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heather miller

"...every good piece of writing begins with both a mystery and a love story. And that every single sentence must be a poem. And that economy is the key to all good writing. And that every character has to have a secret." -Silas House  

All About Me

As an English educator, Heather Miller has spent twenty-five years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, she’s writing herself, hearing voices from America’s past. Miller’s foundation began in the theatre through performance storytelling. But by far, her favorite roles have been a fireman’s wife, and mom to three: a trumpet player, an RN, and a civil engineer. Alas, there's only one English major living in her house. While teaching, researching, and writing the Ridge Family Saga, Heather earned her MFA in Creative Writing in 2022.

My HP Books

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In 1849, mercurial Rollin Ridge leaves his family behind to avoid hanging after avenging his father and grandfather's assassinations.

After his crime, Rollin runs west with his brothers to mine California gold, packing sin and grief in his saddlebags. Through letters home, he finds his justice only after unearthing how the father's sins have followed the son. Within the frame, from 1827-1835, Rollin's parents, Cherokee John Ridge, and his white wife, Sarah, uncover illicit slave running, horse theft, and whiskey dealings across Cherokee territory. To end these inhumane crimes and fight Cherokee removal with President Andrew Jackson, John runs for Principal Chief, opposing the incumbent, Chief John Ross. John and Sarah must decide: fight discrimination and land greed, defy Georgia's violent pressures and remain on his people's ancestral land, or sign a treaty and uproot a nation and their family west.

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Home. Heritage. Legacy. Legend. 

'Tho I Be Mute is the captivating true love story of John and Sarah Ridge unfolding through the eyes of their adult daughter, Clarinda. As an interracial couple in early 19th century America, a time of deep prejudice, their journey is one of resilience and determination.

Daughter to the Foreign Mission School Steward, Sarah Bird Northrup lives a simple life in Cornwall, Connecticut, but finds her quiet world shaken when an ill Cherokee student is brought to her home. Despite the disapproval of her parents, Sarah and the young Cherokee fall deeply in love. However, their bond is tested when Sarah's parents force two years of separation. Love conquers all, and they eventually marry and settle at John's family home in Cherokee country.

Once an outsider himself, John watches as Sarah struggles to adapt to a foreign culture and language. With the help of Honey, a girl half Cherokee and half African, Sarah finds the strength to overcome the unfamiliarity surrounding her. After the birth of their unique daughter, Clarinda, Sarah discovers her own voice and embraces the power of her husband's culture

HEATHER MILLER

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Book Excerpt

Chapter 5: Laundry, Sarah Bird Northrup

 

As the morning progressed, we continued in quiet through laundry day. Mother joined us when the sun crept over the hill. Absent her customary grace and stature, she stepped in front of the rinse tub and filled it with water from buckets. She gripped the large paddle, smooth from weekly use, and stirred away the clothes’ soapy remnants.

 

With one basket ready to hang on the line, Cornwall woke with people beginning the routine of their daily lives. Some mimicked our ritual. Some hoed in garden beds. Some opened stores of flour and cloth. Some hunched over Bibles and English textbooks. Cornwall was both ordinary and blessed at the same time.

 

The wind continued until late afternoon after Jane and Mother returned inside. The final basket overflowed with wrung and twisted heaps. I bent over, grabbed a tangled sheet, and flipped it into the wind. I tossed it two more times to unfurl its length and crossed the hem over the line. Mother insisted I use the pegs on the sheets, so the crease would be at the seam rather than down the middle.

 

Under the amber afternoon, a walking silhouette approached from behind already dry, sheeted walls, fluttering, stretching in the breeze. The shadow’s gait was slow but steady, rising on its left side, aided by a single crutch. It wore boots that clung to thin, tall legs. The fitted frock coat tails lifted and cast an unusual shape, as if it had tail feathers. The silhouette’s head rode atop its neck, grand, chin pronounced, and short, wavy hair brushed away from his forehead. John’s eyes found me, separated by the hanging sheets.

 

I spoke to his shadow. “You’re early. Are you unwell?” I stretched from the waist, grabbed more pegs, and stepped down the line. I avoided his gaze, but his gravity made my arms heavier.

 

“Doctor Gold is coming by this afternoon, so I must be well,” he replied, with a hint of tiredness. He often spoke of his family’s expansive farm, so I imagine he was bored, sitting in class studying crop rotations when he wanted to read philosophy.

 

“Good.” It was all I managed to say, mispronouncing the word with clothes pegs between my lips. I unfurled another sheet. If Doctor Gold was coming, that explained why Jane and Mother made their premature departure from the washboard and tub.

 

I paralleled the line, and John pantomimed my movements with a moment’s delay. Pulling the peg from my mouth, I sighed and trapped the right end of the sheet, frustrated with the endless work.

 

John looked at me inquisitively. “What’s troubling you, Miss Sarah?”

 

“Nothing more than washing day.” My impatience hid the truth. “Mother and Jane still think I am younger than I am.”

 

“So, you’re ready to fly the nest?” he asked with a measured pace and chuckled.

 

“Not necessarily, I just do not wish their constant reminders of things I do by habit.” He did not deserve my short temper.

 

He hummed a single note and replied, “Since I have been from home, I have taken care of myself a great deal. But when I return, it’s the same for me. My mother reminds me to cork the ink and to take off my boots before falling asleep. I can hear her say it now as if she stood here among the drying.” 

 

We saw one another again in the absent space on the line. I said, “You must miss home. Your mother and father wish for your return. Your father said so when he was here.”

 

“I miss them, but Elias eases my loneliness. He is my father’s brother’s son.”

 

“Yes, I remember. He’s your cousin?” Surely John knew the word.

 

“Yes,” he said. “But we are as close as brothers, and my father is his in many ways, as his father is mine. Therefore, that is a better description. Elias plans to leave soon to attend Andover Theology School. Here, he has more friends than I do, but I am a better student. He is witty and personable, a wonderful storyteller, a skill I do not have.”

 

John smile straightened, saddened by Elias’ pending departure. His expression brought lonely thoughts to my mind. Affirming what I already knew to be true, I said, “. . . and you want to make people think. Your talents are a gift from God. It is a noble weight you look to carry.”

 

“It is why I was sent here: to study, to learn the ways of your lives. It is what our elders insist must happen. Thomas Jefferson warned the Cherokee to learn what it meant to be American. My people must seek the education provided to us. Now, Cherokee land carries my people, but in the future, we may have to learn to carry it with us.”

 

“Made any discoveries?” I asked.

 

He answered, “How hurried everyone seems. Except you.” Then, he paused mid-thought, speaking with a younger expression on his face, one more reminiscent of his age. He seemed to catch the memory of his home in the wind, squinting against the fading sun. “Light. I miss the light. I miss running my horse along the edge of the Oostanaula River in the morning’s glow. I miss the green haze above acres of grass bordered by trees as far as one can see. I miss council meetings with enormous fires under starry skies in autumn. Mountains and coves pebbled with spectrums of color. . . I miss . . .”

 

I interrupted his musings, sensing his sadness, and changed the subject. “Have you slept with your boots on?” My mind imagined him doing so, and I covered my mouth with my hand to hide my grin.

 

“Only when my mother cannot see.”

Book Awards

Book Reviews

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

4.0 out of 5 stars Great Read!

Reviewed in the United States on September 21, 2024

“Tho I Be Mute” by Heather Miller is one of those books that sweeps you off your feet from the very first page. It’s an enchanting love story set in the early 19th century, focusing on the real-life relationship between John Ridge, a Cherokee leader, and Sarah Northrup, a white woman from Connecticut. The story is narrated by their mute daughter, Clarinda, which adds a unique and touching layer to the narrative.

What really struck me about this book is the way Miller captures the deep connection between John and Sarah. Despite coming from such different worlds, their love is undeniable and beautifully portrayed through their exchange of poetry and notes. It’s the kind of romance that feels both tender and profound, making you root for them through every obstacle they face.

The book also doesn’t shy away from the harsh realities of the time. The challenges John and Sarah encounter—like the racism and prejudice during their marriage ceremony—are a stark reminder of how far society still has to go. And yet, their love endures, which makes their story all the more powerful.


⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

5.0 out of 5 stars 'THO I BE MUTE review

Reviewed in the United States on September 12, 2024

'Tho I Be Mute by Heather Miller is an enchanting, beautiful story of interracial love. Clarinda Ridge, the mute daughter of John Ridge and Sarah Northrup Ridge, serves as the conduit through which Miller unfurls the story of John and Sarah's meeting, courtship, and marriage. Set against the backdrop of Georgia greed and the ceding of Creek lands that border Cherokee Nation, imperiling Cherokee land, the story paints a vivid picture of early 19th century America, and its veracity makes it all the more compelling.

The love shared between John and Sarah is profound. From ostensibly different backgrounds and cultures, they find they have far more in common. Their souls connect, transcending the words John can so eloquently pen. Their exchange of love via the paired penning of poetry, exchange of verse, marking of pages, and deposit of notes is beyond beautiful. I adored their careful keeping of each others' hearts through the difficulties they face. The harrowing story of John and Sarah's marriage ceremony in Connecticut underlines just how ugly prejudice truly is - and leaves us a stark reminder of how far we still have to come.

Image by Anish Lakkapragada
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