Faith in the Mountain Valley

by Misty M. Beller

  Faith in the Mountain Valley

  Call of the Rockies ~ Book 5

  Misty M. Beller

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Review Request

  SNEAK PEEK: Honor in the Mountain Refuge

  Call of the Rockies Series

  Brides of Laurent Series

  The Mountain Series

  Hearts of Montana Series

  Texas Rancher Trilogy

  Wyoming Mountain Tales

  About the Author

  And I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not;

  I will lead them in paths that they have not known:

  I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight.

  These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them.

  * * *

  Isaiah 42:16 (KJV)

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  Chapter 1

  Spring, 1831

  Clearwater River Valley, Future Idaho Territory

  A person approached through the trees ahead.

  French tensed as his spotted mare perked her ears toward the figures. He rode near the back of their group, a position that let him slip into anonymity but allowed him to keep an eye on the others. Step in and help where needed. Then ease back just as quickly, without his presence making much of a stir.

  Beaver Tail, riding in the front, would meet whoever approached through the trees, assess any danger, and deal with it accordingly. Behind Beaver Tail, his wife, Susanna, never strayed far—his better-looking shadow, one might say. Meksem, another warrior, would be nearby as well, with her future husband, Adam, at her side.

  The others—including French—settled in between and around, with Joel and his wife, Elan, bringing up the rear, ever watchful.

  French never had an exact job. He was the one who adapted. Stepped in to gather wood or help where needed. More often than not, he provided a story for entertainment when the rest of them needed a distraction.

  He’d never planned for his life to be so haphazard, without focus or any kind of real plan. But here he was, a man of all work, yet with nothing to call his own.

  Maybe if he'd been able to find Colette, all this would be different. His entire world would be different. Happy. His purpose had always been to please her. Because a smile on her sweet face filled him up like an overflowing canteen.

  The day he’d lost her, he’d lost his purpose.

  He'd never been able to find either of them again, so here he sat. Riding with his friends along the edge of a cliff, watching a cluster of pines and cedars for who knew what to step through.

  Movement caught his eye beyond the trees, and his senses spiked. An Indian appeared through the branches. Not really a surprise out here in the mountain wilderness, yet… These braves wore the markings of the Blackfoot tribe.

  And the Blackfoot had a reputation as a bully among the mountain tribes.

  Not Beaver Tail though. He was Blackfoot, at least half so, though to look at him you’d never know his father had been English. But the man never took up arms without just cause. Which only showed you could never judge a person according to his nationality. Better to judge by each fellow’s own actions. And be cautious.

  In front of him, Caleb's big frame blocked the sight of the oncoming riders for a moment. But when the trail shifted again, French saw the strangers had multiplied to six now. The five in front were definitely Indian, probably Blackfoot. But the man in the back appeared white, although the slouch hat he wore pulled low over his face made it hard to see more than pale skin. The fellow’s lean form seemed almost wiry, but French could tell little more than that with the bulky buckskins.

  French's pulse picked up pace. A Frenchman maybe? The few trappers they'd met west of the Missouri had been part of the Hudson Bay Company, the sorry lot. And only half had spoken his native tongue, the rest being of British descent—a likely possibility since that country had won ownership of the Canadian colonies.

  But still, what he wouldn't give for a conversation in his mother language.

  Beaver paused their group a few strides before the strangers. The high-low cadence of the Blackfoot tongue drifted on the breeze, and French tried to focus on picking out words. He'd learned enough Blackfoot through the years to know they were asking where each was headed and what their business was. Friendly conversation, it sounded like. Good.

  The word Peigan came clear. These five must be part of the more peaceful sect of the Blackfoot tribe. Maybe that would help ease any lingering concerns from the Nez Perce women in their group. Not a lot of trust existed between the two tribes.

  His gaze drifted to the white stranger in the rear, but the man’s horse was positioned so the brave in front covered much of him. Only the pretty palomino the white man rode could be seen plainly. The animal still wore its pale yellow winter coat, which would likely shed out in another month or two to produce a darker golden or coppery color. But the lighter tone brought out the pale blonde of the man's hair, which barely showed at his neck beneath the hat.

  Not many grown men could boast hair that light. A painful memory swept over him. Colette's father was the only other man French could recollect. Colette’s hair had been even a shade lighter than her father’s.

  Movement where Beaver Tail was speaking pulled his thoughts from Colette, thankfully. Even after all these years, she stayed too heartbreakingly close to the forefront of his mind.

  Beaver Tail motioned farewell to the strangers, then nudged his horse forward. The path spanned wide enough for two to ride abreast, with a steep slope rising on one side and a sheer cliff dropping off on the other. Both parties would need to ride single file to pass—a strong test of the strangers’ friendliness.

  As their group straggled out to pass in a single line, French readied the Blackfoot greeting on his tongue to offer as the men rode by. The lead brave appeared seasoned, at least fifty years old with plenty of salt worked through his long pepper braids.

  French nodded and spoke the usual greeting in their tongue. "Oki."

  The brave gave an answering dip of his chin as he passed. One by one, each of the four other Blackfoot rode by him in quick succession, some offering a friendly nod, the rest barely a notice.

  As the last brave passed, French sent a hungry glance ahead to the white man bringing up the rear. Should he say bonjour or greet him in English?

  The fellow gave no sign of his heritage. No word of greeting or even a smile. He wore his hat so low, the brim covered most of his face. The fur collar of his coat pulled up to hide the point of his chin, which left only his mouth and the tip of his nose revealed. Those features were small, almost dainty for a man.

  The fellow must be young. Maybe even a white captive they'd raised as a Blackfoot? But why then would he wear a white man's hat? So maybe not raised as a Blackfoot, but possibly still a captive?


  "Hello." French spoke the word quietly, almost intimately. To show the lad he would find a friend in them if he needed one.

  The fellow didn't lift his head to reveal his eyes. Didn't acknowledge French in any way until he'd almost passed by completely. Then he lifted a gloved hand in greeting.

  There was something in the motion. In those long, slender fingers that caught French’s attention.

  Those weren't the gloves a man wore. They were too well fitting. Nor was that a broad male hand. But it was more than that. The elegance of the movement stole his breath.

  The rider had already passed, but French pulled his mare to a halt and spun in the saddle to watch the stranger. The outline was lean, definitely not a full-grown man. But a boy? The figure sat too tall. A lad of that height would be awkward and gangly without the poised elegance this person possessed.

  It must be…a woman. Should he do something? She hadn’t seemed afraid. Maybe she was married to one of the men. He’d seen trappers marry Indian women. And Joel had married Elan, from the Nez Perce tribe. Adam would soon be married to her friend, Meksem. For that matter, it looked like Caleb would soon be wed to Otskai.

  And the opposite happened also, though white women in this wilderness were scarce. But Beaver Tail had married Susanna, a white woman.

  Since this female didn’t appear in danger or desirous of help, maybe it would be best to leave well enough alone.

  Maybe.

  "You're awfully quiet tonight, French."

  Caleb's words pulled French’s gaze from the leaping flames of their campfire. The man had a way of seeing things a fellow tried to keep hidden. And a knack for making you want to confide in him.

  During their years together, French had told him many stories from his eleven years of trapping, had even told Caleb that both his parents were dead. But that was the most he'd ever shared.

  Not even Caleb's gentle steadiness could pull Colette from his lips. She was too important. And the rest…well, it was history. Another lifetime, and better left there.

  So, he worked for a smile for his friend. "Just thinking about that group we met on the trail earlier." That was close enough to the truth. Seeing that white woman with the Blackfoot braves, trying to appear as a man, yet with hair almost as flaxen as Colette's, had resurrected too many childhood memories. The woman couldn’t actually be Colette, not this far away from the Canadian fort her family had moved to. Yet the memories wouldn’t stop.

  He couldn't tell them to Caleb. Better to find another story.

  "Reminded me of the time I spent with Jim Bridger and we passed by a group of Bloods and Gros Ventre. I'd never seen the two tribes travel together like that, nor have I since. But these fellows had spent the winter together and looked to be half starved." The rest of the group had shifted their focus to him and leaned in for the tale.

  Maybe this really was his purpose in life, to entertain these friends. Maybe his eleven years on the trail had all been in preparation for this. First the nine years searching for Colette. Then the winter he'd spent desperately trying to forget her, and then this last year and a half with the men around him.

  The women had joined on by ones or twos, mostly marrying up with his friends. Not that he begrudged Beaver Tail, Joel, Adam, and now Caleb happiness with their lady loves.

  But once again, he was the odd man out.

  He always would be, because he’d never settle for anyone but Colette. He’d promised her he wouldn't.

  After he finished his story, Adam joined in with a tale of his own, one from when he traveled with the Mandan warriors on his way to find the Palouse horses. Adam had tried to get the rest of them to accompany him, but when Joel—his younger brother—had put his foot down and said they'd finish their trek up the Missouri as planned, Adam had sneaked off in the middle of the night, leaving a note to share his plans.

  Though Joel had been angry at the time, if they hadn't spent the next summer and autumn looking for Adam, neither Adam nor Joel would have found these women they now loved so deeply. Beaver Tail either, most likely.

  So did that mean Adam had been wrong for leaving? The others would probably say God worked it all for His plan. Once upon a time, French might've thought that too.

  But if God had ever worked in his own life, the Almighty had left him the same day Colette had. The only difference was that Colette hadn't left of her own accord. She'd been taken away by her parents. If only he’d been old enough to travel along with them. But he’d been afraid to leave his mother alone. Not with the way his father sometimes turned violent when the drink took over. Colette had promised to write, but he’d never once heard from her. There must not have been a way to send mail from Fort York, or wherever her family had gone after leaving there.

  Now, as he settled into his fur bedding, with a buffalo robe pulled over him against the cold spring night, he couldn't clear the figure of that woman on horseback from his mind. As a girl, Colette hadn't possessed that poise, not when they'd been running through the countryside, playing knights, or soldiers, or school teacher.

  By the time she turned thirteen, her bearing had begun to change. That was about the time he'd kissed her, though he'd fallen in love with her long before then. Yet even the fourteen-year-old Colette who'd waved a tearful good-bye to him wasn't as poised and graceful—and tall—as the woman who'd ridden away from him today.

  But that hair—the pale blonde. How likely was it another woman would have that same shade? It was a tad darker than her childhood color, but the same exact shade as her father’s.

  What were the chances she would be riding through these wild mountains…in a United States territory, no less? So far from where her parents had moved her. Weeks, maybe months away, depending on the season of travel.

  But then, what were the chances any woman would be out here riding with five Piegan Blackfoot braves?

  So many questions that they made his chest ache, and not an answer among them. Especially if he kept lying here on this bed pallet, then rose in the morning and continued riding westward with his friends. He'd never get the answers.

  If there was a chance, even a minuscule chance smaller than the mosquitoes that harassed them through the summer months, that the woman was Colette… That the girl he'd spent a third of his life looking for and had traveled the whole of Rupert's Land more than once to find… If she was lying somewhere in her own bedroll only a couple hours’ ride away, how could he not go make certain? What if she were a prisoner?

  The thought burned within him.

  He could do what Adam had done, leave a note letting the others know where he was going. He'd find Colette—he could call her an old friend in his note, since the others wouldn’t know her name. He'd tell them he'd be gone a week or two visiting with the friend and would catch up with them at Otskai's village. If they'd already left that place, he'd meet them at the town where Elan and Meksem hailed from.

  Even if there was some kind of trouble that had driven Colette to this place, something he needed to take care of for her, that should give him enough time to do whatever necessary. He’d promised Colette he’d always love her. Always be there for her. They’d both promised. Though he’d only been thirteen at the time, he’d meant every word.

  Maybe he could even bring Colette to meet these friends who’d become like brothers, and even sisters, to him. After that, whatever Colette wanted, he would do. If she wished to return to the Canadas, he would gladly take her there. Though he didn’t enjoy the thought of living around so many people again. He'd much rather settle with her in these beautiful mountains. But wherever she was happiest, he would be happiest.

  Easing down his fur covering, he scanned the sleeping forms around him. He could just make out Beaver Tail’s steady breathing, only because the man and his wife lay nearest French. Sneaking away without waking him would be a feat, as the man seemed to sleep with one eye open and both ears cocked.

  If Beaver woke, French would just have to explain what he was d
oing. That would save him a note anyway. Beaver would likely let him leave without a stir. The man had uncanny insight. French could make him understand the importance of this without having to share details.

  Sure enough, though French hadn't made any distinguishable noise that he knew of, as he finished rolling his furs in a bundle, Beaver Tail slipped out from the blanket he shared with Susanna.

  The man watched as French looped his possibles bag over his neck and picked up his other packs. Beaver didn't awaken any of the others, only padded quietly behind French toward the horses.

  When he reached Giselle, the spotted mare he'd traded with the Nimiipuu for, French turned to Beaver Tail and kept his voice low. "I think I recognized the white person who was with the Piegan Braves earlier today. It might be an old friend. I'm going to ride back and find out for sure. If it's who I think it is, I'll probably stay with them a few weeks, then catch up with you guys at one of the Nimiipuu towns. I'll look for you at Otskai's first, then go on to Elan's if need be."

  At least he'd gotten the whole plan out before Beaver Tail responded. The man usually took his time thinking through a situation before responding.

  And it was six whole heartbeats before Beaver Tail finally parted his lips to speak. “A friend from before, when you were a lad?"

  A knot of emotion clogged French’s throat. How had the man guessed? That intuition at work.