The Scarlet Thread

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Scarlet Thread

Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

Wheaton, Illinois

Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com

Check out the latest about Francine Rivers at www.francinerivers.com

Copyright © 1996, 2004 by Francine Rivers. All rights reserved.

Discussion Guide section written by Peggy Lynch

Designed by Alyssa Force

Interior map copyright © 1996 by Kirk Caldwell. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph copyright © 2004 by jimiallenphotography.com. All rights reserved.

Author’s photo copyright © 1999 by John Teague. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations are taken from the
New American Standard Bible,
© 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968,

1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

Scripture quotations used in the Discussion Guide are taken from the
Holy Bible,
New Living

Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton,

Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of

the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author

or publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rivers, Francine, date

The scarlet thread / Francine Rivers.

p. cm.

ISBN 1-4143-0495-1 (sc); 1-4143-0495-1 (hc) ISBN 1-4143-0495-1

I. Title.

PS3568.I83165S28

1996

813′.54—dc20

96-3721

To Sue Hahn, Fran Kane, and Donzella Schlager . . . my traveling companions.

Sue Hahn, Fran Kane, and Donzella Schlager, adventurers all,

who shared a dream with me of traveling the Oregon Trail.

With the blessings of our husbands, we took off in a Suburban

and drove from Sebastopol, California, to Independence, Missouri. From there we followed the Oregon Trail to The Dalles,

Oregon. Over five thousand miles together. We saw the beauty

and vastness of our country, stopped at every historical landmark (and rest stop) along the road, visited every museum we

could find (small town and large), and collected enough information to keep us reading for years to come.

Thanks, gals. It was one of the best times of my life.

When do we do the Lewis and Clark trail?

Many thanks as well to Ryan MacDonald, for sharing his

expertise in computer games and trade shows.

The Call

C

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S I E R R A C L A N T O N M A D R I D C O U L D N ’ T S T O P

shaking. Her stomach was quivering. Her head had begun throbbing with a tension headache the moment Alex had told her the

news.

She hadn’t had a headache like this since prom night during

her senior year of high school. Alex had come to pick her up in his

father’s beat-up Chevy three minutes before her father turned

into the driveway. It was the first time in her life her father had

come home
early
from work. She might have known it would be

on that night. She could still remember the look on her father’s

face when he saw Alex—a drop-dead handsome, long-haired

Hispanic boy dressed in a rented tuxedo—standing on the wide

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wasn’t bad enough, Alex was reaching forward to pin an orchid

to the front of her fancy prom dress. When Sierra heard the slam

of her father’s car door, she almost fainted in fear.

The headache had started then and was only compounded by

the inquiring look on Alex’s face. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

What could she say? She had told her father about Alex; she just

hadn’t told him everything.

Words were exchanged, but, fortunately, her mother was

there to intercede and calm her father down.

In the end, Alex escorted her to his borrowed car and helped

her in while her father stood on the front steps glaring at him.

Alex didn’t so much as look at her as he put the Chevy in gear

and pulled away from the curb. They were halfway to Santa

Rosa before he said anything.

“You didn’t tell him who was taking you to the prom, did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Yeah, right. You just left out a few important details, didn’t

you,
chiquita?”
He had never called her that before, and it boded

ill tidings for the night ahead. He didn’t say anything more on the

drive to the expensive restaurant in Santa Rosa. She ordered

something cheap, which made him even madder.

“You think I can’t afford to buy you anything more than a

dinner salad?”

Her face aflame, she ordered the same prime rib dinner he

did, but he didn’t look any happier.

Things got worse as the evening wore on. By ten, Alex wasn’t

speaking at all, not to her, not to anyone. She ended up losing

the nice dinner he bought her in the bathroom of the Villa de

Chanticlair.

She’d been crazy in love with Alejandro Luís Madrid.
Crazy

being the operative word. Her father had warned her. She

should have listened.

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Sierra’s eyes smarted with tears now as she drove along

the Old Redwood Highway, which linked Windsor with

Healdsburg. For all of its turmoil, she preferred clinging to the

now-romantic past rather than facing the uncertain, terrifying

present and future.

Prom night had been such a disaster. When most of her friends

were going to all-night parties in Santa Rosa, Alex took her

home well before midnight. The front lights were turned on, and

not discreetly. Her father had probably changed the 60-watt

bulb to a 250 while she was gone. Even the inside lights were on

that night.

There was plenty of light for her to see how angry Alex was.

But his expression revealed something deeper than just anger.

She could feel the hurt that lay hidden behind the cold, remote

expression on his face. She thought he’d just walk away then.

Unfortunately, he didn’t intend to do so before he had his say.

“I knew it was a mistake to ever ask you out.”

The words struck like a shotgun blast to her heart. He wasn’t

finished. “I’m not some character in a Shakespearean tragedy,

Sierra. I’m not Romeo to your Juliet. And I didn’t ask you out

because I wanted to play around!” He turned away with that and

almost reached the steps before she could speak past the tears

choking her.

“I love you, Alex.”

He turned around then and looked at her. “What’d you say?”

His eyes were dark and hot, still mad at her—with good cause.

She hadn’t considered what her silence would cost him. All she

had thought about was avoiding a confrontation with her father.

Alex stood waiting.

“I—I said I love you.”

“Say it in Spanish,” he told her in the same tone he had used

when tutoring her.

She swallowed, wondering if he only meant to humiliate her

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Madrid. Corazón y alma.”
She started to cry then, hard wracking

sobs. He caught hold of her and poured out his feelings in Spanish. Though she didn’t fully understand the words, she saw in his

eyes and felt in his touch that he loved her.

Infrequently over the years, he had fallen back into his first

language during times of powerful emotions. He had spoken

Spanish when he made love to her on their wedding night and

again when she told him she was pregnant. He had wept and

spoken Spanish in the wee hours of the morning when Clanton

had pushed his way into the world, and again when Carolyn was

born. And he had spoken Spanish in tears on the night her father

died.

But that night on the porch, they both forgot about the lights.

In fact, they both forgot everything until the front door was

jerked open and her father ordered him gone.

She was forbidden to see Alex. At the time, it didn’t matter to

her father that Alex was ranked number four in a class of two

hundred students. What mattered was that Luís Madrid, Alex’s

father, was “one of those beaners” who worked as a laborer in

the Sonoma County vineyards. Her father didn’t care that Alex

was working a forty-hour week at a local gas station to save

money to put himself through college.

“I wish him luck,” he said, and it was clear that luck was the

last thing he wished Alex.

She reasoned, cajoled, whined, and begged. She appealed to

her mother, who promptly refused to take her side. In desperation, she threatened to run away or commit suicide. She had

gotten their attention with that.

“You so much as talk to that beaner on the phone and I’ll call

the police!” her father had yelled. “You’re fifteen. He’s eighteen.

I could have him arrested!”

“You do and I’ll tell the police you’re abusing me!”

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