old Julia Cavanaugh that the day had started without her. Julia, an orphan herself, now running the place for the owner, brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes. She submitted to a second yawn as a twelve-year-old girl hopped onto her bed.
“He’s gonna ask her to marry him, don’t you think, Miss Cavanaugh?”
“Oh, Shelby.” Julia wiped the sleep from her eyes and smiled into the freckled face staring eagerly at her. “Give me a moment to wake before you go asking such things.” Julia stroked the girl’s cheek, her heart seeming to double within her chest with love for the youngster.
The embroidery sampler she’d fallen asleep working on still lay at the end of her bed. She picked it up and eyed the image of a small house she’d copied from Godey’s Lady’s Book. Above the house, she’d stitched the words Home Sweet Home in fancy script. Gazing around the broad room lined with small metal cots and bustling with little-girl chatter, Julia noted the embroidered pillowslips, carefully pressed—albeit dingy—curtains, and dandelions smiling from scavenged jam-jar vases. She’d done her best to make the room pleasant for the girls—and herself. She glanced at their faces and smiled, gladly embracing her role as caretaker.
A less-than-subtle “ahem” from Shelby reminded Julia she’d been asked a question. She glanced at her young charge, still perched on the end of her bed. “What did you ask?”
“Finally.” Shelby eyed her with mock frustration. “I said, do you think they will get married—Mrs. Hamlin and Mr. Gaffin? Haven’t you noticed the way they look at each other?” Shelby’s cheeks hinted of red. Her golden hair was already fixed in a proper bun, her hands and face washed, and her simple dress clean and pressed despite its patches and stray threads.
“Shelby Bruce.” Julia shook her head, as Shelby’s two-year-old sister Beatrice wiggled onto Julia’s lap with a squeal. Julia planted a firm kiss on the top of Bea’s head.
“Married? I don’t think so,” Julia continued. “Mrs. Hamlin would’ve told us—told me—if she was being courted. Mr. Gaffin’s just an old family friend.” Julia wondered where on earth the girl got the notion that their headmistress wished to marry.
Although they have been spending a lot of time together. Julia pushed the thought out of her mind as little Bea shuffled to a stand, planting her pint-sized feet on Julia’s thighs. “Fammy fend!” She pointed a chubby finger at her older sister, Shelby.
“All right, Bea.” Julia plopped the toddler on the floor and swiveled her toward the small bed she shared with Shelby. “Time to straighten your bed.” Then Julia eyed the twins. “Charity, Grace, would you two virtuous girls fetch fresh water for the basin?”
Shelby pushed away from the bed, wrinkled her brow, and thrust her hand behind her as if to support her back—a perfect imitation of their middle-aged headmistress. “Now where did I put my spectacles?” Shelby clucked her tongue as she waddled forward.
Laughter spilled from the lips of the girls around the room. Encouraged, Shelby scratched her head. She plopped down on her bed then hopped up again as if surprised, pulling imaginary spectacles from under her rump. “Oh!” she squealed. “There they are.”
The laughter grew louder, and Julia pursed her lips together to smother the impulse to laugh along with them. She planted her fists on her hips. “That’s enough. All of you know what must be done before breakfast.” The girls’ laughter quieted to soft giggles hidden behind cupped palms as they scattered to do their chores.
Shelby lingered behind, her form now straight and her eyes pensive. “Maybe she forgot to tell you, Miss Cavanaugh.” The young girl gazed up at her. “The way they look at each other—it’s like my ma and pa used to, that’s all.”
Julia folded a stray sandy blond curl behind the girl’s ear. “Don’t worry, my sweet. If Mrs. Hamlin was getting married, we’d be the first to know.”
Julia hoped her own gaze didn’t reflect the sinking disquiet that draped her. Mr. Gaffin was a rich world traveler. If there was any truth to Shelby’s suspicion, Julia couldn’t imagine he’d let Mrs. Hamlin continue to work with orphans. Perhaps they’d get a new headmistress.
Or maybe the girls would be separated, moved to new homes…
If Mrs. Hamlin got married, all their lives would be radically changed. And if Julia had to leave the orphanage, she had no idea what she would do. Julia swept that painful thought away and steadied her gaze at Shelby. She couldn’t hide her true feelings from this girl. Julia took Shelby’s hand and answered as honestly as she could.
“I don’t think she’ll get married, but if she does, God will take care of us, like He always has.” Julia lifted her chin in a smile. “And really, Mrs. Hamlin may be forgetful, but no one could forget that. I sure wouldn’t.”
Ardy, a shy Swedish girl, removed her dirty sheets from a small bed and then approached, taking Julia’s hand. “Don’t ya think you’ll ever be gettin’ married?”
“Actually, there is something I’ve been wanting to tell you all….” Julia leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees.
The two girls eyed each other in surprise, and Shelby’s brow furrowed.
“Come closer.” Julia curled a finger, bidding them.
“What is it?” Shelby asked, her eyes glued to Julia.
The girls leaned in. “I’d like to tell you…that there’s a wonderful man who’s asked me to marry him!”
The squeals of two girls erupted, followed by the cheers of nearly three dozen others who’d been quietly listening from the stairwell.
“There is?” Shelby reached forward and squeezed Julia’s hand.
Julia let out a hefty sigh and giggled. “No, you sillies. Well, at least not yet. Someday. Maybe.”
Shelby pouted “But you said… ”
“I said I’d like to tell you I had a man. I’d sure like to, but of course since I don’t, I’m happy to stay here with all of you.”
The girls moaned.
The squeak of the front door down on the first floor of the Revolutionary War–era home-turned-orphanage drew their attention. They waited as Mrs. Hamlin’s familiar chortle filled the air, along with a bash and clang of items—hopefully food and supplies that she’d picked up.
“Julia!” Mrs. Hamlin yelped. “Julia, dear, where are you?”
“Coming.” Julia hurried down the stairs to help the older woman.
Julia neared the bottom of the steps and paused, trying to stifle a laugh at the sight of the twinkly-eyed woman sprawled flat on her back. Scattered boxes and bags covered the donated rug.
“Mrs. Hamlin! What on earth? Why didn’t you get a steward to help you?”
“Oh, I didn’t want to be a bother.” She cheerfully picked herself up. “I was in such a hurry to show you all what I’d bought. And to tell you my surprise. Such a wonderful surprise.” Julia eyed the boxes and noted they were from R.H. Macy & Co. More than a dozen boxes waited to be opened, and she couldn’t imagine the cost.
“I found just what the girls need, and on sale!” the headmistress exclaimed.
What they need is more food—vitamin drops, too—and maybe a few new schoolbooks. But Julia didn’t dare say it. And somehow God’s hand of providence always provided.
“New clothes, I gather. That is a surprise.”
“But only half of it, dear.” Mrs. Hamlin rubbed her palms expectantly. “I also must tell you my news. The best news an old widow could hope for.”
Julia followed Mrs. Hamlin’s gaze toward the idle youngsters who’d gathered on the staircase to watch. Her eyes locked with Shelby’s, then she quickly looked away. “News?” The muscles in Julia’s stomach tightened.
“Girls,” Julia shooed them away with a wave of her hand, “you know better than to eavesdrop. Off to chores with you. We’ll have breakfast soon.”
The girls started to scurry off, but Mrs. Hamlin halted them with her words.
“No, no,” her high-pitched voice hailed. “Come back. This news is for all of you.” They circled around her, and she tenderly patted their bobbing heads.
“What is it?” Julia wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Mrs. Hamlin’s cheeks so rosy or her eyes so bright.
“I’m getting married!”
My Opinion:
Blown away! Another hit from Tricia Goyer and another co-author, Ocieanne Fleiss - like the other review I posted for Tricia's other co-authored book "The Swiss Courier" it was a fast read! I read this book in a record time - two days - again an amazing feat and couldn't put it down. I had to put it down but it was really hard to do so staying up until the wee hours to finish it!
Harkening back to the days of the orphan trains and mail order brides, the reader is taken from the streets of New York City and a orphanage to the streets of the untamed West - Lonesome Prarie. Her heart torn at having to leave 'her girls' in the care of others who promise to care for them Julia learns another shocking surprise! Full of godly insight from the characters, again there is no risque romantic behavior, which is wonderful since one of the main chacaters is a circuit riding Parson.
If you're a history buff like I am, there is plenty of that in this book as well. I wish there were still buffalo tunnels so I could enjoy in awe what Julia did when arriving in the West. This is yet another book that I would not be afraid to let my daughters read when they get older, nothing in this book to be ashamed or red-cheeked about. A romance with just enough history thrown in to make a good read while not having to worry about what Jesus would think if He caught you reading it (except to say He may think I could have washed the dishes!)!
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
***Special thanks to Amy Lathrop of the LitFUSE Publicity Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHORS:
Tricia Goyer is the author of several books, including Night Song and Dawn of a Thousand Nights, both past winners of the ACFW's Book of the Year Award for Long Historical Romance. Goyer lives with her family in Montana.
Mike Yorkey is the author or coauthor of dozens of books, including the bestselling Every Man's Battle series. Married to a Swiss native, Yorkey lived in Switzerland for 18 months. He and his family currently reside in California.
List Price: $13.99 Paperback: 336 pages Publisher: Revell (October 1, 2009) Language: English ISBN-10: 0800733363 ISBN-13: 978-0800733360
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
To the Reader
In the early afternoon of July 20, 1944, Colonel Claus Graf von Stauffenberg confidently lugged a sturdy briefcase into Wolfsschanze—Wolf’s Lair—the East Prussian redoubt of Adolf Hitler. Inside the black briefcase, a small but powerful bomb ticked away, counting down the minutes to der Führer’s demise.
Several generals involved in the assassination plot arranged to have Stauffenberg invited to a routine staff meeting with Hitler and two dozen officers. The one o’clock conference was held in the map room of Wolfsschanze’s cement-lined underground bunker. Stauffenberg quietly entered the conference a bit tardy and managed to get close to Hitler by claiming he was hard of hearing. While poring over detailed topological maps of the Eastern Front’s war theater, the colonel unobtrusively set the briefcase underneath the heavy oak table near Hitler’s legs. After waiting for an appropriate amount of time, Stauffenberg excused himself and quietly exited the claustrophobic bunker, saying he had to place an urgent call to Berlin. When a Wehrmacht officer noticed the bulky briefcase was in his way, he inconspicuously moved it away from Hitler, placing it behind the other substantial oak support. That simple event turned the tide of history.
Moments later, a terrific explosion catapulted one officer to the ceiling, ripped off the legs of others, and killed four soldiers instantly. Although the main force of the blast was directed away from Hitler, the German leader nonetheless suffered burst eardrums, burned hair, and a wounded arm. He was in shock but still alive—and unhinged for revenge.
Stauffenberg, believing Hitler was dead, leaped into a staff car with his aide Werner von Haeften. They talked their way out of the Wolfsschanze compound and made a dash for a nearby airfield, where they flew back to Berlin in a Heinkel He 111. When news got out that Hitler had survived, Stauffenberg and three other conspirators were quickly tracked down, captured, and executed at midnight by a makeshift firing squad.
An enraged Hitler did not stop there to satisfy his bloodlust. For the next month and a half, he instigated a bloody purge, resulting in the execution of dozens of plotters and hundreds of others remotely involved in the assassination coup. The Gestapo, no doubt acting under Hitler’s orders, treated the failed attempt on the Führer’s life as a pretext for arresting 5,000 opponents of the Third Reich, many of whom were imprisoned and tortured.
What many people do not know is that Hitler’s manhunt would dramatically alter the development of a secret weapon that could turn the tide of the war for Nazi Germany—the atomic bomb.
This is that story . . .
1
Waldshut, Germany
Saturday, July 29, 1944
4 p.m.
He hoped his accent wouldn’t give him away. The young Swiss kept his head down as he sauntered beneath the frescoed archways that ringed the town square of Waldshut, an attractive border town in the foothills of the southern Schwarzwald. He hopped over a foot-wide, waterfilled trench that ran through the middle of the cobblestone square and furtively glanced behind to see if anyone had detected his presence.
Even though Switzerland lay just a kilometer or two away across the Rhine River, the youthful operative realized he no longer breathed free air. Though he felt horribly exposed—as if he were marching down Berlin’s Kurfürstendamm screaming anti-Nazi slogans—he willed himself to remain confident.
His part was a small but vital piece of the larger war effort. Yes, he risked his life, but he was not alone in his passion. A day’s drive away, American tanks drove for the heart of
Paris—and quickened French hearts for libération. Far closer, Nazi reprisals thinned the ranks of his fellow resisters. The young man shuddered at the thought of being captured, lined up against a wall, and hearing the click-click of a safety being unlatched from a Nazi machine gun. Still, his legs propelled him on.
Earlier that morning, he’d introduced himself as Jean- Pierre to members of an underground cell. The French Resistance had recently stepped up their acts of sabotage after the Allies broke out of the Normandy beachhead two weeks earlier, and they’d all taken nom de guerres in their honor.
Inside the pocket of his leather jacket, Jean-Pierre’s right hand formed a claw around a Mauser C96 semiautomatic pistol. His grip tightened, as if squeezing the gun’s metallic profile would reduce the tension building in his chest. The last few minutes before an operation always came to this.
His senses peaked as he took in the sights and sounds around him. At one end of the town square, a pair of disheveled older women complained to a local farmer about the fingerling size of the potato crop. A horse-drawn carriage, transporting four galvanized tin milk containers, rumbled by while a young newsboy screamed out, “Nachrichten!” The boy’s right hand waved day-old copies of the Badische Zeitung from Freiburg, eighty kilometers to the northwest.
Jean-Pierre didn’t need to read the newspaper to know that more men and women were losing their lives by the minute due to the reprisals of a madman.
Though the planned mission had been analyzed from every angle, there were always uncertain factors that would affect not only the outcome of the mission but who among them would live. Or die.
Their task was to rescue a half-dozen men arrested by local authorities following the assassination attempt on Reichskanzler Adolf Hitler. If things went as Jean-Pierre hoped,
the men would soon be free from the Nazis’ clutches. If not, the captives’ fate included an overnight trip to Berlin, via a cattle car, where they would be transported to Gestapo headquarters on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8. The men would be questioned—tortured if they weren’t immediately forthcoming— until names, dates, and places gushed as freely as the blood spilling upon the cold, unyielding concrete floor.
Not that revealing any secrets would save their lives. When the last bit of information had been wrung from their minds, they’d be marched against a blood-spattered wall or to the gallows equipped with well-stretched hemp rope. May God have mercy on their souls.
Jean-Pierre willed himself to stop thinking pessimistically. He glanced at his watch—a pricey Hanhart favored by Luftwaffe pilots. His own Swiss-made Breitling had been tucked inside a wooden box on his nightstand back home, where he had also left a handwritten letter. A love note, actually, to a woman who had captured his heart—just in case he never returned. But this was a time for war, not love. And he had
to keep reminding himself of that.
Jean-Pierre slowed his gait as he left the town square and approached the town’s major intersection. As he had been advised, a uniformed woman—her left arm ringed with a red
armband and black swastika—directed traffic with a whistle and an attitude.
She was like no traffic cop he’d ever seen. Her full lips were colored with red lipstick. Black hair tumbled upon the shoulder epaulettes of the Verkehrskontrolle’s gray-green
uniform. She wielded a silver-toned baton, directing a rambling assortment of horse-drawn carriages, battered sedans, and hulking military vehicles jockeying for the right of way.
She looked no older than twenty-five, yet acted like she owned the real estate beneath her feet. Jean-Pierre couldn’t help but let his lips curl up in a slight grin, knowing what was
to come. “Entschuldigung, wo ist das Gemeindehaus?” a voice said beside him. Jean-Pierre turned to the rotund businessman in the fedora and summer business suit asking for directions to City Hall.
“Ich bin nicht sicher.” He shrugged and was about to fashion another excuse when a military transport truck turned a corner two blocks away, approaching in their direction.
“Es tut mir Leid.” With a wave, Jean-Pierre excused himself and sprinted toward the uniformed traffic officer. In one quick motion, his Mauser was drawn.
He didn’t break stride as he tackled the uniformed woman to the ground. Her scream blasted his ear, and more cries from onlookers chimed in.
Jean-Pierre straddled the frightened traffic officer and pressed the barrel of his pistol into her forehead. Her shrieking immediately ceased.
“Don’t move, and nothing will happen to you.”
Jean-Pierre glanced up as he heard the mud-caked transport truck skid to a stop fifty meters from them.
A Wehrmacht soldier hopped out. “Halt!” He clumsily drew his rifle to his right shoulder.
Jean-Pierre met the soldier’s eyes and rolled off the female traffic officer.
A shot rang out. The German soldier’s body jerked, and a cry of pain erupted from his lips. He clutched his left chest as a rivulet of blood stained his uniform.
“Nice shot, Suzanne.” Jean-Pierre jumped to his feet, glancing at the traffic cop, her stomach against the asphalt with her pistol drawn.
Suzanne rose from the ground, crouched, and aimed.
Her pistol, which had been hidden in an ankle holster, was now pointed at the driver behind the windshield. The determined look in her gaze was one Jean-Pierre had come to
know well.
One, two, three shots found their mark, shattering the truck’s glass into shards. The driver slumped behind the wheel.
As expected, two Wehrmacht soldiers jumped out of the back of the truck and took cover behind the rear wheels.
Before Jean-Pierre had a chance to take aim, shots rang out from a second-story window overlooking the intersection.
The German soldiers crumbled to the cobblestone pavement in a heap.
“Los jetzt!” He clasped Suzanne’s hand, and they sprinted to the rear of the truck. Two black-leather-coated members of their resistance group had already beaten them there.
Jean- Pierre couldn’t remember their names, but it didn’t matter.
What mattered was the safety of the prisoners in the truck. Jean-Pierre only hoped the contact’s information had been correct.
With a deep breath, he lifted the curtain and peered into the truck. A half-dozen frightened men sat on wooden benches with hands raised. Their wide eyes and dropped jaws displayed their fear.
“Don’t shoot!” one cried.
The sound of a police siren split the air.
“Everyone out!” Jean-Pierre shouted. “I’ll take this one. The rest of you, go with them.” He pointed the tip of his Mauser at the men in leather jackets.
The sirens increased in volume as the speeding car gobbled up distance along the Hauptstrasse, weaving through the autos and pedestrians. An officer in the passenger’s seat leaned out, rifle pointed.
Jean-Pierre leaned into the truck and yanked the prisoner’s arm. Suzanne grabbed the other. “Move it, come on!”
Bullets from an approaching vehicle whizzed past Jean- Pierre’s ear. The clearly frightened prisoner suddenly found his legs, and the three sprinted away from the speedingcar.
Jean-Pierre’s feet pounded the pavement, and he tugged on the prisoner’s arm, urging him to run faster. He could hear the screech of the tires as the police car stopped just behind the truck. Jean-Pierre hadn’t expected the local Polizei to respond so rapidly.
They needed to find cover—
More gunfire erupted, and as if reading his thoughts, Suzanne turned the prisoner toward a weathered column. Jean-Pierre crumbled against the pillar, catching his breath.
The columns provided cover, but not enough. Soon the police would be upon them. They had to make a move. Only ten steps separated them from turning the street corner and sprinting into Helmut’s watch store. From there, a car waited outside the back door.
Another hail of gunfire struck the plaster. Jean-Pierre mouthed a prayer under his breath.
“Suzanne, we have to get out of here!”
She crouched into a trembling ball, all confidence gone. “They’re surrounding us!” The terror in her uncertain timbre was clear. “But what can we do? We can’t let them see us run into the store.”
“Forget that. We have no choice!” Jean-Pierre raised his pistol and returned several volleys, firing at the two policemen perched behind a parked car.
“Listen to me,” he said to Suzanne, taking his eyes momentarily off the police car. “You have to go. You take this guy, and I’ll cover you. Once you turn the corner, it’s just twenty more meters to Helmut’s store.” His hands moved as he spoke, slamming a new clip of ammunition into his pistol.
“But what if—”
“I’ll join you. Now go!”
Jean-Pierre jumped from behind the protection of the column and rapidly fired several shots. One cop dared expose himself to return fire—not at Jean-Pierre but at the pair running for the corner.
No!
Jean-Pierre turned just in time to see Suzanne’s body lurch. The clean hit ripped into her flesh between the shoulder blades. She staggered for a long second before dropping
with a thud. The gangly prisoner didn’t even look back as he disappeared around the corner.
I can’t lose him, Jean-Pierre thought, remembering again the importance of this mission.
Yet to chase after the prisoner meant he’d have to leave his partner behind.
Suzanne . . .
He emptied his Mauser at the hidden policemen, ducking as he scrambled toward his partner. Sweeping up her bloody form, he managed to drag her around the corner to safety.
“Go,” Suzanne whispered.
“I can’t leave you. Stay with me—”
Her eyelids fluttered. “You need to go . . .” A long breath escaped, and her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond him.
Jean-Pierre dropped to his knees and ripped open Suzanne’s bloodstained woolen jacket. Her soaked chest neither rose nor fell. He swore under his breath and brushed a lock of
black hair from her face.
Jean-Pierre cocked his head. Incessant gunfire filled the air. His colleagues were apparently keeping the German soldiers and local Polizei at bay, at least for the time being. He knew only a few valuable seconds remained to escape with
the prisoner.
He planted a soft kiss on Suzanne’s forehead. “Until we see each other in heaven,” he whispered.
Jean-Pierre darted to a trash can, where the shaken prisoner had hunkered down, covering his head. The resistance fighter clutched the man’s left arm and hustled him inside the watch store, pushing past two startled women. The rear door was propped open, and a black Opel four-door idled in the alley.
With a few quick steps, they were inside the vehicle.
Before the rear door was shut, the driver jerked the car into gear, and the Opel roared down the tight alley. The door slammed shut, and Jean-Pierre glanced back. No one followed.
The car merged onto a busier street, and only then did Jean-Pierre sink in his seat and close his eyes.
Soon they’d arrive at a safe house pitched on the Rhine River. And later, with the dark night sky as their protection, a skiff would sneak them into the warm arms of Mother
Switzerland—a skiff piloted by the mentor who’d recruited him. His nom de guerre: Pascal.
Jean-Pierre’s mission would soon be complete, but at what cost? Another agent—a good woman and a friend—had been sacrificed.
He had followed orders for the greater good, to save the life of a nameless prisoner. He only hoped this mission was worth it.
Tricia Goyer and Mike Yorkey, The Swiss Courier: A Novel,
I am so happy to say that this is another prize winning book by Tricia Goyer and her co-author Mike Yorkey. I have truly grown to enjoy Tricia's writing and the historical facts she (and co-authors) expertly weave into the story. From the go the reader is pulled into the story - one that is extremly hard to put down - I finished it in two days which is quite a feat when one is a homeschooling mom of three young ones! I just cannot say enough about this book!
I am a history buff so when I am completely pulled into a story like "The Swiss Courier" I know it'll be a great read. I could feel the tension as Gabi has to cross the Swiss/German border and I could feel the sorrow of the Jewish mother and her husband as they were being escorted back to the Germans and felt they had no choice but to jump off a bridge rather than be tortured in the concetration camps. When an author, or authors, pulls the reader into the book so thoroughly then it's a smashing success!
Even though there is some romance between two main characters, I was appreciative of the fact that there were no risque love scenes. There was a kiss between two characters right before a dangerous mission but nothing like some books I have read lately. This is truly a godly book and one that I would not be afraid to let my daughter read when she is old enough to understand about the horrible nightmare that was the Third Reich. Way to go Tricia Goyer and Mike Yorkey!
There are some series when you know that it's going to end but you don't want it to because the characters have become friends. This is the case in the Brides of Gallatin County book 3 entitled A Dream To Call My Own by Tracie Peterson and published by Bethany House. What a great series it has been and it was great meeting the Gallatin sisters.
This book is the story of Lacy Gallatin, the third and youngest of the Gallatin sisters. She is strong willed and not at all like women of her day and she has a mission - to find her father's killer. Dave Shepard has been one to tell Lacy how unfeminine she is and it drives Lacy crazy - to the point where she and the deputy sheriff for Gallatin crossing bicker and fight. Neither are prepared for their feelings and are even more unprepared for what happens later.
This story is one of suspense, as the unsavory characters want to ruin Gallatin Crossing and have plans to take over the town for their own immoral and illegal happenings, regardless of who gets hurt - or killed. The characters become even more real as they have grown in the past two books in their faith in God and realize they must rely on Him and Him only for them to survive. The suspense is woven throughout the entire book, making it one that is hard to put down, at the same time though you don't want to leave the characters.
A Dream to Call My Own is also a love story, one of imperfectness, as all love is. A story of learning, truthfulness and communication. The characters realize that failure to learn can mean that they won't grow, either in their Faith or in their own personal lives such as becoming a lady. The characters emerge strong and it isn't your usual sappy love story - although I will say the kissing scenes would be inappropriate for a unmarried, young lady to read since the two kissing are not married - but the characters know when to say when because not only do they fear for their own reputations but they worry more about what God would think - much more important.
Kudos go out to Tracie Peterson for once again weaving another wonderful story! I'd love to see an addition telling her readers what happens to the Gallatin sisters, their town, children and husbands. Wouldn't it be nice to drop in again and see your friends to see what they have been up to?
My reviews for the first two books can be found at this post.
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