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  Praise for

  Be Still My Soul

  “The rugged charm of Appalachia is the perfect backdrop to mirror the hardship and beauty of Joanne Bischof’s tender, heart-tugging debut. The author’s lyrical voice drew me in; the rich detail and authentic emotion kept me turning the pages. Lovers of historical fiction and topsy-turvy romance will find much to rejoice about in this lovely story. Be Still My Soul is a delight from start to finish!”

  —CARLA STEWART, award-winning author of Chasing Lilacs and Stardust

  “Be Still My Soul is a rare gem: a powerful and compelling story for every woman who’s known love’s real ups and downs. Author Joanne Bischof draws a poignant picture of a forced marriage and its challenges and heartache, followed by the healing and joy of transformative love. A refreshingly honest new voice makes a memorable debut!”

  —ROSSLYN ELLIOTT, award-winning author of Fairer than Morning and Sweeter than Birdsong

  “Be Still My Soul is a wonderful debut from newcomer Joanne Bischof. If you grew up loving Janette Oke, you’ll want to read this tender tale of grace, forgiveness, and redemption.”

  —SUSAN MEISSNER, author of A Sound Among the Trees

  “Beautifully set in the Appalachian Mountains, Joanne Bischof’s debut novel is one of those rare finds that will keep you up burning the midnight oil. I literally couldn’t put it down! Her characters are engaging from the moment they walk onto the stage of your heart and so real you’ll remember them long after you turn the last page. As an author of two historical novels set in the Appalachian Mountains, I was enchanted by the setting and Joanne’s deft descriptions. I can’t wait to read book two of the series.”

  —DIANE NOBLE, best-selling author

  “Be Still My Soul gives readers a refreshing dip into nineteenth-century American Appalachian life, with a story that bubbles into the heart like a clear mountain spring. Ms. Bischof’s uplifting tale hits the palate as sweetly as the pancakes and honey her characters enjoy for breakfast. You’ll leave the book feeling you’ve made new friends you won’t want to forget.”

  —LINORE ROSE BURKARD, author of Before the Season Ends and The Country House Courtship

  “A moving debut! More than just a love story, Be Still My Soul takes compelling characters on a journey of redemption in the dangerous beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Joanne Bischof’s masterful and compassionate insight into human nature won me over. I can’t wait for the second book in the Cadence of Grace series!”

  —SARAH SUNDIN, award-winning author of the Wings of Glory series

  “Joanne Bischof offers a heartrending tale set in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, where two young souls must put away their past and accept life together as man and wife. The story is sometimes gut-wrenching, as the young couple must endure difficult trials that lead them to seek and find answers in the everlasting arms of Jesus. Be Still My Soul will stir your soul and will leave you thinking about the characters long after you’ve turned the last page.”

  —DEBORAH VOGTS, author of Snow Melts in Spring and Seeds of Summer

  BE STILL MY SOUL

  PUBLISHED BY MULTNOMAH BOOKS

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version and the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Joanne Bischof

  Cover design by Kristopher K. Orr; cover photograph by Mike Heath, Magnus Creative

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.

  MULTNOMAH and its mountain colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bischof, Joanne.

  Be still my soul : a novel / Joanne Bischof. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-1-60142-422-8

  1. Marital conflict—Fiction. 2. Life change events—Fiction. 3. Blue Ridge Mountains— Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.I75B47 2012

  813’.6—dc23

  2012014168

  v3.1_r1

  To my parents, Mike and Janette Soffes.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Author’s Note

  Readers Guide

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Weeping may endure for a night,

  but joy cometh in the morning.

  PSALM 30:5

  One

  The night air brushed her arms, and Lonnie prayed autumn’s cool breath could whisper her off—carry her into another life. Lord, help me. She looked up at her pa and forced a tight smile. With his broad back to the moonlit sky, his scruffy face was hidden beneath the shadow of a floppy hat. Chestnut hair swirled against her cheeks, and she blinked, willing the breeze to calm her nerves.

  Joel Sawyer arched a bushy eyebrow. “Don’t see what’s gotten ya so shaken up all a sudden.”

  She lifted her chin. “I ain’t shaken.” Her eyes dared him to say otherwise. “I just don’t see why …” She bit her tongue at the tremble in her voice. Her thumb traced the fresh bruises on her wrist, each small dent the same size as her pa’s fingers.

  “Because your ma’s got a headache.” Her pa’s growl was for her ears alone. His eyes bored into hers, even through the lie. “Can’t go lettin’ Samson down.” Sour breath hit her face. “Now get on up there and sing for these people.”

  Lonnie swall
owed and eyed the crowd that had gathered for an evening of dancing. With the first autumn leaves blanketing the forest floor, it was sure to be the last of the summer. She’d never sung for a crowd before and, at seventeen, felt foolish when her heart pounded in her ears and her skin tingled with fear. If only Samson hadn’t asked that her ma sing this night.

  Her pa had made it clear. No wife of his was gonna snuggle up that close to Samson Brown. Over his dead body, or so he’d said. Lonnie watched her pa descend the steps, shoulders hunched.

  “Sorry about your mama’s headache,” Samson whispered. He smiled and his eyes crinkled.

  Lonnie nodded, certain he knew the truth, yet fighting the urge to make a liar out of the man who’d just deposited her at the stage as if she were no more than a pawn.

  Lonnie glanced to the sky, and even as night’s chill crept past her faded gingham dress, she prayed for a peace from the One who could help her through this. Her ma was the songbird. Not her. Folks were always going on about how Maggie Sawyer had the prettiest voice on any Sunday morning.

  A gray-spotted dog tipped his ears when Lonnie stepped over him onto the makeshift stage. Her bare feet skirted around a pair of lanterns at the stage edge. Samson Brown, eyes twinkling, raised a banjo onto his lap. Lonnie took her place beside the trio’s mandolin player, Gideon O’Riley, and when their shoulders touched, she stepped sideways, nearly tripping as she did.

  Gideon glanced at her, his expression unreadable until amusement flitted through his green eyes. Lonnie chided herself for blushing so easily. The fiddler tilted his instrument to his chin. The creases in his blacksmith hands were stained dark as coal. He nodded and waited, bow poised. Reluctantly, Lonnie returned the nod.

  The hollow sound of his tapping boot echoed through the cracks of the porch. The bow slid across the strings slower than a cat stretching after a good, long nap. Gideon struck the strings of his mandolin, and Samson’s banjo twanged, rambling as free as a holler. Lonnie watched in awe, bewildered by their confidence.

  She clung to the shadows from the eaves overhead, but when her pa motioned for her to step into the moonlight, she scooted forward. Her bare toes reached the edge of the porch, and she glanced away from her pa’s smug stare. When the fiddle’s strings thickened in harmonies, Lonnie sang out the words. Her heart quickened, stunned by the sound of her own voice belting out a song she’d learned at her ma’s knee. She stared into the blur of faces as feet stomped and calico skirts swirled, revealing dozens of homemade petticoats and faded stockings. She forced her foot to tap in rhythm as men spun their girls around. Those without girls jigged up enough dust to make a body need a good bath.

  As they were about to round into the third verse, the words snagged in her throat. She blinked, her mind suddenly blank. Lonnie, you know this! With his shoulders hunched, Gideon’s hands flew over the fret board, and the fiddler played louder than ever. After clearing her throat, Lonnie readied herself for the last verse.

  But Gideon sped up, leaving the rest of the band behind.

  When the crowd bellowed and cheered, Lonnie bit her lip. Gideon played faster, an impish grin lighting his face. She clapped trembling hands and glanced to the musician beside her. Shaking his head, Samson rose slowly from his chair and, still plucking the strings of his banjo, crossed the porch. He flashed a twisted smile.

  Cheers swarmed from the crowd. With slow movements, Samson reached out his boot and kicked Gideon’s stool so hard it flew out from under him. Gideon stumbled but did not fall. His hand fell from the fret board, and after throwing a glare at Samson, he grabbed the stool and sat.

  “C’mon, Gid! Lighten up a bit, would ya?” Samson yelled over the noise.

  Gideon rushed in with a few last strums until only his vibrations remained, bouncing through the woods. Folks whistled and cheered so loudly Lonnie could no longer hear the pounding of her heart. Clapping along, she stepped back. Never again would her pa talk her into singing in front of folks. No sir. Her place was in the back of the crowd.

  Gideon held his mandolin over his head and bowed. As cocky as he was, Lonnie couldn’t help but smile. He walked toward her and, without hesitation, draped an arm over her shoulders. He smelled of smoke and cedar. Heat grew in the back of her neck and tingled into her cheeks. She needn’t look down to see the flame in her pa’s face as well—she knew it was there.

  When the applause mellowed, she slid away and scurried down the steps, her legs weak and head light with relief. She brushed past a nuzzling couple and ducked under a thick arm that clutched a pint of cider, finally spotting her aunt Sarah beneath a scarlet maple. Enough moonlight danced through the leaves to make the woman’s ginger bun shine. Rushing over, Lonnie clasped her cool hands, the rough skin worn and familiar.

  “Why, you’re tremblin’ som’n awful.” Sarah squeezed her hand. “Don’t think for one moment you don’t belong up there. You’da made your ma proud.”

  Lonnie fought to catch her breath. “That was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

  She felt a shadow behind her. Lonnie didn’t need to glance over her shoulder when rough fingertips clutched her elbow. “We’ll be leaving now.” Her pa’s voice was gruff.

  She glanced at her aunt, then peered up at him. “Mind if I stay a bit longer?”

  His eyes flinched, but then he sighed. The smell of moonshine hung thick. “Walk home with Oliver. He’s stayin’ too.”

  “Yessir. Thank you, Pa.” Her words seemed to fall on nothing but the breeze as he strode from the clearing. Lonnie knew her ma would be up waiting, the littlest ones already tucked into bed. With a sigh, she let the last of her worry melt into the cool night air and turned to her aunt, pleased to have her company for at least a little while longer.

  “So …” Sarah’s whimsical voice nearly sang the single word.

  “Don’t say it.” Lonnie wagged a finger with little authority, knowing full well what her aunt was itching to say.

  Sarah sobered, the lines around her eyes smoothing.

  But Lonnie knew her mother’s sister well. “I blush too easily,” she blurted.

  A smile lifted her aunt’s round cheeks. Twice Lonnie’s age and with skin a shade paler, she was as dear a friend as Lonnie had ever had. When Sarah’s gaze moved past her, Lonnie tossed a glance over her shoulder and saw the blacksmith run a cloth over his fiddle. Samson lowered his banjo into a sack. Gideon had moved on. His shoulder was pressed to the bark of a hundred-year-old chestnut, and his arms lay folded over his chest. The girl he was wooing looked more than willing to have his undivided attention.

  “Seems like every girl in Rocky Knob wants to steal that boy’s heart.” Sarah shook her head. “Don’t you pay it no never mind.”

  Forcing a shrug, Lonnie tugged at a pinch of her faded dress. The fabric, different shades of blue, had seen better days. She suddenly wished she hadn’t been so eager to stay behind.

  “There you are!” Oliver bounded up to them, his voice stuck between a man’s and a child’s. Lonnie peered up into his thin face.

  “Heard you were still here,” he panted.

  The crowd milled around them. A child’s boot grazed her bare ankle, and Lonnie moved closer to her brother.

  “I meant to come find you. Please, don’t leave without me.” She fought a yawn.

  “Leave?” His voice cracked on the single word. “The night’s just begun!”

  A broad hand clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “Indeed it has.” Lonnie looked up to see Gideon passing by.

  “Gid!” Oliver squeaked. “Just the man I wanted to see.” He grabbed Gideon’s arm, halting him. Then, with scarcely a breath, Oliver began pelting him with questions about playing.

  Gideon chuckled, but his eyes drifted to where he had been headed, his lack of interest in Oliver clear.

  “And when you hit that solo …” Oliver swallowed loudly. His chest heaved with enthusiasm. “It was … amazing!”

  “You’re my kinda fella.” Gideon tousled the boy’
s hair, nearly bumping Lonnie with his elbow. She stepped back, embarrassed by how invisible she must seem. She thought back to his behavior on stage and the way he’d made her blush. When a girl had Gideon O’Riley’s attention, she didn’t have it for long.

  “Say, Gid,” Oliver said as Gideon turned to go, “I’ve been wanting to learn myself. What key was …?”

  Lonnie didn’t hear the rest of her brother’s words.

  Gideon’s body shifted, and his demeanor changed when Cassie Allan strode by. Only a few years older than Lonnie and quite pretty, Cassie gave Gideon a sorrowful glance. He tugged off his hat and ran fingers through his hair. His hand lingered, arm up, as if to shield himself. He cleared his throat, suddenly showing interest in Oliver’s ramblings.

  “Evenin’, Gideon,” Cassie said softly.

  Lonnie studied her and saw heartache in Cassie’s blue eyes.

  “Evenin’,” Gideon replied without looking at her.

  Several moments of silence passed, and Cassie’s fingers grazed his elbow. “Would you mind if we talk—”

  “Say, Oliver,” Gideon blurted. “That song was in G.”

  Lowering her eyelashes, Cassie glanced at Lonnie and strode off.

  Lonnie’s heart ached for the girl. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

  When Cassie moved on, Gideon’s gaze followed her. His green eyes were troubled.

  “Perhaps you should let Gideon get back to what he was doing,” Lonnie said softly. “The night is still young.”

  Gideon turned to her, his eyes meeting hers for the first time. Lonnie fought a yawn, and his amusement was clear. “Not for you, I see.” Though the words teased, his tone was soft.

  Her sharp intake of breath cut the yawn short, and she glanced away, embarrassed.

  “I’m off myself. Good night, Lonnie.” Sarah flashed a carefully disguised wink. “Oliver.” Then Sarah nodded to the man who stood head and shoulders above her. “Good night, Gideon.”

  “Miss Sarah.” He pressed his hat to his chest as she strode off. His autumn-colored hair stood on end, and he slid the hat back in place.