Beneath the Bending Skies: A Novel

By Jane Kirkpatrick

Mollie Sheehan has spent much of her life striving to be a dutiful daughter and honor her father's wishes, even when doing so has led to one heartbreak after another. After all, what options does she truly have in 1860s Montana? But providing for her stepfamily during her father's long absences doesn't keep her from wishing for more.

When romance blooms between her and Peter Ronan, Mollie finally allows herself to hope for a brighter future--until her father voices his disapproval of the match and moves her to California to ensure the breakup. Still, time and providence are at work, even when circumstances are at their bleakest. Mollie may soon find that someone far greater than her father is in control of the course of her life--and that even the command to "honor thy father" has its limits.

New from New York Times bestselling author Jane Kirkpatrick, Beneath the Bending Skies is a sweeping story of hospitality, destiny, and the bonds of family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Sep 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781493438716

Jane Kirkpatrick

Jane Kirkpatrick is the author of twenty books and is a two-time winner of the WILLA Literary Award. Her first novel, A Sweetness to the Soul, won the Western Heritage Wrangler Award, an honor given to writers such as Barbara Kingsolver and Larry McMurtry. For twenty-six years she "homesteaded" with her husband Jerry on a remote ranch in Eastern Oregon.  She now lives with Jerry, and her two dogs and one cat on small acreage in Central Oregon while she savors the value of friendship over fame.

Book preview

"Mary Sheehan Ronan is the kind of gal I want in my corner. And Jane Kirkpatrick did a stellar job of bringing her back from the grave and onto the pages of Beneath the Bending Skies. It takes a woman of courage to stand up to a manipulative father and marry the man she was clearly meant to be with. As the wife of the ‘White Chief,’ Mary’s ministry to the Salish Kootenai Natives and friendship with Shows No Anger in Montana during times of unrest between Natives and non-Natives is one of inspiration. This story celebrates the ties that can and do take place between cultures in the past and present. A story that will linger in your thoughts and heart for years to come."

Carmen Peone, award-winning author of Lillian’s Legacy

Jane Kirkpatrick never fails to take us away on unforgettable journeys. Her carefully crafted layers of colors, textures, music . . . transport us to eras of history that we might otherwise miss. Mollie and Peter’s story is no different. What amazing lives they led! Their resilience and love was a legacy that lives on—thanks to Jane’s gifted storytelling!

Melody Carlson, author of Westward to Home (historical series)

"Jane Kirkpatrick’s latest book is about the struggle between a father and daughter and the challenges of seeking a better life during the 1800s. Jane’s story shows a sensitive and compassionate approach to the coming-of-age of a daughter and the conflict between two men who love her. I will not easily forget Beneath the Bending Skies nor the eloquent prose used to connect the reader with the characters. I will recommend this book to all my customers, friends, and family, and look forward to discussing the book with them."

Judi Wutzke, owner/manager of …and BOOKS, too!

"Jane Kirkpatrick’s Beneath the Bending Skies is one of the best novels I’ve read in a very long time. Set primarily against the backdrop of Montana’s Big Sky country, the story narrates the life of Mollie Ronan. At times tragic, yet always compelling, it is overall the uplifting account of a woman’s struggles to find her place in life, within her extended family, and in the arms of the man she’s loved since childhood. Told with warmth and respect for the land and its people—especially her relationship with the Salish, Kootenai, and Pend d’Oreille tribes—Beneath the Bending Skies is a fascinating journey and a worthwhile read."

Michael Zimmer, author of The Poacher’s Daughter

Also by Jane Kirkpatrick

The Healing of Natalie Curtis

Something Worth Doing

One More River to Cross

Everything She Didn’t Say

All She Left Behind

This Road We Traveled

The Memory Weaver

A Light in the Wilderness

One Glorious Ambition

The Daughter’s Walk

Where Lilacs Still Bloom

A Mending at the Edge

A Tendering in the Storm

A Clearing in the Wild

Barcelona Calling

An Absence So Great

A Flickering Light

A Land of Sheltered Promise

Hold Tight the Thread

Every Fixed Star

A Name of Her Own

What Once We Loved

No Eye Can See

All Together in One Place

Mystic Sweet Communion

A Gathering of Finches

Love to Water My Soul

A Sweetness to the Soul

NOVELLAS

Sincerely Yours

A Log Cabin Christmas Collection

The American Dream Romance Collection

Romancing America: The Midwife’s Legacy

NONFICTION

Promises of Hope for Difficult Times

Aurora: An American Experience in Quilt, Community, and Craft

A Simple Gift of Comfort

A Burden Shared

Homestead

Eminent Orgonians: Three Who Matter (coauthor)

© 2022 by Jane Kirkpatrick

Published by Revell

a division of Baker Publishing Group

PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

www.revellbooks.com

Ebook edition created 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

ISBN 978-1-4934-3871-6

Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

This book is a work of historical fiction based closely on real people and events. Details that cannot be historically verified are purely products of the author’s imagination.

Published in association with Joyce Hart of the Hartline Literary Agency, LLC.

Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.

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Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.

—Neil Gaiman

Desire accomplished is sweet to the soul.

—Proverbs 13:19

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Dedicated to Jerry,

one more time

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Contents

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Cover

Endorsements

Half Title Page

Also by Jane Kirkpatrick

Title Page

Copyright Page

Epigraph

Dedication

Cast of Chacters

Prologue

1. Making Happiness out of Muddle

2. The Ballad of Anne

3. Fault or Favor

4. The Smile That Conceals

5. Ways to Please

6. The Plot Thickens

7. Stealing

8. Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

9. Lessons Learned

10. The Turning Point

11. No Magic Wand

12. Tending and Befriending

13. The Acting Daughter

14. What We May Be

15. Entertaining Angels

16. No End to That

17. Providence Moves

18. Wishing for What Isn’t

19. Always an Open Door

20. Hospitality and Hope

21. The Aftermath

22. Politics and Possibilities

23. The Blessings of Babes

24. On a Bed of Irish Linen

25. A Most Hospitable Place

26. The Lake of Uncertainty

27. We Carry On

28. The Place of the Unexpected

29. What Gifts Are These?

30. The Stories

31. The Arrival

32. A Daughter Lost

33. What the Heart Desires

34. Gifts in the Wilderness

35. Translations

36. This Day

37. Leavings

38. Family Legacy

Epilogue

Author’s Notes

Acknowledgments

Book Group Discussion Questions

A Sneak Peek of the Next Story

From Broken Things

About the Author

Back Ads

Back Cover

Cast of Chacters

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Mary Mollie Sheehan—an Irish daughter

James Sheehan—Mollie’s father

Patrick, Ellen, and Mary Sheehan—Mollie’s cousins

Anne Cleary Sheehan—stepmother to Mollie

Kate Sheehan—half sister

Jimmy Sheehan—half brother

Peter Ronan—(Row-NAN) editor, friend of James Sheehan

Jules Germain—student in Mollie’s Montana school

Father Van Gorp—Helena priest and matchmaker

Richard Egan—alcalde, mayor of San Juan Capistrano, friend

Martin and Louise Maginnis—congressman, friend, and partner of Peter Ronan; and his wife

Harry and Mrs. Lambert and Grace—agriculturist at the agency and his family

Hanna Hoyt—cook and sister of miller

Dr. E. L. Choquette and Hermine—agency physician and his wife

*Shows No Anger and son Paul—Salish friends of Mollie

Chief Arlee—Salish chief at Jocko Agency of Flathead Nation

Chief Charlo—Bitterroot Salish chief, non-treaty Flathead Nation

Chief Michelle—chief of Pend d’Oreille of Flathead Nation

Chief Joseph—Nez Perce warrior

Chiefs Looking Glass, White Bird, Sitting Bull, Eagle of the Light—part of Nez Perce War of 1877

Elizabeth Custer—widow of General Custer, author and speaker

Michel and Maria—blind interpreter and his wife

Children of the Ronans—Vincent, Mary, Gerald, Matthew, Louise, Katherine, Margaret, Isabel, Peter

*fully imagined characters, not a part of historical record

Prologue

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I loved my father, but that didn’t mean I understood him. Nor that I ever pleased him, much as I tried. His disappointment shone in his Irish eyes like that of a teacher whose star pupil gives up academics to file a mining claim in Montana, choosing to wear pants instead of petticoats. My escape into fairy tales helped me face the trial between him and the other love of my life. Your mother is turning in her grave that that man of yours has taken you into Indian wars, my father told me. It was a painful time.

But I think my mother would have said, Trust your husband, Mollie, until he gives you reason not to. I last heard her lilting voice in 1858, when I was six. I remember her fanning my hair as long as Rapunzel’s out behind me to dry as we lay together on her Irish linen. We stared at cloudless Kentucky skies, her belly mounded with my soon-to-be-born brother. What she did say as I chattered about what I wanted to be when I grew up were these words: Whatever you do, be kind, Mollie. Notice what others’ needs are and try to meet them.

You mean fetch Pa’s pipe before he asks?

Like that, yes. She smiled and whispered her fingers across my forehead as we rested in the shade of an umbrella magnolia. How I wish she’d lived to see Montana. And San Juan Capistrano. And her son. And mine.

She stood, helped me up. She rolled up the linen.

Let me, Mama.

She nodded, watched, her hands on either hip, stretching her back. I believe this child will arrive today. She sighed, hugged my shoulder to her side. She smelled of lavender. We’ll keep your papa happy. I’ll make that serviceberry pie he likes. That might please him.

Be kind.

Yes. She smiled, then added, To yourself, too, Mollie. And remember to be brave.

I’d have done better with her advice if she’d been there to show the way.

ONE

Making Happiness out of Muddle

Once upon a time there was a place, a people, and a love as astonishing and rare as a blood moon over a Montana peak. I—Mary Mollie Catherine Fitzgibbon Sheehan—was forced to leave that place and love behind in 1869, complying with my father’s wishes without understanding why. But I never abandoned hope that one day I’d find my way back to that happy ending cherished in Ulster fairy tales, if not often in real life.

But my growing up occurred in a turbulent time. The War between the States raged. My father brought his brother and his three children from Ireland. My younger brother passed away, as did my uncle. We left Kentucky, reached Missouri, where my father said goodbye, leaving us on a cousin’s plantation in the midst of turmoil.

It was his first leaving of me. The almanac read 1861—I was almost ten.

After months of my wondering if he’d return, he did. Within days, we left again, heading toward the gold rush gulches of Colorado, my feelings mixed, leaving cousins behind. He didn’t smile as much as before. I wondered that he held something back or had I upset him? I tried to please him now. I sat beside my father on his freighter wagon led by six mules we called the Gems: Agate, Amber, Amethyst, Pearl, Jade, and Jasper. He’d sing Gaelic songs and, in the evening around the campfires, had me read to him. I did my best. He brought a cat along for company. Often while we plodded between towns, the feline would jump on the back of Amber, the mule closest to the wagon’s dashboard.

I think Puddin doesn’t like your singing, Pa, I said.

Or she wants another view.

I could see that the cat might want to gaze at the wide expanse of mountain peaks touching skies as blue as my father’s eyes.

Then he told me he’d be leaving me behind once we reached Colorado. That secret revealed.

Why can’t I go with you? A child’s question of her only parent.

Don’t you worry, Mollie. He patted my knee. I’ll come back to get ye.

Would he? He always had returned, though months would pass. Months, filled with my wondering if he had found another child to love. Our reunions were tainted that way, my feeling orphaned even with him beside me as he was now. The wagon rattled down a ravine, then up the other side, toward a cluster of buildings in the shadow of mountain peaks.

My father—James Sheehan—was literate, did not drink, and was quick with numbers rumbling in his head. He was an honest man, though being Irish he wasn’t always assumed to be so. He wasn’t a big man in western country where physical bigness carried power beyond intelligence. He couldn’t afford to be hunched over or broken further by his grief.

I knew that grieving effort. I had little memory of my mother except for a sweet voice, a set of Irish linens, and a square of Irish lace she’d worked on that I kept in a precious box. And a green parasol with black fringe. I could almost see her face behind that edging when I opened the brolly against the hot sun, miles from where I was born and where she had died when I was six.

I knew I was supposed to be obedient and kind. Still . . . desire pushed me to disagree with my father’s plans.

I can heat the stew now, I said. And I could carry the collars to you. I showed him my almost-ten-year-old muscled arm, puny as a cat’s back leg. I could drag the heavy yokes to where he harnessed the mules. Or rub oil into leather at night around the campfire to keep them pliable, and him near.

Travel to those camps has its risk, Mollie. Bandits. Indians bent on revenge. No. You’ll be safer where I’ve arranged. Then he added the promise I’d hang on to: I’ll come back. His blue eyes pooled tears. We’ll be together again.

My father pulled up before a framed house. A flower box spilled vines. You need to stay here for a little bit, lass, he said.

He didn’t tell me the town.

The couple who came out to greet me looked like the father and stepmother in "Hansel and Gretel." Short and round, they wore smiles of pity. What did they think of me that my father would leave me behind? I cried as the wagon rolled down the dusty road. The woman put a pudgy arm around my shoulder and offered me a cinnamon roll, which I accepted.

My father wouldn’t say he abandoned me. After all, I had a roof over my head and a woman who smelled of comforting sauerkraut. She fed me and taught me needlework too. But I was alone, as sure as an orphan. I stayed quiet, shy, and watched in silence every sunrise, praying I would see my father’s wagon coming back, giving me another chance to be his dutiful daughter. My world spun still.

THE STRANGERS PUT ME to work doing tasks a little girl could do. I learned to hem there, practicing on my landlord’s shirttails, warming at the praise for my precision. My mother had taught those little fingers to knit, but she’d died before I learned to stitch. Looking back, I wonder if I worked for room and board; perhaps I also earned a wage that my father garnered—as fathers were allowed to do.

In the early morning, before my German keepers were awake, I’d wander the streets looking for the familiar Gem team of mules. I never saw them nor my father.

The one reward in that time of separation was that the German couple one evening took me to a play. I thought it strange to call something that seemed so real a play, but I loved the splendor of the stage, the words the actors spoke, the music. For that time, I didn’t think of my father or my mother, only of the costumed people prancing across the stage, making people laugh and clap and wet their cheeks with tears. They took me to another world where all turned out well in the end. I hoped for that, as I had no magic wand to make happiness out of muddle, nor to bring my father back.

TWO

The Ballad of Anne

My father never wanted me to cut my hair, my mother wouldn’t want that. I could sit on tresses the color of earth and autumn oak leaves that others often commented on about its shine and waves. The German woman suggested cutting it. I resisted, and she helped me braid it instead. When I was with my father, he’d weave it into one long plait. At night, he brushed it.

I don’t know how long he’d been gone—but my father returned, picked me up, swung me around, then sent me to get my things. I wasted no time tossing my little valise into the wagon and climbing up onto the smooth board seat, stroking the cat’s arched back as I waited for him to finish some transaction with the Germans.

When we made camp that night, I was quick to show my father how helpful I could be. I gathered buffalo chips and with both hands carried the bucket full of water from a rushing stream. The air smelled fresh, dust lying quiet. Mules munched and I knew contentment, though it was not a word I’d understand or use until years later.

We traveled between snowcapped mountains, in lush, green valleys, wild horses lifting their heads as our wagon approached, then fluttering like colored ribbons across the meadows out of view. Streams trickled against stones, and I said how pretty it was. Wait until you see the land around Denver and the rise of mountains, so many clustered together like a family of white-haired elders.

Toward the end of our journey—he said we were but days away—he sang a new song. Or rather he created new words for an Irish tune called Gentle Annie. It’s a mournful Irish ballad, he said.

I wasn’t sure what a ballad was and asked.

A dance song, from long ago. But the English, they turned it into poems that tell stories of real people and events. Some are sung, some just recited.

I like stories. The fire crackled before us. I heard the mules stomp at their tethers, ripping at grass. Cousin Ellen showed me the library in Missouri. My reading is much better. I like to recite poems. Shall I?

Not now.

Something troubles him. I like the fairy tales best. I kept my voice light. I so wanted to please him.

He scoffed. Don’t get too attached to such as those. One has to stay in this world, not run off into dreamland.

I hadn’t thought that Hansel and Gretel or Cinderella were dreams so much as hopeful stories that said life could get better. But he took me from such musings with his Gentle Annie ballad he now began to sing.

"She is the sweetest woman in the town

Warm and wise and willing

To take on a man and family

To keep my heart from chilling."

He paused, stared at me.

I was puzzled. Is that all of the song?

Oh, I’ve given it many verses, but this first is enough to share for now. He cleared his throat and I thought he might sing more, but instead he said, You see, Mollie, there is a real Anne.

You said the ballads talk of real things. I poked at the fire with a stick.

I did. He cleared his throat again. And this Anne I sing of is Anne Cleary. Or she was. Now she is Anne Sheehan, my wife, and your new mother.

AT THE CAMPFIRE with sparks lifting to the starry night, I tried to understand my new tumbled world. It wasn’t to be just the two of us, my father and me, again, ever. While I’d been pining for my father’s return, he’d gone off and found a forever companion. Now, I understand his loneliness, his sorrow for having lost my mother. But for me, as a child, it was as though my mother had died again, would be replaced, and my father was now adored not just by me but by this woman, this warm and wise and willing Anne.

You’ll like her, Mollie. She’s a sweet woman with a smile to melt your heart.

Your heart.

And she’s a hard worker, helping your ol’ pa. Why, even now she’s watching the store. He closed his eyes, remembering, I imagined. Say something, Mollie. He brushed his hands through his wavy hair.

The store? We have a store?

My father was a handsome man, something most children claim for their fathers, but for the first time I understood that others might see him that way too. As for speaking to him, I just couldn’t then. I could hear in his voice how much he cared for this Anne and knew my silence scraped at that happiness. Puddin started purring and stretched up against me while I petted him in silence.

He sighed. Let’s turn in, lass. With a blanket, he brushed away any snakes or critters that might have crawled beneath the wagon where he now began to roll out our bedding. A full moon rose and it was almost as day. Does it look like rain to you, Mollie? If not, we can sleep beneath the stars. What do you say?

I knew what he was doing, trying to make me be his companion in decision-making, as though he needed me for that now. Had he ever needed my childish opinions? I was a small boat in a large pond, alone, without an oar to paddle.

I do remember lying beneath a bright shining moon. My father snored beside me as tears seeped from my eyes. In silence, I spoke childish prayers that when we reached Denver, there might be another story, a different ending. I didn’t wish Anne ill, but maybe she would change her mind about living with us. Maybe if she had a brother, he’d come to take her back to wherever she had come from—if she had a brother. And then I imagined myself as a child-sized Sleeping Beauty whom a wicked queen sent to slumber. I just needed a Prince Charming to wake me up.

In the morning, my father cheered me awake. He’d already made johnnycakes and had a tin of grape jam he said he’d spread on mine. Bacon sizzled in a pan; its aroma made me think of Cousin Ellen and how she never liked the taste of it and never wanted any on her plate. I wished that she was with me now, someone I might talk to about my change of fortune. He sang as he worked, and after we had eaten, he asked if I’d like him to braid my hair. ’Tis the color of sunset, lass. Shiny and beautiful. I shook my head. Strands were loose, but I didn’t want his hands on my head, his pretending nothing had changed.

I helped clean up the dishes, rolled up our bedding, and did my father’s bidding as he harnessed the team. I’d be dutiful in my silence. Throughout the day, my father sang, told stories he thought would make me smile. I took cold comfort in resisting his efforts to cheer me. I still had my prayer that things might be different once we reached our destination.

And so they were.

THREE

Fault or Favor

Our wagon filled with boxes of supplies rattled into Denver.

The landscape looked ground-up like chunks of pounded meat. The leftovers, my father named the tailings composed of mounds of gravel pushed through sluice boxes where men sought gold. I watched miners with pans slosh water round and round to uncover the heavier metal, shining bright. Men banged about inside a kettle of chaos, everyone rushing.

This new terrain was so different from the tobacco farm of Missouri or what I remembered of Kentucky. My father said we were nearly a mile high into the sky and that was why it might take a bit to catch our breath. The steep sides of the gulch looked like a giant cat had cleaned its claws on them, scraping long trenches in the soil. Tree stumps abounded, evidence of logs taken to form crude houses and small stores such as the one we pulled up in front of. Snow-drenched mountains shimmered in the background.

Annie! my father shouted. I’m back. He leapt from the wagon and started toward the cabin, then turned back—an afterthought—to reach for me and help me down.

Then there was Anne. She held a baby in her arms.

Ah, Anne, love, my father gushed. How I’ve missed ye.

She laughed, a gentle sound. You’ve only been gone a week.

The German family had not been too far away. He could have come to see me at least. Once. But there Anne stood, holding a baby, small and pink as ham.

Anne was as my father, maybe five foot eight or so. She blushed at my father’s kiss right in front of the store. She looked over his shoulder beyond him to me and said, And this must be Mollie, the apple of her father’s eye.

His rotten apple he has tossed aside.

That she is. Mollie, come meet your little sister, Kate. He lifted the child Anne held in her arms and brushed her porcelain forehead with a kiss. He smoothed her copper-colored hair.

This is Mollie, he told the babe and then to me, Would you like to hold your sister? I shook my head, afraid that I might drop such a fragile thing. Small children—like my little brother Gerald—I knew could break and even die.

Maybe later. When Mollie’s rested, Anne said.

She stepped aside to let a man leave the store. He wore an apron around his middle and shook hands with my father. The two then unloaded the wagon goods while I followed Anne and Kate into the dark interior of my new home, a log structure without windows.

Anne wore her hair in curls the color of coffee, piled atop her head. She had lush eyebrows that balanced over blue eyes. Her face was the shape of the oval frame that housed a photograph of my father and Anne that sat upon a shelf. It must have been their wedding picture. I had no image of my mother. I didn’t know what to call the feelings swirling inside a lost child’s heart.

I didn’t know what to call my father’s wife, either. Mother wasn’t possible. I ached for her. Your pa sure speaks highly of you, Mollie. He says you’re smart as well as pretty. I can see the pretty part by looking at you. And I’m sure as we get to know each other, I’ll see the smart part too. She smiled then as she caressed Kate in her arms.

I guess I could have called her Anne, but that seemed too grown-up for a child addressing what was to become a familiar adult. It might be disrespectful. Or Mrs. Sheehan. But what rang in my ear was her calling my father Pa. I’d call her Ma Anne to go with Pa. When I used the name some days forward, my father didn’t marvel that I’d finally spoken but instead corrected me and said, "Ma will be sufficient. No need to add the Anne."

SHE WAS A KIND SOUL, Ma was. She never raised her voice nor complained about my silence until at last it seemed unkind to keep my voice from her. It was then she encouraged me to recite little poems, prayers, Irish stories that, when I finished my recitation, she applauded. Little Kate clasped her tiny fists and kicked her feet with joy. For discipline, when I left a candle burning low or lost myself in a book and didn’t hear Kate cry, the most Ma did was swat me with her apron strings, no willow switch allowed. Once while I was to watch Kate, I instead dressed up in Ma’s gown, pretending to be a lady and took Kate around to show off to the neighbors. When Ma returned, she scolded, the first time I ever saw her angry as she held up the muddy hem of her ruined favorite dress. Mollie, you will not ever play the lady again.

She was a marvelous cook and a natural organizer, managing the household and the store after my father’s employee left for the gold rush in the Black Hills. She was patient with her only stepchild, eventually coaxing conversation from me in part by saying that Kate would learn how to talk if she could hear me speak. I soon found that she was not like the stepmother of Ashley Pelt, the Ulster version of Cinderella, but more like the fairy godmother, trying to bring magic into a young girl’s life, especially when my father left on freighting trips and we were there together—with little Kate—without him for months at a time.

I suspect all the aloneness wasn’t what she had imagined for a married life, but she was agile, that’s what she called it. It’s our work to find ways around the boulders in our lives, she told me as she rolled out the dough that would be the braided bread I loved. She added anise to it or rosemary when we had the herbs. We Irish make life a dance, and must be light on our feet, Mollie. Agile, finding ways. She might have said those things to convince herself, but I heard them, and soon found I was less afraid to speak to her, at first just answering questions but finally asking them too. And so I had words years later to help myself and then another, my little sister Kate.

WHEN SPRING CAME to our high-altitude home, wildflowers washed the hillsides. Fireweed, mule’s ears, lupine, and larkspur grew as tall as me. Ma and I with Kate in her arms would climb the steep hills where we could look down on the mining operations as well as gaze across the ridges to vistas far and wide. We’d pick blooms to grace our table with, bringing a bit of spring inside. A school chum and I would carry our floral prizes to the boardinghouses whose

Reviews for Beneath the Bending Skies

[grammy57 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I requested, through Revell Reads program, to read and review this book. I am sorry to say, I did not enjoy this book very much. I have read other books by Jane Kirkpatrick and have enjoyed most of them but this book was just too slow. It dragged on without much really going on. The characters were not very well developed and it felt like reading someone's calendar almost as if each chapter was another week from the calendar.I am sorry to say I give this book a 2 out of 5 star review.

[alekee_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this read, based on real people and real happenings. Be sure to read the author's notes at the end!A story of love, for a parent, and for a spouse, and then your children. A romance between a young girl and a man that is ten years older, and soon forbidden. How does this work out? Well, we are there for the bumpy ride, and the crossing of many states, the hardships and and the trials of life.This is Mollie Sheehan and Peter Ronan's story, their journey to win her father's approval. We are also treated to some US history, and spend time with Indigenous Peoples, and are there with as they try to survive.A read you don't want to miss!I received this book through Net Galley and the Publisher Revell, and was not required to give a positive review.

[mizroady · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Mollie Sheehan was totally committed to caring for her father after her mother’s death. She was only six years old in 1858 when her mother passed. His freight wagon business kept him gone for long periods and left her in the care of others. Mollie wanted to keep the biblical statute to honor her father in spite of his many times, unreasonable ultimatums. When he remarried her new stepmother, Anne, more and more responsibilities were piled upon her and he always quoted the scripture when she tried to disagree. While life was difficult and often miserable she persevered to keep her duty to “honor her father”. That was until she fell in love with his best friend Peter Ronan who was 13 years older than her. After this she truly understood that honoring her father did not mean never having a life of her own.Peter became Superintendent of the Confederated Tribes on the Flathead Indian Reservation in Montana. It was a daunting job, one that he excelled at and made his own history. Here they began their family. Mollie loved her husband and stepped into her difficult and often frightening role as his helpmeet. The area was remote and many necessities were not available. There wasn’t even a doctor at first! Supplies could be scarce, plus the unpredictability of Indian attacks.At any moment she could be called upon to host a meal for any number of people. They might be Indians or someone famous. A feast was pulled together with whatever was on hand and done so graciously. Mollie’s love and respect of all people, no matter what their station in life, was beautiful. Her love ran deep to help others and she would make whatever sacrifices were needed. The open door policy with the Indians where they could walk into their home anytime day or night (and they did) had to be difficult, but Mollie took it all in stride. In addition to the constant company and erratic life, she was giving birth to her children in quick succession. She was an amazing woman. It might seem odd but one of the things that fascinated me about her was the description of her thick, massive hair that hung well past her hips. (I searched pictures of her on the internet and it was remarkable!) I cannot imagine how hot and uncomfortable it was in the summer, but the sheer effort it took to wash, comb and dry it without modern conveniences is beyond my imagination. Ms. Kirkpatrick once again has written a great book.I received this book from LibraryThing and Revell Publishing in exchange for an honest review. The opinions stated are my own.

[lifeofliterature · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I am always drawn to books by Jane Kirkpatrick because they are based on true stories. She pens novels with such fantastic historical research and depth that brings these stories to life. The pace of this novel is a little slow, but that really allowed me to get to know the characters, history, and setting well, and I liked the detail the author provided. I was also impressed with the great spiritual growth and truths in this novel and found my own faith strengthened simply by reading and reflecting. The journey that Mollie embarks on with her romance instead develops her faith in a real and raw way. The cover to this novel is gorgeous and is but a small reflection of the wonderful words that lie beneath. I highly recommend this book!I received a complimentary copy of this book from Revell Publishing. Opinions expressed in this review are entirely my own.

[polarmath · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Mollie has done her best to be a dutiful daughter, but soon finds herself wanting more. She has spent so much of her life doing everything her father wanted her to that when she finally gets a chance to do something she wants to do, her plans don’t go as she wishes. She has fallen in love, but her father does not want to lose her and does all he can to keep them apart. I really enjoyed reading the story of her perseverance and how Mollie learned to come into her own.

[grrllovesbooks · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I received this book from LT Early Reviewers.I normally don't read this type of fiction, but I must say Beneath The Bending Skies by Jane Kirkpatrick is a captivating story told in a fascinating way.The blending of historical fact and fiction is seamless. Well worth a read. I look forward to reading other works by Ms. Kirkpatrick.

[amybooksy · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Beneath the Bending Skies is another wonderful novel written by Jane Kirkpatrick. I always love reading her historical fiction and this one is one of my top favorites she has released to date. I enjoyed reading Mollie and Peter’s story so much. It is a beautiful story of faith, forbidden love, and hope. It is one of the books that kept me engaged from start to finish. I am giving Beneath the Bending Skies a very well deserved five plus stars. I believe readers who enjoy clean historical fiction. I am eagerly awaiting Jane Kirkpatrick’s next release. I won a paperback advanced reader copy of Beneath the Bending Skies from librarything.com, but was not required to write a positive or post any kind of review. This review is one hundred percent my own honest opinion.

[croknot1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Thoroughly enjoyable reading! Historical fiction at its finest. Kudos to the author and many thanks to LT for sending it to me.

[pegmcdaniel · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

When it comes to historical fiction, Jane Kirkpatrick does a wonderful job. She finds a notable historical person and writes a novel that brings that person and family to life. In each of her historical novels, it's evident that she has done a tremendous amount of research.The person this time is Mary Catherine "Mollie" Sheehan Ronan who lived in Montana in the mid-1800s. She is divided over whether to obey her father or follow her heart's desire to marry the man she loves. The novel follows her through the years as a young girl who loses her mother but eventually gets a loving stepmother, finding the courage to stand up to her father, then on to her marriage and family life on the Flathead Reservation where her husband is a federal agent. There are many interesting side stories regarding Mollie's education, family life as they moved from place to place, what life was like in Montana during that era, and the various family relationships. I especially enjoyed reading about her positive dealings with the Salish, Kootenai, and Pend d' Oreille tribes. She was a strong, positive, Christian woman who struggled to find her place in the world.I was sent a free Advanced Reader's Copy from Revell Books, via LibraryThing, in exchange for my honest opinion.

[huberk-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

5 stars, Delightful Story of Familial Ties

BENEATH THE BENDING SKIES

by Jane Kirkpatrick

I love the feeling that the author Jane Kirkpatrick is able to stir up and draw me headlong into her stories. She takes a little true history and weaves a beautiful story around it.

Mollie promised her mother she'd care for her father James, right before her beloved mother died. Her father married another woman Anne and it falls to Mollie to take care of her new family since her father was gone a lot of the time on extended business trips.

Mollie falls in love with Peter, who is her father's business partner. James feels betrayed when the two tell him of their wish to marry. Mollie is heartbroken when her father tells her she can't marry Peter and she has to stay home and take care of him. When James tells Mollie she must do what the Bible teaches, to "obey your father," Mollie is flabbergasted that her father is refusing to let her go so that she can start a family of her own.

Later on, Mollie lives on the Flathead Indian Reservation. That is my favorite part of this novel. I love the new friends she makes and the new things she learns how to do, while she's there.

Highly recommend. I like how Ms. Kirkpatrick includes the pronunciations of Indian tribes, so you know how they should be pronounced, like Salish= [Sail-ish], Kootenai= [Coo-ten-i], and Pend d'Oreille=[Pon-door-ray].

#favoritebooks #favoriteauthor #newrealease2022 #revellbooks @bakerbookhouse #bakerbookhouse

With much gratefulness and enthusiasm, I received a complimentary copy of #beneaththebendingskies from @revellbooks I was under no obligation to post a review. #1860stimeperiod #historicalfiction #FlatheadIndians #Montana #NezPerceIndians #inspyfiction #coverlove #ChristianFiction #inspirationalfiction #janekirkpatrick @janekirkpatrick

[khoyt-43756 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When a book's title has the words "Bending Skies" in it, expectations are very high. Jane Kirkpatrick has delivered on that promise with this novel. Delightful phrases like "bringing a bit of spring inside" and "the flowers marveled at their surroundings" are scattered throughout this book. You find yourself sighing over the imagery, sorrowing with the heroine as she endures trials in her life, cheering as Mollie finds bliss and contentment in everyday life. Jane consistently finds fascinating, historical people and events about which to write. She details their lives so intimately you can't help but fall in love with them. She writes about people who were essential at critical times in the expansion of this great country in which we live. Thank you to Revell Books and LibraryThing for sending me this ARC in a giveaway. I am grateful to be able to have an early copy of this book. This is my honest review of this book. I will reread it and mark it up, underlining everything that speaks to my heart.

[coverloverbookreview · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I know I can't go wrong with a story by Jane Kirkpatrick. She's a strong writer and imaginative storyteller. I enjoyed this story and the different relationships - romantic, familial, broken...The father daughter relationship hit some chords, and it's sad in many ways. The relationship between Molly and Peter was romantic and filling. This is an excellent story showcasing love, courage, and strength.Thank you, LibraryThing, for my Early Reviewers copy!