Faith in the Mountain Valley

by Misty M. Beller

  He gave a slow nod. Whether he thought her behavior strange or not, he didn't say. That nod was all she needed.

  She turned and started down the path toward the horses. She hadn't yet checked her traps that morning, but she couldn't stay long enough to do it. They'd have to wait. The urgency pressing through her drove her forward.

  Faster. She'd keep going until she finally found peace.

  French lifted his gaze again to stare in the direction Colette had ridden. Noon had passed several hours ago. When would she return? He should've followed her as his gut had told him to.

  He couldn't make sense of this new Colette. She wouldn't let him in. She was hiding something big, troubled by something that must be of great significance. But she wouldn't trust him with it.

  He forced his focus back to the hide draped over his fleshing beam and scraped with his knife a few more times. He'd emptied her traps that morning and processed both her catch and his, as well as what she'd tied up in the tree the night before. The work had kept his hands busy but left his mind to wander far too long. He still had one more raccoon pelt to scrape after this beaver fur.

  Then maybe he should start a pot of stew for the evening meal. He glanced up in the distance again, straining for any movement that might signal a horse and rider. Maybe she wouldn't return from that direction, but he couldn't stop himself from searching there any way. She'd ridden out the same way he'd gone the day before to get the stewpot seasonings. There was plenty of open land along the river’s edge to ride, probably for hours. If she followed the water, she wouldn't get lost. Did she know that? Had she been in her right mind enough to think through details like those?

  When he'd handed her the corn mush, she'd seemed to be in the middle of some kind of…attack. Maybe panic, or some bout of pain.

  He straightened. Was she hurt? Sick? Was that her big secret?

  Fear sluiced through him. If Colette was ill, she shouldn't be wandering off into the wilderness alone.

  Then a new fear slammed against him, nearly knocking him backward. Surely she hadn't gone to…die.

  He dropped his tools and sprinted to the river to clean his hands and arms. He had to find her. Had to fix whatever this was. Why hadn’t he seen the problem earlier? Her secrecy… The fact that she wouldn't come around the strangers…

  A new thought pressed in. Was she contagious? Was that why she'd hesitated to let him near? It didn't matter. He had to get to her.

  He passed Left Standing coming from the camp. "I'm going to find Mignon.” He barely remembered to use that foreign name. “I'll be back as soon as I find him." He didn't wait for more than a nod from the man.

  In camp, French grabbed up his food pack and bedroll, then an extra supply of roasted meat. What else would he need? His extra powder and shot were in his pack.

  He scanned Colette's things. She’d left her bedroll, but the edge of a blanket had shown from the bag she carried. Along with his things, hopefully that would be enough to keep her warm. He didn't have much by way of medicine, only a salve for wounds. That wouldn't be enough if what ailed her was an internal sickness. Susanna and Elan had carried all the herbs and other medicinals for their group. Were there some in the pack Colette took? He could only hope so.

  He couldn't waste any more time. With his things loading him down, he sprinted toward the horses.

  Chapter 10

  Tracking Colette in this vast mountain wilderness proved harder than he’d expected. At least he knew which direction she’d gone. He’d watched her horse pick its way alongside the creek, moving upriver.

  The area abounded with such plentiful grass, much of it tall brown winter growth, with new green shoots rising up between the taller stalks. The thickness made it even harder to find hoof prints, especially since he'd let so much time pass that the grass was no longer bent over from where the horse had pressed it down.

  He studied the ground as his mare plodded along. Surely there would be tracks somewhere. Once he picked up one print, he could find others much easier. He'd have a better idea how they would appear in this terrain. He rode at least five minutes, worry needling him as he strained for any sign.

  There. A few broken winter-brown stalks, and the outline of a hoof pressed into the new growth beneath. He slipped from his horse and studied the print, memorizing its shape. This must be the hind left hoof, a little smaller and deeper than one of the front prints would be. Almost toed in.

  Mounting up again, he nudged Giselle forward. Now that his eye was trained, he spotted another print a few strides farther. This one was barely more than a couple taller stalks bent over, but the fresh breaks meant a rider had come through that day.

  Onward he rode, and in half an hour, he spotted clear horse tracks in the mud on the creek's bank at a likely crossing spot. Across the water, the valley stretched in an open area that would be a good place for a canter. Maybe Colette had needed the freedom of the wind in her hair.

  He didn't allow himself that pleasure but kept his mare to a walk as he examined the ground. This lower grass showed signs of recent disturbance better than the other had. He pushed his horse into a trot as Colette's path showed clearly before him.

  Lifting his focus to the distance, he strained for any sign of movement to signal an oncoming rider. How far had she gone before turning around? Had she turned around?

  Surely she hadn't gone somewhere to die. Surely her sickness hadn't progressed that far. She would have told him, wouldn't she? Not left him in such turmoil, with so many questions. Even if the telling would be hard, the Colette he knew would have done at least that for him.

  In times like this, he wished he still believed praying helped. If only there were a God who cared to step in when the people He’d created needed him.

  God had never been there for him in the past, and he couldn't expect Him to help now.

  As the valley ended in the base of a mountain, with two more peaks rising on either side, he searched for the route she'd taken. She'd tracked to the left, and it looked like she'd been hoping to find a path between the two mountains.

  The ground grew rockier as the trail began to climb. But there was still enough dirt for an occasional print to show him he was on the right path.

  He rode on for at least an hour, following the route she’d picked out between the peaks. His horse had to maneuver over several boulders, much harder riding than the valley land below. Colette must have been determined to keep going this far.

  The tracks skirted around the center mountain and turned onto a game trail. The ground was so rocky, he couldn't be sure he would find the prints if Colette had turned her horse off this path. But there wasn't really another place to go except straight up the cliff. Surely she wouldn't have done that. Her horse could likely make it, but there would be danger to them both. And why risk such a feat?

  The ground sloped on the other side of the mountain. In the distance, the winding growth of shrubby trees and bushes must be a sign of water.

  As the path widened, possibilities appeared for places Colette might have turned off. He had to move slower, seeking out hoof prints in the dirt. At least the rain from two days before had kept the land from being too hard to hold a track.

  Finally, he found a faint mark pressed into the ground. Only a quarter of a hoof, but the same shape and size as what he'd been following before. Probably the right rear inside toe. Relief slipped through him. He hadn’t lost her trail, but where was she? He could find no sign of a horse and rider as far as he could see. Mountains spanned along the left side of the valley before him, and the right side stretched out in openness.

  He kept his horse slow to spot her trail. At last, he found another track, then a few strides forward another. Now that he had a better feel for which direction she was taking down the slope, he could move a little faster.

  Yet not much faster than a loose-reined walk. Surely Colette had turned around and started back by now. If she was still moving away from camp, he'd never catch up to her at
this speed.

  She said she'd return a little after noon, but the sun would begin to set in an hour or two. Why hadn't he found her yet? Did she know of a path that circled back to camp? Her comment about exploring when she’d left didn’t lead him to believe she knew the area that well.

  Fear pressed hard inside him. If only he knew what she'd been thinking. Why she'd been so desperate to escape camp. Why she wasn't doing what she said she would. She must not have found the peace she sought.

  Or maybe she hadn't planned to return.

  A new wave of pain slipped through him. He couldn't lose Colette again. Not after finally finding her. He wouldn’t let her slip away so easily.

  Colette only had the strength to lie curled around her belly. She sucked in a slow breath, let it out, then pulled another in. Bile churned in her belly, rising up into her chest. Another breath in.

  Maybe she should just let the heaving come again. Purging would make her feel better for a few minutes, but then this awful feeling would come back. How could she have anything left inside her to expel?

  The sour taste rose up her throat, triggering her body’s internal panic. The first heave jerked through her, and she pressed up enough to keep from spewing on herself. She hated this. All of it. And why was it happening? Was something wrong with the baby?

  The convulsions came, over and over. They were little more than clear bile at this point, but her body seemed determined to wrench every last drop out of her.

  At last, her belly’s heaving subsided. Her energy had been spent, but she possessed just enough strength to scoot back to keep from lying in her vomit.

  Was this the end? She was ready for it. As much as she’d tried to live for her baby—to give her child life and health—maybe they would both see the Lord today. So be it.

  Her eyes drifted shut, the darkness within even stronger than the dark of night around her. Sleep tugged her, and she gave in to its call. Unless the Lord took her now, she would only have a few minutes before the convulsions started again.

  The churning in her middle awakened her, though it felt as if she'd not slept more than a few heartbeats. Inhaling a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes against the awful sensations within.

  Lord, take this from me. Please. How in the world had Jesus managed to add on those words—not My will but Yours be done? Faced with torment like this, she would do almost anything to make it pass.

  The bile churned harder inside her, rising up to her chest. Would this never end?

  A sound in the darkness tried to press through her attention, but she had no focus to spare. The noise was probably only her horse, come to see why she hadn't been unsaddled and led to water. Those first pains had come on so quickly, Colette had thought only to rest a minute to let the nausea subside. But here she lay, hours later, her horse still unattended. It felt like days, but this was only the first night.

  A long, awful night that would never end.

  That bitter taste filled her mouth, and the first heave pressed through her. She’d never been so helpless to stop something. Not even Raphael's advances when the liquor consumed him. Was this her punishment for that metal bar to him when his attentions turned dangerous? For dealing that life-ending blow?

  As she braced herself on her forearms, barely keeping her mouth above the ground with each convulsion, her heart cried out. I'm sorry, Lord. I didn't mean it. Take me. You know I'm Yours. You promised forgiveness. Please, take me. And have mercy on the babe.

  "Colette?"

  The voice came from behind her, but she had no energy to turn. Her body gave a final heave, leaving her with nothing left. Her head sank to the ground, barely missing the tiny puddle of bile she'd expelled. She had strength to do nothing but lie there.

  "Colette, what's wrong?"

  A hand touched her shoulder, finally breaking through her fog to make her aware of the voice. Jean-Jacques? She must be dreaming. She must have finally lost her mind. Please, God. Take me home to be with You. Save me from any more of this torment.

  The voice murmured over her, but she couldn't find enough strength to clear her mind to understand. Warm hands brushed the hair from her face. Those hands eased her onto her side.

  She could only manage breaths, in…out. Her belly no longer complained. She would have a few minutes before the churning started again.

  She needed rest. Had to…rest.

  Panic surged through French. It was his worst fear come true. Colette was dying.

  Right here on the side of this mountain, the woman he loved more than life itself had come to die. He'd found her in time, but could he help her?

  He bent closer to her ear. "Colette, can you hear me?"

  She'd been moving when he arrived. He'd heard sounds like retching, but when he reached her side, she'd only released a few moans. Now nothing. No movement at all, except breathing.

  At least she was breathing.

  He stroked the hair away from her temple. There was no fever that he could feel. Should he turn her on her back? Would that make her breathing harder or easier? The last thing he wanted was to affect this last critical function of life.

  What would Elan and Susanna do if they were here? He scanned the recesses of his memory for what they’d done with other sicknesses in the group. Most had involved fevers. They'd kept the ill person warm, used wet cloths to soothe sweat-dampened brows. They spooned bits of water at first, then meat broth when the patient grew stronger.

  He raised his focus to take in the area around him. The night was warm, but Colette would probably still appreciate a blanket. Maybe the one from her pack? It would be a familiar comfort.

  He scrambled to his feet and moved toward her horse. He might have never found Colette if he hadn't heard the mare’s nicker of greeting to his own mount. Maybe God played a hand in that, leading him to this place. Or maybe it had only been the natural instinct of the horses. Herd animals at heart, after all.

  His fingers fumbled with the tie on Colette's pack. Maybe he should get his own furs. They would be easier to retrieve, but the night didn't seem cold enough for such thick coverings. He didn't want to make her more uncomfortable.

  At last, his stubby fingertips worked the knot loose, and he flipped open the pack. The blanket was near the top, but when he jerked the cloth out, something else tried to come with it. He pressed the leather-wrapped bundle back in, then spun back toward Colette.

  Dropping to his knees by her side, he spread the blanket over her. She hadn't moved even a finger from the position she'd been in before. There was still only the faint shift of her shoulders with each breath.

  God in heaven, if you care at all, keep this woman alive. Please. For Colette’s sake.

  He rested his hand on her back, letting the steady rhythm of her breathing soothe his frantic thoughts. What else should he do? Wet cloths across her brow? She still didn't feel feverish. If anything, her brow was cool, though a little clammy. There had been a creek at the base of this mountain, so he could get water, but wet cloths seemed like they would only make her colder.

  He could spoon the water into her mouth, though. That might be helpful. Either way, he should bring up water from the creek. He would probably have need of it before this was over.

  But dare he leave Colette long enough to retrieve some? If he took his horse, he might get there and back in ten minutes. He only had his drinking flask to carry the water. Did she have something in her pack so he could bring more in one trip?

  He leaned low over her ear. "I need to leave for a minute to get you water, mon amour. I'll be back soon. Wait for me. All right?" No response, but at least the breathing continued.

  She seemed completely unconscious. Had she fallen from the horse and hit her head?

  He ran his hand over her hair, stroking with gentle motions over each part of her scalp. There were no bumps that he could feel. Perhaps underneath, where her head touched the ground. He should ease her fully on her back so he could check that side.

  "I'm going
to lay you onto your back." He spoke as he performed the action, as gently as he could manage. Her head flopped as though she had no control over its motion. The sight of her lying so still, her face as pale as her white hair in the moonlight, squeezed his chest with a new wave of fear.

  You can't let her die, Lord. You can't. Please. He shouldn't be commanding the Almighty. But his desperation spoke before he could question the prayer.

  He smoothed his hand over Colette's head to check the new area. Still no bumps. What caused the unconsciousness then?

  He had to get her water. That was the only thing he knew to do. And he should go after it now, before she awoke. Please let her wake, God. He sent up the prayer as he stood and strode to the horses.

  Chapter 11

  Colette did have a water skin hanging from her saddle, so French grabbed it and mounted Giselle. Then he spun his horse back the way they'd come. He pushed her harder than was probably safe in the night over the boulder-strewn trail.

  But Giselle seemed to feel his fear. She maneuvered like the excellent mount she was, and they finally reached the gurgling creek. He leapt to the ground and dropped to his knees at the water's edge. The canteens took forever to fill, and his hands shook as he re-corked each one.

  Would Colette still be alive by the time he returned? The thought sent another sluice of fear through him. He was breathing hard as he remounted Giselle and dug in his heels for the return trip. The mare matched his determination, maneuvering the rocky hillside with steady footing. She slid to a stop by Colette's horse, and he vaulted to the ground. Finally, he reached Colette's side and dropped to his knees. "I'm here, mon amour. Are you well?"

  She stirred as he bent over her. Was that his imagination? He brushed his hand over her hair, letting her feel his presence. "I brought water. Can you drink a little?"