Through Every Valley

By Rebekah Colburn

In one horrible instant, the course of her life was changed forever. She would never trust again.

Vivian Lawson came to Wyoming because it was her husband’s wish. But the discovery of his true nature leaves her bitterly determined to never trust a man again. And his sudden and timely death leaves her widowed on the western frontier, burdened by betrayal and guilt.

As swiftly as a ship sinks to the ocean floor, everything that mattered most to him was stripped away.

Rob Hudson returned to Annapolis, Maryland after years of fighting to preserve the Union and set the slaves free. But when the pursuit of his dreams leads only to loss and disappointment, Rob sets out on a westward adventure that will test his courage and reshape his character.

Sometimes the paths of our lives take us into deep valleys or rushing rivers. But through it all, there is hope.

When their paths cross on the open prairie, a new journey begins. One which will demand that they confront the shadows of their pasts and dare to believe in a brighter future. Together they must learn to surrender their broken hearts to God and to trust Him with their deepest fears and dearest dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebekah Colburn
• Release date: Jan 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310563461

Rebekah Colburn

Rebekah Colburn is at her happiest when writing novels! She has a B.A. in Biblical Studies from Washington Bible College and longs to use her creative writing to inspire and encourage others. She lives in Maryland with her husband and daughter, two cats, and a rambunctious Lab-Pitt Mix puppy.

Book preview

For whom the Lord loves He chastens.

Hebrews 12:6, NKJV

Chapter One

Wyoming Territory, 1866

She could hear him calling her name, but fury propelled her forward. The wind whipped at her hair and the green buffalo grass bent beneath her angry boots. She charged forward, unsure of her destination, only desiring to put distance between them. Her breath came in short, hard puffs, as much from rage as from her exertion in the thin air. Vivian didn’t pause to see if he followed, but stomped ahead in reckless motion, finding satisfaction in the effort.

Though the wind tore the words from his mouth, she could hear him shouting for her to stop. She picked up her pace and clenched her fists.

Venom spewed from a dark place in her heart and flooded her mind with vengeance. Oh how I hate him! I hope he trips over a rock and breaks his leg! Lord, you know what he’s done to me! Let him get bitten by a rattlesnake and die! Strike him with a heart seizure and take his breath away from him, Lord—take his life! He doesn’t deserve to live! Hot tears blurred her eyes. Ragged sobs tore from her chest. How could he do this to me? Oh, how? How?

She couldn’t dispel the image from her mind. She hadn’t been expected home until late this evening. They must not have heard her ride past the cabin. When Vivian led her mare into the barn, the sight of her husband’s stallion stomping restlessly in his stall was the first indication that something wasn’t right. He had kissed her good-bye and said he would be riding out to check on the herd, but would likely be home before dusk.

A brown and white horse nickered gently from the stall where Vivian’s mount was usually kept. She had seen that horse before.

A sick spiral of dread grew in her stomach. Cold prickles of warning ran over her skin as she dismounted and stealthily approached the cabin. A confirming giggle sounded through log walls, followed by the muffled response of her husband. She stepped quietly to the front door, then slowly lifted the latch and crept into the dim interior. As the door swung open, she could see the tangle of feet and bare legs from where she stood.

At the sound of her gasp, they silenced. Ricky sprang from the bed, grabbing at his discarded clothes flung upon the floor. "Vivian!" he snapped furiously, as if she were a child who had burst in on her parents in the middle of a private act.

Always known as a gentle soul, Vivian felt something inside her snap at the sight of her husband’s betrayal. She spun around and took three angry strides to the fireplace. Her hand tightened around the iron poker. Ricky glared at her venomously as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. The urge to beat them both throbbed in her fingers, but she released the poker as if it burned her. She turned instead and ran from the cabin that only the night before had sheltered her in the arms of her husband.

Rage boiled through her veins and caused her to tremble with the force of it. She had never known this kind of pain, this fury that blinded her to all reason and heated her blood with hatred. Oh Lord, how can I live with this? Let him die for his sins! Take his life right now, that worthless cheat!

In some quiet corner of her mind lived the fear that she was partially to blame. She had seen the way her husband looked at the young blonde. How many times had she turned away, too afraid to believe what her eyes told her to be true. Her husband watched the girl with an interest far beyond what propriety allowed. He gazed too long into her eyes as that seductive smile slowly curved his lips. Vivian had seen them talking in the shadowed grove near the creek. Her foolish mind had always raced to provide an innocent explanation, to vindicate her husband, to deny the truth that lived right before her eyes.

If she had been a wiser, stronger woman, Vivian would have been able to admit her husband’s interest in another woman. Perhaps she could have confronted him with it, forced him to admit to himself that he was wrong for lusting after a woman who was not his wife. If she had known the right words to say, perhaps he wouldn’t have let it go this far. If she had made herself more desirable for him, maybe he wouldn’t have desired another.

The tears spilled over her cheeks, blurring her vision. She stumbled over a ragged boulder in her path as she lifted her skirts and broke into a full run. She knew she couldn’t run forever. Sooner or later she would have to stop and face him and his infidelity. Face Annette and her betrayal, too. But not yet.

She would run until she was too winded to run any farther. And then what? How could she ever let him touch her again? How could she ever trust him again? Her thoughts returned to the iron poker by the fireplace and the satisfaction she would find in striking them both.

She was already gasping for breath. Her lungs hadn’t adjusted to the higher elevation on these windswept plains. Ricky had never known a moment of ill health until moving to Wyoming a year and a half ago. Now, on occasion, his heart would beat wildly and he would grow short of breath. Beads of sweat would form on his forehead and upper lip and he would feel faint, complain of pressure in his chest, and be forced to sit until the spell passed. Vivian thought of his heart now. Lord, let his heart stop! Just let it just stop!

She felt, rather than heard, the change in his pursuit behind her. She paused to look over her shoulder. The heat of fury melded with the icy grip of fear as he stumbled forward, landing on his hands and knees in the dry prairie grass. She watched as he began grasping wildly at his chest. Is this a trick?

Vivian hesitated, unsure if she should offer aid or continue her mad flight. When she saw him rip open his shirt and clutch at his heart, buttons tumbling into the tall grasses, Vivian’s feet propelled her to his side. He remained on all fours, fingers splayed in the grass, bugs crawling over his skin. He looked up at her with eyes as wild as a cornered rabbit and though his mouth opened, no sound followed.

Ricky? she let her hand rest on his shoulder. Ricky, what’s wrong?

Then something in his eyes changed. He lurched forward and Vivian heard the dull thud of his face as it collided with the hard earth. He lay silent and unmoving, his arms twisted at an awkward angle. She stared at him with her own eyes wide and questioning. Her heart felt frozen, yet it pounded against her ribs.

Ricky? She didn’t expect an answer.

Slowly she reached for his wrist. She felt for a pulse, felt again, but found nothing.

Ricky…? Her breath caught in her chest.

She pulled her hand back just as slowly as she had reached for him. She knelt beside him in the swaying grass, her hands folded in her lap. The wind whipped his dark hair this way and that, and she could make out the slant of his nose and the swell of his cheekbone just under the silky strands.

Vivian had followed her husband out to this wild place of wind and sky to pursue his dream. She had given herself to him in the best way she knew how. And now he was gone.

Shouldn’t she feel something? Was it her prayer that had made his heart stop? O God, you know I didn’t mean it! I was just so hurt and angry… Besides, God didn’t grant prayers as a genie granted wishes. It wasn’t her fault he was dead.

She had never seen anything so still as her husband’s form lying prostrate amid the waving prairie grass, hair buffeted by the wind. His unnatural stillness, his complete silence, unsettled her.

She waited for the grief to overtake the anger still pulsing in her veins.

But it never came.

Chapter Two

The movement of a hawk in flight disrupted Vivian’s reverie. I should do something. She looked up at the bird as it soared through the vast expanse of blue sky smudged with wispy white clouds. How long had she been sitting motionless, struggling to grasp the fractured changes in her life? She glanced back at the cabin and assumed Annette was long gone. What would she think when she learned of Ricky’s sudden death?

Vivian stood on shaky legs and looked around her helplessly. She couldn’t carry him to the cabin alone. She walked calmly toward the barn. There was no use in running. He was already gone. His body should be safe on the prairie for the time it took her to fetch help.

Her mare, named Wind Chaser for her speed, was still saddled from her earlier ride. Vivian swung her leg over the saddle like a man and spread the skirts around her, stalling for time. How would she explain it? She had found him in bed with the neighbor’s daughter, prayed for his death, and he had died. Would anyone suspect she was at fault?

Am I at fault?

Her dearest friend and only solace in this godforsaken place was Sarah Gibson, a Lakota Sioux woman who had married a white settler. Ricky refused to call her by name, always referring to her derisively as that Indian woman. Their homestead lay southwest, about an hour’s ride. The prairie had just enough rolls and swells in it to hide the Gibson’s cabin from Vivian’s view. Many evenings she had gazed out the window and longed to see her friend’s candle burning in the distance, just to know she wasn’t alone.

This morning Vivian had gone to visit her friend, but had been turned away before she reached the door. Sarah’s daughter, Elizabeth, had met her on the porch with regrets that Sarah was feeling unwell. She often suffered from terrible headaches and the only cure was to lie down in total silence and complete darkness. Vivian had tried to manage her disappointment and prayed for her friend’s recovery as she returned home, never suspecting the welcome awaiting her.

How quickly life could change. She had lost her husband twice in one day: first to infidelity, then to death.

Now she rode back to the Gibsons’ cabin to ask Frank to bring the wagon and haul Ricky’s corpse home to be dressed for burial. She wondered who would dig the grave, where he should be buried, and if there was a preacher to perform the funeral. In the deep recesses of her mind, she knew she should be preoccupied with other thoughts, a grieving widow’s thoughts. But she couldn’t make them come.

Frank must have spotted her approach from the barn. Whenever Sarah suffered from one of her spells, Frank hovered close by to tend to her needs. He appeared through the doorway now, sheltering his eyes from the sun.

Hey there! he called. Everything all right?

Vivian waited until she had closed the gap between them before she announced in a strained voice, I need you to bring the wagon. She swallowed, adding in an almost whisper, Ricky’s dead.

Frank and Sarah Gibson had to be a good ten years older than Vivian. Frank’s hair was thinning and beginning to gray. He ran his hands through it now as he removed his hat and met her gaze, his eyes squinted against the brightness.

What’s that you say? he asked, as if hoping he had misunderstood.

I—I don’t know what happened. Vivian looked around her, as if to find clues in the landscape as to how she should explain. I don’t know… He just was walking, and then he dropped. He just… dropped… and then he was gone. I think he had a heart seizure.

Those brown eyes, wide as a frightened rabbit’s... What did he think in those last minutes? What would he have said if he could have spoken?

Oh Vivian, I’m terrible sorry. Terrible sorry, he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. He reached for her hand and squeezed it.

Guess we’d better go get him, Frank said after a moment’s pause. Vivian followed him to the barn and watched as he hitched the wagon. She wondered if she should say more. Say something. But her mind was spinning and her jaw felt locked. She remembered their bare feet in the blankets.

She led him to the place where Ricky lay just as she had left him, his elbows bent out awkwardly to the sides and his face pressed into the dirt. She watched tearlessly as Frank hefted the dead weight over his shoulder and eased him onto the wagon bed. He pulled a coarse gray blanket over the corpse, then climbed up onto the buckboard. Vivian followed silently behind on Wind Chaser as they headed for her cabin.

Ricky’s mouth hung open as his head lolled back against the pillows of their bed where Frank placed him. His sightless eyes stared at a space beyond Vivian’s right shoulder. She watched as Frank gently closed them. Ricky’s limp hand slipped from the edge of the bed and without thinking, Vivian pushed it back to rest upon the quilt her mother had made for their wedding. His hand was already cool to the touch.

She swallowed. What do I… I mean, the burial, how do I…?

I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry about that. I’ll send Sarah over first thing to help you dress him, Frank offered kindly. Again, I’m terrible sorry for your loss.

Vivian nodded mutely. What could she say? She hated the thought of spending the night alone with that man, dead or alive. She wished she could ride home with Frank this very moment and tell Sarah everything, find comfort in the acceptance and wisdom of a friend.

She watched the wagon wheels as they spun around, setting the tall grasses to swishing behind them. She stood rooted to the floor until Frank disappeared into the rolling prairie. Ricky appeared to be sleeping on their bed.

She pulled a chair onto the porch and remained there until the red stains of sunset had faded into slate and the cold wind had seeped into her bones.

~

There was no preacher to perform the funeral. A portly gentleman by the name of Mr. Hartley led the humble service. Why he was given this honor, Vivian didn’t know. Perhaps he was the only man who owned a suit. Perhaps he had the best speaking voice or knew all the words to the hymns. Perhaps someone had explained it to her and the information had turned to mist before the words reached her ears. She felt as though she moved in a fog.

The words of peace and comfort sounded like the empty words of a stranger to Vivian’s ears, the hope of heaven absurd. He’s probably burning in the fires of damnation right this very moment. Despite the guilt that plagued her at such a thought, it gave her comfort to think of it just the same. Perhaps the wrath of God had fallen upon Ricky for his sin, and he now faced the full heat of judgment.

"Our God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,

Our shelter from the stormy blast,

And our eternal home…"

The baritone chorus rang like the tolling of a bell around her as she stood silently gripping Sarah’s hand, her three children at her side. Sarah sang along, but her sweet soprano was swallowed up in the deep tones of the men. Vivian moved her lips with no real effort to form the words. Her mind wandered. Our hope for years to come…

Lord God, are you still my refuge and my help? Are you still my hope for the years to come? How do I go on with this weight of knowledge and guilt? I’ll never be the same. I’ll never trust again.

Silence fell as the hymn ended. Mr. Hartley spoke: Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. The words had a chilling finality in Vivian’s ears. The dusty earth crumpled in her hands as she tried to scoop a fistful. It was scattered by the wind as she let it drop over the coffin. So much of it had drifted away that there was barely a sound as it landed on the coffin below.

Ricky’s body was contained in that crude box. Ricky would never hold her in his arms again. A single tear streaked down her cheek. I would have never let him touch me again anyway.

She stood mutely with that lone tear drying on her face as the handful of gathered men offered their condolences. Sarah remained steadfast by her side. The men’s eyes met hers only briefly as they mumbled, So sorry for your loss, ma’am. Only the ranch foreman, Claude Montgomery, looked her square in the eyes as he promised, I’ll come by and check on you in a few days, Mrs. Lawson.

Lawson… Ricky’s name was Lawson, not hers. She was Vivian Hartford. But no one would call her that again. She would have to suffer Mrs. Lawson for the rest of her life, always reminded that the man who had promised to forsake all others hadn’t found her worthy of the promise.

~

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Vivian scrubbed the quilt against the washing board then let it soak back into the steaming bucket of wash water. She swirled it around in the harsh lye soap, determined to eradicate any scent or remnant of the man who had shared it with her. She would wash it clean until its only memory was of the caring woman who had pieced the quilt together with loving hands and best wishes for her daughter’s happiness.

The squares of fabric were from all the dresses she and her sisters had outgrown through the years. Many of these little scraps held memories of childhood antics or girlhood dreams, of fights with her sisters and brothers, of a place that was warm and embracing and smelled like freshly baked bread. A place called home.

The fifth of seven children, four girls and three boys, Vivian had never known absolute loneliness like her life with Ricky on this open range. The wide open space, acre upon acre of grassy knolls, was perfect for cattle to graze and grow plump for the slaughter. But it confined Vivian’s spirit, the sun’s glaring heat withering her inside until she felt as shriveled up as the berries she dried for winter.

Her mind drifted over the thousands of miles separating her from her family, from her home. What a contrast were the thick, green forests of Pennsylvania to this vast, windswept plain.

In spring the leaves would bud, like little buttons high on the branches. Then one morning she would awaken and find they had all burst open and the world was once again green, rich with life and promise. She would stroll through the woodlands around her parent’s clapboard house under the thick canopy of leaves, the dampness of the forest curling the tendrils of hair that framed her face. Even at midday, there was a greenish shadow in these woods, sheltering her from the heat of the sun and nurturing her spirit. A chorus of birds rang out from the branches above her, and hidden in the decaying leaves and humus of the earth underfoot chirped the song of insects.

Vivian squeezed excess water from the quilt and carried it back to the cabin to dry upon the wash line. She scowled at the dry wind that caused her dress to billow around her ankles and whipped mercilessly at her hair. No matter how tightly she twisted it or how many pins she used, it still pulled free to flutter limply around her face.

Next she washed the curtains to purge their memories of the infidelities her home had seen. She wished there was a way to erase her own memories.

She carried more water up from the creek and set it on the fire to boil. Then she scrubbed the floor vigorously, from one corner of the cabin to the other. She looked about it, wiping the sweat from her forehead. She attacked the tables and chairs next. The entire cabin sparkled of cleanliness, but there was a filth she couldn’t remove.

Chapter Three

Annapolis, Maryland, 1866

Robert Hudson drummed his fingers on his thighs, waiting for the signal that the manager of the Annapolis Loan & Trust was available to meet with him to discuss his resignation. It was a risky move, and he knew it. But Rob wanted to take risks.

He was so tired of feeling stifled in a life that didn’t fit him, like the stiff, starched collared shirt pressing against his windpipe. He wanted to feel free, like a seagull soaring over the rippling waves, catching the currents of the wind and riding them until it was ready to break free and forge a new path through the sky. He felt more like a bear cub he had seen at a carnival, cramped into a cage far too small for its size.

The secretary nodded his head at Rob in response to a light rapping from the interior of Mr. Hudson’s office. Rob reviewed his argument in his mind as he turned the brass knob and entered the pristine, organized office where Mr. Hudson regarded him with raised eyebrows. The office smelled of leather, ink, and coffee. Rob’s resignation lay on the large mahogany desk that stood between them like a bulkhead, separating them in more ways than Rob could find words to express.

He lowered himself into a chair and waited. The silence filled the room. Finally he ventured, Well, sir, what do you have to say? as nonchalantly as he could manage. Rob sat on the edge of the chair, leaning forward with shoulders rigid in anticipation of battle.

Well, what am I supposed to say? Mr. Hudson answered irritably, dark eyes locking with Rob’s. You have a secure, promising vocation, and you want to throw it away to chase a childish dream. You’ve made plans to take on a wife by this time next year, and I don’t reasonably think you’re going to be able to provide for her—certainly not in the fashion she is accustomed. If you really want to know what I think—which I doubt—I think you’re acting irresponsibly and you’re bound to make a fool of yourself, he boomed unapologetically. He rubbed at his chin in agitation, his large form rocking back and forth in the heavy leather chair.

Father, Rob took a deep breath and concentrated on speaking calmly the words he had rehearsed. He would not be baited into a fight if he could help it. I appreciate everything you’ve offered me here. You’ve given me a wonderful opportunity to pursue a successful career, and I’m grateful for it. But I’m not the kind of man who can work inside four walls. I’m the kind of man who needs to be outdoors, feel the sun and wind on his face. I want to feel alive, take risks, and stand on my own two feet.

You’ve always been too impulsive and rash and I think you’re making a fool mistake, his father repeated his disapproval.

As the only son in the family, positioned between two sisters, Rob had always received the brunt of Mr. Hudson’s expectations. And, it seemed, he was always falling short. His mother had often tried to act as a buffer between the two men she loved most, but even she could only stand up to Mr. Hudson’s temper for so long.

I’ve thought this through. It is a risk, but I’ve got it all figured out. See,—

Am I correct in assuming Nate is involved in this boyish venture somehow?

Rob tugged at his collar. He was twenty-two years old, yet his father could so easily produce in him the uncertainty of a sixteen year old lad just learning to shave. The confidence and volume of his father’s voice and the blunt choice of his words always reduced him to a boy.

Nate is my business partner. Nate was probably discussing his resignation from his father’s law office at that very moment.

Hmm, Mr. Hudson chortled. What I figured. And how does Miss Stanton feel about these plans?

Rob caught himself fidgeting. He purposefully rested his hands on his thighs. Angela wasn’t exactly supportive, but he could hardly admit this to his father. Her precise words had been: I thought I was engaged to a banker, but you expect me to marry a fisherman? She’d shrugged delicately as she confessed, I’m just not sure I’d make a good fisherman’s wife. But since she hadn’t canceled the wedding, he assumed she had made peace with it.

She’s willing to give it a chance. His voice held more certainty than he felt.

And if it fails?

Rob glanced down at his boots. He heard the real question. "When it fails, what will you do?" He hadn’t given himself much time to consider failure. It took valuable time away from pursuing the details that would make it succeed.

I guess—

You guess you’ll still have a job waiting on you here at the Annapolis Loan & Trust, right? Mr. Hudson interrupted, his tone implying that Rob had grossly miscalculated his contingency plan.

Well, right up until you said it like that, Rob thought. His mind raced. He wanted to be his own man, not live under his father’s thumb or under the safe umbrella of his success. Rob wanted to stand or fall by his own merits. He hated to admit that his father was right. He had assumed he could return to the security of his former position at his father’s bank. But to do so would be to compromise everything he was trying to achieve. This venture had to succeed.

And he had every reason to believe it would. The waters of the Chesapeake Bay were teeming with shad, herring, and striped bass. He and Nate were already in possession of the log canoes used for fishing the shallow bay, and success was as simple as trapping the fish in a net between the canoes. They would haul in their catch and sell it at the local fish markets and to other grocers or even private customers they had already established. They could crab and tong for oysters, and they would have plenty to feed themselves.

He assured his father of his confidence in the success of the business, anticipating that no amount of information or logic would persuade his father to support the endeavor. His father had no respect for dreamers. In his opinion they were the fools who made bankers rich. They risked what they had for what they wanted, and in the end, usually lost both.

You took out a loan with the Annapolis Loan & Trust sixteen months ago, his father reminded him. "It was given to you in good faith that you would remain in employment at this bank and repay the loan in a timely