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  ACCLAIM FOR JOANNE BISCHOF

  “Beloved author Joanne Bischof doesn’t disappoint with her latest beautifully written, heartrending tale, The Sons of Blackbird Mountain. Her lyrical style is carefully woven together with authentic faith and unique characters that won’t soon be forgotten. It will be a quick favorite for historical romance readers.”

  —Elizabeth Byler Younts, author of The Solace of Water

  “The sights, sounds and people of a turn-of-the-century circus come alive in this novel that captivates from word one. Every sentence is pitch perfect, while the characters embed themselves soul deep. Charlie Lionheart is the hero of heroes and a reflection of the fairy tale ‘Beast.’ He is so brilliantly multidimensional that he could easily live outside the pages. The romance between Charlie and Ella is heartachingly beautiful, and the redemption organically sewn into the story’s tent flaps will linger with readers for years.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 5 Star TOP PICK! on The Lady and the Lionheart

  “From the moment he bursts onto the pages, Charlie Lionheart splashes color across Ella Beckley’s drab, confined world—and along the way he stole my heart.”

  —Lori Benton, Christy-award winning author of Burning Sky on The Lady and the Lionheart

  “The best stories are ones where you are torn between the desire to linger or read it all in one sitting because you simply have to know what’s going to happen next. The Lady and the Lionheart put me into that delicious agony and held me there until that final page.”

  —Sigmund Brouwer, author of Thief of Glory, Christy Award book of the year 2015

  “Absorbing. Emotional. Colorful and clever . . . Bischof brings the world of the vintage circus to life in The Lady and the Lionheart, with vibrant scenes and deeply poignant characters. It’s a masterful portrait of redemption—with faith and hope deftly woven in—that grips the reader until the final page. I was swept away and didn’t want to return.”

  —Kristy Cambron, author of The Ringmaster’s Wife

  “When it comes to depth and originality, Joanne Bischof delivers and this unique historical is no exception. If you're wanting a story that satisfies heart and soul, this richly woven novel is for you—a keeper you’re sure to recommend to friends. Beautiful!”

  —Laura Frantz, author of The Mistress of Tall Acre on The Lady and the Lionheart

  “The Lady and the Lionheart isn't a book to read so much as it is a world to inhabit, a story to relish, a love to cherish. It is lyrical, achingly beautiful, and larger than life. This novel is Joanne Bischof at her very finest.”

  —Jocelyn Green, award-winning author of the Heroines Behind the Lines Civil War series

  “One of the best works of historical fiction I have ever read, Bischof’s alluring prose perfectly relays the heart-rending stories of Charlie, Ella and a populous of characters who leap from the page. Strewn with threads of redemption not unlike those found in Les Misérables, Bischof perfectly pairs an accessible and engaging historical romance with a deft nod to the classics.”

  —Rachel McMillan, author of Murder at the Flamingo on The Lady and the Lionheart

  OTHER BOOKS BY JOANNE BISCHOF

  The Lady and the Lionheart

  This Quiet Sky

  To Get to You

  THE CADENCE OF GRACE TRILOGY

  Be Still My Soul

  Though My Heart Is Torn

  My Hope Is Found

  Sons of Blackbird Mountain

  © 2018 by Joanne Bischof

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.®

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Verison. Public domain.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Epub Edition May 2018 9780718099114

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-0-7180-9910-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  CIP data available upon request.

  Printed in the United States of America

  18 19 20 21 LSC 5 4 3 2 1

  For my sister

  CONTENTS

  Acclaim for Joanne Bischof

  Other Books by Joanne Bischof

  A Note on American Sign Language

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  A NOTE ON AMERICAN SIGN LANGUAGE

  This story Contains American Sign Language (ASL), the most recognized form of communication in the United States for both the Deaf and their community since the early 1800s. Though ASL and spoken English share vocabulary, they are two distinct languages and do not translate directly. Sentences are structured differently in ASL, which uses neither articles such as a and the, nor “to be” verbs like am or is.

  As is common, the Deaf man in this novel can read someone’s lips if the speaker were to say, for example, that “a woman is beautiful.” He could also read or write this sentiment as English text. But when communicating with Sign, he would form only the words woman beautiful. So simple a phrase, but within the visual exchange of ASL, complexity is at hand. In place of oral tone, facial expressions and manner of movement clarify key distinctions. To drop his jaw on beautiful would declare the depth of his admiration. To lift his brows would turn the same phrase into a question. If he were to frown, appearing nonchalant, he would indicate only somewhat pretty. Each nuance is key, but ones not widely known among the hearing.

  Within Sons of Blackbird Mountain I sometimes wrote ASL just as it is signed—including the correlating facial expressions. This is for authenticity and for the reader to experience the language in its purest form. At other times I emphasized only the words. This is for ease of conversation and story flow. In these instances I took great c
are to express the Deaf character’s intent as well as the sentence structure he is familiar with.

  Through this, it is my utmost hope to honor the Deaf and their language and to make it possible for a man who neither hears nor speaks to be more clearly heard by those who do.

  ONE

  BLACKBIRD MOUNTAIN, VIRGINIA

  AUGUST 27, 1890

  Aven peered down at the letter again, noted the address written in Aunt Dorothe’s hand, then looked back to the wooden sign that was staked into the ground. The location matched, but with the Virginia summer sun overhead and the shores of Norway but a memory, she was suddenly having a hard time putting one foot in front of the other.

  A humble lane loomed—both ahead and behind. Yet if she were to walk on, it would be away from the woodlands she’d spent the morning traversing and into the shade of countless orchard trees. Apple, judging by the fruit dangling from the gnarled branches. A sweet tang hung in the hot air. Aven drew in a slow breath, bent nearer to the sign, and fingered the rough-hewn letters.

  Norgaard.

  Aye, then. ’Twas the place. The land where Dorothe’s great-nephews roamed. Free and wild the boys were, or so the stories declared. Aven minded not. Having lived within the workhouse, she’d had to watch from afar as many of the orphans there faded away. The change in circumstance now—in freedom—had her eager to find the house. The family. Most especially, the children.

  At a beating on the path, she looked up to see a hound bounding near. The dog’s tail wagged as the animal sniffed around Aven’s shoes. The banging tail struck her leg, and Aven reached down to pet the glossy brown head that lifted in greeting.

  “Hello, you.”

  The dog gave a few licks, then trotted back along the path as if to show her the way. As it surely knew more of these rolling woodlands than she, Aven clutched up her travel-worn carpetbag. She walked on, brushing dust from her black mourning gown as she did. A dress no longer needed since the two years of mourning had ended before she’d even set foot on this place called Blackbird Mountain. When a stick crunched up ahead, she shielded her eyes. Heavy were the shadows in the grove as afternoon pushed into evening, brighter still the sun that pierced through.

  Another twig snapped and a man stepped into the lane, not half a dozen rows up. Aven could tell neither his manner nor age as he knelt with his back to her, stacking metal buckets. The dog circled him contentedly.

  Feeling like a trespasser, Aven strode near enough to call a hello. The man didn’t turn. It wasn’t until her shadow fell beside him that he glanced her way. Slowly, he rose and, using a thick hand, pushed back unkempt hair that was as dark as the earth beneath his boots. It hung just past his shoulders where it twisted haphazardly, no cord to bind it in sight.

  His lips parted. Eyes an unsettling mix of sorrow and surprise. A look so astute that it distracted even from the pleasing lines of his face. He spoke no greeting. Offered nothing more than that silent, disarming appeal as if the world were an unfair place for them both.

  Aven struggled for her voice. “G’day, sir. Might you . . . might you be able to tell me where Dorothe Norgaard could be found?” Though Aven had been a Norgaard for four years now, the Norwegian name never sounded quite right in her Irish brogue.

  The man glanced to the carpetbag she white-knuckled, then to her dusty shoes and up. He ran the back of his hand against his cropped beard. More uneasy, Aven adjusted her grip on the leather handle, reminding herself that she had read the sign right.

  The Norgaard farm. This had to be it.

  She’d traveled too far and too long to be in the wrong spot.

  Seeming displeased, the man shoved back the sleeve cuffs of his plaid shirt, and finally he thumbed over his shoulder.

  Apparently the lad hadn’t the gift of the gab.

  And why she was thinking of him as a lad was beyond her. The man seemed more grown than she at her one and twenty. Looking nearly as sturdy as the tree behind him, he had more than a few stones on her as well.

  His gaze freeing her own, he angled away and thumbed farther up the lane again.

  Aye. She should be moving on . . . that way, it seemed. She gave a quiet thank-you and he nodded, his brown-eyed gaze on her as she passed by. ’Twas but a few steps ahead that Aven halted. This man had the same brow as her Benn. One bearing the noble angles of Norse blood. Though the stranger’s hair was a far cry from Benn’s pale locks, she saw something in his manner. That same strapping stance and pensive look.

  “Might you be one of the Norgaards?” She hoped her accent wasn’t too thick for him. It seemed Americans had a hard time with her dialect.

  With two buckets apart from the rest, he stacked them. The gaze that landed back to her was apprehensive. He had a wildness about him, and combined with his silence, her unease only grew. But then he nodded. Aven smiled a little. No stranger, but family.

  “I’m Aven. Widow to Benn.”

  The man nodded again as if having known as much.

  Perhaps this was an uncle to the children. But why Dorothe didn’t mention an uncle . . .

  “So . . .” Aven pointed past him, and when a strand of rust-colored hair whipped into her face, she twisted it away. “I’m to walk this way?”

  He dipped his head once more, which had her smiling again.

  “I thank you, Mr. Norgaard.” Clutching the handle of her carpetbag tightly, she continued down the lane, feeling his eyes on her. Strange bloke.

  She walked on another few moments, then she spotted a large, red house up ahead. Faded and weather-beaten, it looked more like a giant barn than a home, but with its porch swing and laundry line, ’twas clearly the latter.

  Aven glanced back to see she was being followed. From a fair distance, she’d give him that. But it still had her eyeing the man with every few trees they passed until the orchard opened up into a vast yard. Thick, twisted branches giving way to sheds and outbuildings. Two of the structures were massive, a distant one was charred, and around many sat stacks upon stacks of wooden crates and more metal buckets than she’d ever seen in one farmyard.

  Her companion stopped and folded his arms over his chest. Hesitantly, Aven continued up the path the same moment a second man emerged from the house. Though as tall as the first, this one’s strength was wiry. His hair was a few shades lighter but just as long, judging by the way it was pulled back and bound. Heavy boots stomped down the steps.

  Another Norgaard? She glanced around for a sight of the children—but saw nary a toy about, and the clothing pinned to the line was by no means pint-sized. Aven regarded the stranger on the porch and resisted the urge to touch her mother’s delicate chain around her neck, as she often did when nervous.

  “Hello, sir.” She stepped closer and extended a hand, which seemed very small when wrapped in his own. “I’m Aven. I was married to Benn.” That seemed odd to blurt out, but she didn’t know how many of these introductions were to take place.

  “Ah.” He studied her a moment. “A pleasure to finally meet you, ma’am.” He cleared his throat and gave his name. Jorgan.

  She knew that name from Aunt Dorothe’s many letters. But Jorgan was to be a wee lad. And this man was no such thing. Aven scrutinized him. Dorothe had certainly not portrayed the sons as men. Before she could make sense of that, another one stepped from the house. Though the third brother’s charms had been described in great detail, his great-aunt’s praises didn’t do justice for who could only be a very grown-up Haakon. The young man’s brilliant blue eyes took her in, and though he was clean shaven, his brawn dashed any lingering notion of the Norgaard offspring being children. Even as panic rose, Jorgan spoke.

  “And this is Haakon. He’s the youngest.”

  Pear in hand, Haakon cut a slice and used the flat of the knife to raise it to his mouth. Nothing but mischief in that striking face. “We’ve been wonderin’ if you’d show up.”

  Aven swallowed hard. How had she been so mistaken? She searched her memory of Dorothe’s letters. Time an
d again the Norgaard males had been depicted as anything but adults. Boys, Dorothe had called them. Going on to hint at their adventures and mischief, their rowdy ways and their need to be guided. Even chastised. Most often in Haakon’s case. The same Haakon who was smiling down at Aven as if he hadn’t seen the inside of a woodshed for a good long while.

  Hands now trembling, Aven clutched them together, and her attempt at a fervent response came out a mere whisper. “Pleasure to meet you, sirs. You are the . . . the brothers? The sons?”

  Sons of whom, she couldn’t remember. Dorothe wrote little of the boys’ deceased parents. Yet dashed was the image of three children needing Aven to help care for them. Mother them. Aye, Aunt Dorothe had been misleading indeed. Growing stronger was the need to speak with the woman and make some sense of this.

  “Yes’m. I’m the oldest,” Jorgan said. “Best just to call us by our first names or you’ll be sayin’ ‘Mr. Norgaard’ an awful lot. It seems you met Thor. He’s in the middle.” He pointed past Aven to where the dark-haired man still stood a few paces back. The one who looked strong as an ox and who had yet to take his focus off of her.

  Thorald. As was written in the letters. Amid pen and paper, it seemed he held a tender spot in his great-aunt’s heart, but not for a hundred quid would Aven have put the name and person together. “Aye,” she said hesitantly. “We’ve . . . met.”

  Jorgan smirked. “Sorry. Thor, he don’t talk much.”

  So she’d learned.

  Jorgan glanced past her, then around as if searching for words. “Did you walk here from the train station?”

  “Aye.” And her aching feet were recalling every mile from town.

  “I’m sorry we weren’t there to fetch you. And I’m sorry about Benn.”

  “Thank you,” Aven said softly. She lowered her luggage to the ground, unsure of what to say in this instance. Her husband—their cousin—gone. And now she was here in America.

  The dog sniffed at her shoes, and Haakon snapped his fingers. “Grete!”