A Whisper of Peace (21 page)

C
lay’s head pounded with an intensity that made him queasy. Simple . . . it would be so simple to acquiesce to Shruh’s demand. After all, Lizzie was only one person . . . although she’d become an important person, intriguing him in ways he little understood. But what good would come of admitting his interest in her? She’d been banished from the tribe he’d come to serve. She planned to leave Alaska to reside in California. He’d have to say good-bye to her soon anyway, so what harm would there be in agreeing to stay away from her? By doing so, he’d secure a place in the village, where he and Vivian could minister to the entire tribe of Gwich’ins.

It’s for the best, isn’t it, Lord?
He drew in a fortifying breath, ready to assure Shruh that he and Vivian would abide by the excommunication, but a wave of weakness attacked him. The ground beneath him seemed to tip, and he lost his balance. Vivian dashed to his side and slipped beneath his arm, preventing him from toppling onto the mission’s dirt floor.

Vivian snapped, “Someone help me!” Da’ago stepped forward and grabbed Clay’s other arm. Vivian glared at Shruh, surprising Clay with her defiance. “Talk later. My brother needs to rest now.”

She aimed Clay for the doorway, and she and Da’ago assisted him back to his hut. Although less than half an hour ago he’d insisted on leaving his bed, he sank back down willingly, his eyes falling closed of their own accord. To his relief, now that he wasn’t on his feet, the dizzy feeling eased.

“Thank you, Da’ago.” Vivian’s voice lost its sharp edge as she addressed the tribal elder. “I appreciate your help.”

“You are welcome, Missus Vivian.” Footsteps retreated, signaling the man’s departure.

A cool hand touched Clay’s brow, and he opened his eyes to find Vivian looking at him with both exasperation and concern. Despite the throbbing pain in his temple, he released a light laugh. “I guess I should have listened to you when you said it was too soon.”

She grimaced. “I knew the moment you appeared, Shruh would swoop down like a vulture. He’s been waiting to talk to us ever since he found Lizzie in your hut the night you were hurt.”

“You mean the night she hurt me.” Clay hadn’t intended to voice the thought, but maybe it was best if he made his feelings known. Holding resentment inside was much like letting a closed sore fester. Breaking it open led to healing.

“Surely you don’t blame her.” Vivian gaped at him in dismay.

He rubbed his aching head. “I know she didn’t mean to shoot me, but the fact remains she fired her rifle and hit me. She might have killed me, Viv. It’s hard to forget that.”

Vivian hung her head. “I know.” She fiddled with the edge of the blanket, chewing her lower lip. “Does this mean . . . you aren’t willing for us to spend time with her anymore?”

Sleep beckoned—his brief venture out had tired him more than he thought possible. Or maybe facing Shruh’s ire had exhausted him. Clay sighed.
Most likely, it’s the thought of never seeing Lizzie again that creates such a heaviness in my heart.

“I want to see her,” he admitted. A part of him pined for time with the beautiful woman with raven hair and sky-blue eyes. “But our seeing her angers the villagers. Especially Shruh. The Mission Committee sent us here to minister to the tribe. I don’t want to be branded a failure.” The pain in his head stabbed, but a greater pain pierced his heart. He didn’t want to cast Lizzie aside, the way the villagers had done. But he couldn’t lose the opportunity to minister to the Gwich’in. Pa would be so disappointed if Clay failed in his attempts to establish a mission in Gwichyaa Saa.

Tears pooled in Vivian’s eyes. “But, Clay, think of all the Bible stories about Jesus dining with those rejected by the Pharisees. Shouldn’t we set an example of forgiveness and acceptance to everyone, the same way Jesus did?”

If it weren’t for the pounding in his head, Clay would have laughed. He’d questioned whether Vivian would make a good missionary, but there she sat, preaching a sermon. One he couldn’t ignore. “You’ve given this much thought.”

“I’ve thought of little else since the night Shruh found Lizzie in your hut.” She caught his hand between hers, the fierce grip expressing the depth of her emotion. “If you succumb to Shruh’s rules about excommunication, how can you ever teach about acceptance and love? Your words would be a farce.”

Clay’s head hurt too much to think. “I need to sleep, Vivian.”

She sighed. After a moment, she released his hand and pulled the blanket across him, her face sad. “All right. But as soon as you’re awake and set foot outside, Shruh will be here demanding an answer.”

Clay ground his teeth together, eager to block out Vivian’s ominous prediction. “Viv, I promise . . . before I go to sleep, I’ll ask God to tell me what He would have me do. All right?”

A relieved, albeit sad, smile tipped up the corners of Vivian’s lips. She offered a nod. “That’s wise, Clay. After all, He’s the one who brought you here to minister.” She rose and left the hut.

Allowing his eyes to slip closed, Clay rasped a heartfelt prayer: “You brought me here, God. Please tell me how far this ministry is intended to reach.” He fell asleep before he received an answer.

Lizzie sat in a slice of shade behind her cabin and stitched a blue bead into place, completing another delicate forget-me-not. She held the coat at arm’s length and admired the row of blossoms dancing from shoulder to shoulder. Perfect. She showed the coat to Martha, who lay on the grass nearby. “What do you think?”

Martha raised one ear, tipping her head as if forming an opinion. She gave a yip, and Lizzie smiled. Then her smile faded, her gaze drifting in the direction of Gwichyaa Saa. Had Clay recovered? Did Vivian need salve? She wished someone would come and let her know how they were doing.

As much as she appreciated Martha’s faithful presence, talking to the dog wasn’t the same as talking to Vivian. The past days had been lonelier than those prior to Vivian and Clay Selby’s arrival. Having experienced human companionship, she felt a keener absence now that it was gone.

“I don’t know why I’m completing the coat,” Lizzie told Martha as she reached into the little hide pouch at her hip for a green bead. She held the little bead to the light, envisioning an entire leafy vine trailing down the coat’s front. “My grandmother will surely never accept it now that I’ve done Clay such harm.” Her chest ached with the remembrance. If only one could turn back time. If given a second chance, she wouldn’t squeeze the trigger. The picture of him crumpling, then lying white and still on the fern-strewn pathway would haunt her forever. “But I need something to do—to keep myself busy until my garden is ready to harvest.”

By the time Lizzie had returned to her cabin after leaving the food bags near the village, she’d decided she would leave for California at the end of the growing season. Clay and Vivian could make use of the extra food stores, and allowing her plants to wither and die, unattended, went against her conscience. Two more months. She could stay here, alone, two more months if it meant the opportunity to make restitution to the missionary pair. But then she would have to leave and never look back. The feelings for Clay rising to life deep inside her couldn’t be allowed to blossom. Leaving was her only option.

Lizzie rubbed Martha’s stomach with her bare foot as she continued stitching. “I’ll do as much on the coat as I can with the time I have. It won’t be as nice as the one I’d planned to give to Vitse, but it will still fetch a good price in White Horse.” One of the traders in the town especially liked native clothing—he sold the pieces to a man who ran a Wild West show in America. Lizzie didn’t know what he meant by a Wild West show, but she would gladly allow him to fill her pocket with coins. She’d need all the travel money she could get.

Her hands fell idle as she tried to envision California. Pa had been gone for so long, she’d nearly forgotten his stories of living in the city. She knew he’d had a big house, because he often complained about the small size of their cabin, and she knew his family was wealthy because he frequently bragged to Mama about his fortune in furs being equal to his father’s success in the ’49 gold rush. Lizzie recalled asking him why he didn’t search for gold in Alaska like so many others were doing, and he’d laughed and said, “Why should I get my hands dirty? Furs are cleaner.” Lizzie hadn’t understood his meaning—preparing furs was stinky work. But when Papa laughed, she laughed too, and the meaning hadn’t mattered nearly so much as his joyfulness.

Martha whined, reminding Lizzie she wanted more scratching. Lizzie bobbed her foot and carefully applied another bead to the coat. Green beads, like Vivian’s eyes. And blue beads, like Pa’s eyes. Her eyes, too. She let her eyelids slip closed as an image of her father appeared in her memory. Voss Dawson—tall, slender, with thick hair that stood on end and a beard so full and soft she could lose her fingers in it. A learned man who taught her to read, write, and cipher before her seventh year. A rugged man who trained her to be self-sufficient. A man who claimed to love her, and then left her behind.

In her memory, she heard her father’s voice—“Never forget, Lizzie, you have a father in San Francisco who loves you.” She’d never forgotten. And soon she’d see him face-to-face. Would he be proud of the woman she’d become?

Tears stung behind Lizzie’s eyelids. Before she could go, she had work to complete. She sniffed, opened her eyes, and determinedly returned to stitching. Martha fell asleep, stretched out in the grass. The breeze teased Lizzie’s hair as she stitched, weaving the vine that would eventually reach from the coat’s neckline to the hem. The vine was the length of her hand from longest fingertip to wrist when Martha suddenly growled and jumped to her feet. Fur bristling, she stared into the brush.

Lizzie set the coat aside and grabbed for her ready rifle. Whoever neared, it was a stranger—Martha wouldn’t respond so suspiciously to someone with a familiar scent. The dogs in the pen came to attention, their pointed snouts aimed in the same direction Martha looked. Martha growled again, crouching into a position of attack. Her lips curled back to reveal white, pointed teeth.

Lizzie soothed, “Easy, girl, easy. Stay . . .” She would reverse her words if the visitor proved to be a threat.

Suddenly, two little heads popped up above the pin cherry bushes. Two pairs of dark eyes met Lizzie’s. Lizzie relaxed her tense shoulders. “Down, Martha.”

Martha sank down, releasing a low-toned growl of complaint. The other dogs added their whines and growls to Martha’s. Lizzie leaned her rifle against the cabin wall and strode across the yard to greet the two little visitors. Naibi ran straight to Lizzie, but Etu headed toward the dog pen.

“Etu, no! They bite!” Lizzie called in Athabascan.

The boy slowed his pace momentarily, but then he dashed to the pen and curled his fingers in the wire. The dogs went wild. Lizzie, fear making her clumsy, ran over. To her surprise, rather than snarling with fur on end, the dogs wagged their tails and lolled their tongues in a happy welcome while leaping against the fence.

Etu grinned up at her. “They like me.”

Naibi skipped over to join Etu. She poked her hand into the pen, and Martin, Dolly, and Thomas all competed to lick it. Martha loped across the yard and sniffed the back of Naibi’s head. Naibi giggled wildly, hunching her shoulders. Then she turned around and wrapped her arms around Martha’s broad neck. Martha swiped the child’s cheek with her tongue.

Lizzie watched in amazement as the dogs made friends with the two children. A wishful idea formed: If only Etu and Naibi had a father who might be interested in purchasing her team. Then she could leave, assured the dogs would at least be loved by the children. Or maybe she could gift the children with the dogs. Their grandmother would surely benefit from having the animals to pull the travois or sled. She discounted the thought. The grandmother didn’t have enough food for the children—the dogs would starve if left with Etu, Naibi, and their vitse. Leaving them with strangers would be hard for her, but she had to consider their welfare.

Lizzie allowed the children and the dogs several minutes of play, and then she tugged the children away from the pen. Although a part of her thrilled to have the unexpected company, she knew she couldn’t encourage the children to seek her out. She put her hands on her hips. “Does your grandmother know you’re this far away from the village?”

The pair exchanged guilty looks.

“You didn’t ask her permission?”

They shook their heads in unison, hands linked behind their backs. They looked so innocent, Lizzie had a difficult time not smiling. But she couldn’t encourage them to run all over the woods, unattended. Her pulse raced when she thought about the various dangers that could befall two small children.

“It isn’t safe to venture so far through the woods by yourself.” She turned a stern gaze on Etu, the older and—supposedly—more responsible of the pair. “What would you do if you came upon a bear?”

Etu puffed his chest. “I have a knife.” He patted a tiny, scarred sheath hanging on a length of rawhide around his waist. “I would protect Naibi.”