A groan slipped from her. He definitely hadn’t imagined the sound.
"I'm here, Colette. Let's give you a drink." He had no spoon to dribble the liquid between her lips, but he could do it carefully with the canteen.
As he reached for one of the flasks, her hands moved. She strained, like she was trying to turn onto her side.
"Easy there. Let me help you.” Maybe she was having trouble breathing on her back, as he’d worried about.
Desperation seemed to awaken her, and her eyes flickered open. Then widened. Her hand clutched at the ground, and he helped her turn onto her side.
Then under his palm, her shoulder jerked. Something like a convulsion shook her. She lifted from the ground just in time for her shoulders to heave.
Realization swept through him. She was vomiting. A new wave of panic stirred inside him. What should he do? Was there any way to stop this? To help her?
She seemed barely able to keep her face above the ground. She must be impossibly weak.
He leaned over and slipped his hands under both her shoulders, lifting her a little and taking the weight off her arms. Another convulsion pushed up from her core. He shifted his hands to make sure he wasn't hindering the flow of whatever was coming out of her. But was anything actually purging? This was not a normal vomit. Her body seemed determined to rid itself of some poison, but nothing would come. Did she have anything left inside?
At last, she drooped in his arms. He eased her backward, then laid her on her back again. Every part of him ached for her. Ached to draw her against him and cradle her. To soothe away the pain, the exhaustion, and whatever malady was tormenting her.
He settled for stroking her brow. Her eyelids flickered, then lifted to reveal tiny slits.
"I'm here, ma cherie." He cradled her cheek with his hand. "What can I do to help you?"
He couldn't see her eyes well enough to read them, but her mouth parted the smallest bit. He couldn't tell if she meant to speak or not, but the movement shifted his gaze to her lips—cracked and bright red. She needed water, especially if she'd purged everything from inside her. But would drinking make things worse? Bring on another vomiting episode? He would start with a little. She had to have something.
"Let's see if you can drink a sip." He reached for the flask and pulled off the cork with his teeth. He couldn't bring himself to pull his hand from Colette's cheek. He needed the connection, and maybe she did too.
He slipped his hand behind her head. "I'm going to lift your head a little so you can drink.”
Her eyes slipped shut, but her lips parted more. He only lifted her head a small bit off the ground, enough to keep the water from choking her on its way down. He dribbled some into her mouth.
When she swallowed, her face contorted in a grimace. Was her throat that dry? She parted her lips again to receive more, and he did his best not to pour too much.
This time, the grimace was replaced with a slight pursing of her lips. Her eyes stayed closed, but her breathing seemed a little louder in the quiet. Was he exhausting her? "One more time, then you can rest."
She opened her mouth again, just enough for him to pour in more liquid. She swallowed, then eased out a breath.
"There now." Lowering her head to the ground, he let out his own breath. If that small amount of water stayed down, he'd try more in a few minutes.
How often was the vomiting coming? And how long had it been going on? Only today, or had she been hiding this from them all for days? Maybe even weeks. In his mind, he ran through the time he'd been with her at the camp. She'd worked around him and the others for long spells as they skinned the catches and scraped hides. She looked a little pale after a skinning sometimes, but he'd expected worse than that.
That morning though, when she'd sat in camp and he brought her the cup of corn gruel, she'd been fighting something.
Realization swept through him. Maybe this vomiting was a sign of the end of whatever illness she had. Maybe she realized it this morning, and that was why she’d fled.
No. God, you can't take her. Not yet. Everyone had their time to die, but this wasn't Colette's. They were supposed to have years and years together. There was so much to catch up on, and so much left of their dreams to fulfill. You can't take her.
He forced his focus back to the woman before him. She was lying perfectly still again, no movement except her breathing. How could she slip back into unconsciousness so quickly? This must be another symptom of the disease.
After recorking the water flask, he straightened the blanket that had twisted when her convulsions had started. What else could he do?
He stroked her brow again, running his fingers through the softness of her feathery hair. So many times he'd wanted to do this since he’d found her again, and even back when they were little. But this wasn't how he’d planned it.
"Colette, you can't leave me." His voice trembled with the emotion clogging his throat.
She moved, her hand sliding along her leg, just a little. She didn't seem to have strength to lift it. Did her body need to purge again?
But this didn't seem to be the desperate reaching from before. She appeared to be reaching for something. He moved his free hand to help her, slipping his fingers around her palm to lift it wherever she wanted to reach.
She closed her fingers around his, then her hand stilled. Was that it? She wanted to hold his hand?
A new flood of emotion eased through him, and he firmed his hold around Colette’s. Maybe she simply wanted to know that someone was there. That help had come.
But he would do more than merely nurse her. He would strengthen the connection they'd always had. He would do everything he could to renew her. To bring her through this sickness to the life they both wanted. He had to believe she still wanted it, even a tiny bit as much as he did. And he would find a way to fulfill the dream for both of them.
The rosy blush of dawn lightened the distant eastern horizon, and if French hadn’t been so exhausted, he would have soaked in the hope of the new day. He dropped his gaze to Colette’s face. She slept again. That was good, right? Surely her body needed rest to recover.
She'd suffered three more vomiting episodes in the night, with more time spread between those last two. She’d managed to drink a little in between each, and anytime he wasn't forcing her to drink or the convulsions weren't racking her body, she lay so lifeless she might have been dead.
Except for the steady breathing.
He should wake her to drink more water. Her lips still seemed chapped—a bright red that stood out against her impossibly pale skin—pale except for the bruising under her eyes. Maybe those were only shadows, but the sight made his chest squeeze even tighter.
He readied the canteen, then stroked a hand across her brow, running his fingers down her temple. "Colette, honey. Can you wake and drink again?” Her body must be desperate for water. It was hard to believe she had any left inside.
Her eyelids fluttered but didn't open. At least she was awake.
He slipped his hand behind her head and lifted it a little, as he had before. She parted her lips and received the water he drizzled in.
The first swallow always seemed painful, and this time was no different. He pulled the flask away as she suffered through, then returned the nozzle to her mouth for more. After the third drink, she opened her lips, as if for another. This was good. She'd only been able to manage three sips at a time before.
After she swallowed the fourth, her body sagged into his hand, and he lowered her head to the ground. "Sleep again, mon amour. I'll be here when you need me."
While she rested, he moved around the camp, accomplishing everything he could. He'd already unsaddled the horses in the night and hobbled them nearby. Now, he led them down to the creek, taking the canteen he'd been using with Colette to refill.
This valley had better grazing than up on the mountain where Colette lay, but he hesitated to leave the animals so far from them. What if he needed to take Colette away quickl
y? He would have to carry her, for she wasn't even strong enough to sit up by herself. Better to have the animals nearby in case they needed to ride. He could move the horses every few hours to fresh grass. He certainly had little else to do while Colette slept.
On his way back to her, he gathered up what dry tree limbs he could find. He should start a fire and see if he could make a broth from the meat they had with them. Surely her body needed sustenance as well as water.
As long as the vomiting didn't start again.
Hopefully, she would soon be rested enough to open her eyes fully and speak to him. To tell him what was wrong with her. Maybe she knew of other ways to treat the condition.
Or maybe she even carried medicine with her. Why hadn't he thought of that sooner?
He tugged the horses faster, and as soon as he reached the little camp he'd made around Colette, he dropped to his knees by her saddle. Now that he had daylight, he went through her pack meticulously. The leather-wrapped bundle he’d pushed back in during the night held food. Dried meat.
The rest of her pack held the usual supplies, including a set of cloth trousers and shirt. The ones she'd changed into after the rainstorm, if he wasn't mistaken. She'd only worn them the rest of that day, then had change back into her buckskins. Maybe she preferred the warmth of the leathers, or maybe she thought they made her look more like a man.
A Bible caught his notice, pressing his conscience. Did Colette still cling to the faith they’d shared in their younger days? She must, since she carried a Bible with her. There was precious little else in the pack, so this must be one of her prize possessions.
But he could find no sign of any medicine inside the pack. Not even leaves or roots that might be medicinal. Had she not tried to treat this condition? She'd probably run out of whatever remedy she’d brought with her. Maybe that was why she suffered so much now.
A seed of hope rose up inside him. Maybe if he got her back to civilization, they could get what care she needed to cure her illness. But why had she left a doctor’s care to begin with?
So many questions, and it was about time he received some answers.
Chapter 12
After untying the pack from Colette’s saddle, French carried it and the water flask over to her. He figured he’d better hobble the horses again before he settled in.
After finishing that task, he took his place beside Colette. She shifted, then slitted one eye. He managed a smile for her. This was good that she was waking on her own.
She parted her lips and looked to be trying to speak. He leaned close as hope rose within him.
"Water." The word rasped in little more than a croak.
Of course. If the stomach ailment really had subsided, she would need a great deal more water than she'd been able to drink thus far. He reached for the canteen, removed the cork, and helped her drink again. She managed larger sips this time, then settled back after four swallows.
He resettled her on the ground and recorked the flask. Both her eyes were still somewhat open. She seemed to be watching him, though he couldn’t see much in the dark blue shadows between her lashes.
He turned to her fully and took her hand in his. He’d done this often through the night after she'd reached for him that first time. She didn't always seem to realize he was there, but the connection helped him. "I'm glad you seem to be feeling better."
She didn't answer, but maybe that was because he'd not really asked a question. Perhaps he should keep saying simple comments like that, enough to start conversation, but not anything that required answers. That way she could reserve her strength for his real questions.
He reached up and brushed the hair from her forehead again. The fine tendrils tended to slip over her brow when he helped her drink, and brushing them back gave him another excuse to touch her. "I thought I’d make a fire soon and cook some meat broth."
Those words finally brought a shift in her expression. Something like a grimace. Her mouth parted, and again the single word slipped out. “Water."
He studied her face for a sign of what she meant. Did she want another drink already? Or maybe she simply wasn't ready for broth. Perhaps she suspected she could only keep down water.
He was tired of guessing, and since he planned for this to be a reckoning, it was time he start asking his questions instead of keeping them festering inside him. "You mean you're not ready for meat broth yet? You only want to drink water for now?"
Her chin dipped in the slightest of nods.
Relief swept through him. That wasn't so hard. Now he had a clear answer and didn’t have to read her mind. Perhaps he could try another question.
He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. "Colette, what's wrong with you? What ailment is this that's made you so sick?"
She didn't answer, not with words or with the shake of her head to show she didn’t want to respond. Maybe she was simply trying to find the words. Or deciding how much to tell him.
He waited, and at last, her mouth parted again. "Not…sick."
He barely held in his frustration. "Of course you're sick. I watched you vomit four times last night. You can hardly open your eyes now." How could she possibly think he would believe that lie?
Maybe he should get straight to the real question. Giving her hand a gentle squeeze to show he was still on her side, he gentled his voice. "Are you dying, Colette? Please tell me. I need to know."
She hesitated, and he couldn't tell if she was gathering strength to speak or debating how to answer his question.
Please tell me the truth. He held his breath until she finally spoke.
"I thought I might die…last night. But then…you came." She squeezed his hand with the slightest grip.
What did she mean by that? Could her illness be passing? Could the worst possibly be behind her? "Tell me what sickness this is, Colette. Please. Why were you casting up your accounts all night?"
Her mouth parted again. Her eyes had closed. Maybe she was reserving her strength to speak. "Must have eaten some bad meat."
Frustration sluiced through him. "You can't expect me to believe that. You've been secretive ever since I found you again. You’re hiding something. Some kind of illness, I think." He tried to soften his voice, but taking away the edge of anger only made his tone crack with the emotion underneath. "Tell me what it is, Colette. I won't make things worse. I promise."
Again, she was quiet. But her lips stayed parted, as though she would speak again. He waited.
At last, her voice came out a whisper. "I'm with child."
The words didn't penetrate at first. His mind tried to morph them into some kind of ailment. Then their full meaning splashed in.
She was… A babe grew inside her?
How and…?
What had…?
Who?
He grasped frantically for the fraying edges of his control, struggled to rein in the whirlwind of his thoughts.
"Jean." Colette's tiny voice broke through his turmoil, and he forced his focus onto her.
Her brows were lowered in a grimace, something like pain. He scanned the length of her, and only then did he realize how tightly he was squeezing her hand.
Releasing his clench, he stroked his thumb over her fingers. Whatever had happened to her, he would see her through this. He would be whatever she needed him to be. But he had to have some answers.
"Who, Colette?" His voice cracked even on those two words.
Please respond. If she didn't, he would go mad, his mind churning with every awful possibility.
Colette's eyes opened a little. "My husband."
Another blow, this one like a solid punch to his gut by a man twice his size. He might have sucked in a breath, but it did nothing to block the pain.
She was married? His Colette had married another? How could she? Had she given up on him so easily? Did she not believe he would go to the ends of the earth to find her, just as he said he would when they last parted?
Then she spoke again, her words
stilling his questions. "He's gone…died."
How many blows could a man take in the space of a few minutes? Yet he was so numb from the other, this one felt like little more than a punch to the shoulder. Enough to spin him until he was disoriented, but nothing more.
How long ago had the man died? A few months, at the most, for he'd been around recently enough to leave her a babe. A new thought washed in. Were there other children? Did she have other wee ones somewhere, or maybe lost? What had killed her husband? If sickness, had the disease also taken her other children?
He had to rein in his mind and find out the truth.
He forced in a deep breath. If only there was a stiff icy wind to clear his head. These balmy spring days didn't hold the punch of winter temperatures. He pushed the breath out, then focused on what to ask first.
When he finally honed his gaze on her face, she was watching him. He had no idea what his expression had told her, but he didn't care. He'd never hidden things from Colette. Not anything she wanted to know anyway. He'd not spoken of his father or the challenges at home unless she asked. But that had been his cross to bear, not hers.
Now, he would take the weight of this burden from her, as much as he could.
Best to focus on the facts. The things he needed to know to help her. "How long have you been alone?"
Her eyes drifted shut again. "About…eight weeks." Her voice sounded exhausted. He needed to make the most of the few questions he would be able to ask. He couldn't overtire her. Not only was her own health at risk, but a precious life inside her needed everything she could give it.
He stroked her hand again. "How did your husband die?" If his illness had been catching, that might give him insight into what was wrong with Colette.
The lines creased her brow, and her lips closed. Would she refuse to answer any more questions? Just this last one, my love. Please.
Maybe he didn't have the right to call her that anymore. Not if she'd given herself to another. But she would always be his love, no matter what. And if her husband had passed away, perhaps it wasn't so wrong for him to think of her that way now.
Faith in the Mountain Valley Page 9