A Whisper of Peace (4 page)

In her cabin’s small loft, piles of furs—beaver, otter, badger, fox, wolf, and caribou—gave mute evidence of her ability to hunt, trap, and prepare hides. The stacks rose high enough to brush against the rafters, the accumulation of several years’ work. Although the furs would fetch a tidy sum at the trading post, she didn’t intend to sell all of them. A few—the finest ones—would be used to adorn Vitse’s moose-hide coat. She’d thought of it so often, she could picture the coat embellished with foxtail fringing, a thick badger ruff, and delicate forget-me-nots formed of dyed porcupine quill beads circling the hem.

Her hands began to tremble, and she stepped away from the hide lest an errant slice of the bone cut too deep. Pressing one hand to her chest, she willed herself to calm. But her heart pounded fast and hard beneath her palm. How long had she dreamed of the day she would present this very special peace gift to her grandmother? The idea had sprung to life the day she’d put Mama in the ground—four long years ago.

Lizzie experienced a sharp pang of grief. Despite the passage of time, she thought of her mother every day. And she continued to mourn. Clenching her fists, she drew in deep breaths that cleared her tumbled thoughts and slowed her racing pulse. Determinedly, she lifted the bone scraper, her plan unfolding without effort: Complete preparation on the moose’s hide; construct the coat; offer it to her grandmother and fulfill Mama’s dying request; sell the accumulated furs; take the money and—

Raucous barking brought her thoughts to an abrupt halt. She dropped the bone and spun toward the dog pen, her senses alert for danger. But no bear or two-legged predator lurked in her yard. She crossed to the pen and whistled, bringing the dogs under control. Martha propped her front feet on the wire fence and nosed Lizzie’s hand, a soft whine escaping her throat. The other dogs all looked toward the trees, their fur bristling, some of them baring their teeth.

Lizzie angled her ear toward the woods, listening intently. What had caused their unrest? A sound—an enchanting one—carried from the thick stand of trees east of her cabin and delighted her ears. In a way it reminded her of wind in the pine trees, rising and falling in a lovely melody, yet the sound was deeper. Richer.

Martha whined again, and Lizzie hushed her with a hand on the dog’s ruff. “Down.” She stepped away from the pen, inexplicably drawn toward the alluring music. But her feet stopped, her body tense. She needed to finish the hide so she could construct Grandmother’s coat. With a sigh, she turned toward the frame.

The music rose in volume, the tune turning light and cheerful.

She’d waited four years—she could wait another few minutes. Curiosity sent her skipping toward the sound. She would discover the source of the music, and then she would return to work.

Chapter Three

L
izzie moved on stealthy feet, her ears tuned to the unique melody. She’d heard a similar sound drifting from a roadside tavern when she had accompanied her father into White Horse years ago. She’d wanted to peek through the door and find out what created such a glorious sound, but her father had hurried her right past the rickety building. Now, however, no one would stop her. She’d finally know the source.

The music increased in volume, telling Lizzie it was near. She angled her body to align with an aspen trunk and peered around the tree, alert and watchful. Her diligence found reward a few moments later when two people emerged from the brush. The first one—a man about her age—pumped what appeared to be bellows attached to a dark-stained wooden box. At the same time, he ran the fingers of his other hand along a row of white teeth. Music poured from the box. Entranced, Lizzie forgot herself and stepped from behind the tree.

The man came to a startled halt, the last note slowly wheezing into nothing. He swung one arm outward, as if to hold back the woman following him, but she peeked around his shoulder. When her eyes met Lizzie’s, she released a little gasp and clutched the man’s arm with a very white, very thin hand.

For as long as Lizzie could remember, white folks had poured into Alaska Territory to seek their fortunes. These two didn’t look like they would last long. Dressed in fine clothes similar to ones designed for the paper dolls Pa had given her for Christmas one year when she was small, they stood out like a single stalk of purple lupine in a meadow of yellow aster. They didn’t even have the sense to put their bundles on a travois and allow dogs to do the work. The woman bowed beneath the weight of a bag strapped to her back, and the man’s face glowed red while moisture dotted his forehead. The wooden case on his back must tax his strength.

But she didn’t care about the people as much as the music-making box. She pointed. “What is that?”

The man’s brows rose. “You speak English?”

What a ridiculous question. Hadn’t she just spoken in English? Lizzie pointed again, jabbing her finger with emphasis toward the box.

He patted the instrument. “This?”

Lizzie nodded.

A smile curved the man’s lips. The wary expression he’d donned when Lizzie stepped from behind the tree disappeared. “It’s a piano accordion. It plays music.”

Lizzie slashed her hand through the air, dismissing his last statement. She had surmised its purpose. “How does it work?” She moved forward two small steps, maintaining enough distance that she could escape if need be. He seemed harmless and was well weighted with encumbrances—he wouldn’t be able to give chase easily—but she should be cautious. Both Mama and Pa had emphasized that some white men couldn’t be trusted.

The man flashed a smile, but his woman held back, uncertainty lining her features. “When you force air through the bellows and then you push on the keys, it—” He shrugged. “Here. I’ll show you.” He began pumping the box in and out, creating a low hum. Then his fingers moved along the row of keys. A lovely melody floated over the hum. Lizzie stared, amazed that something so awkward looking could create such beautiful sounds.

The man stilled his hands, and the accordion sighed into silence. “Would you like to try?”

Lizzie’s fingers itched to touch the shiny white rectangles and create a pleasing melody. She closed the distance between them. He pumped the accordion, and Lizzie pressed three side-by-side keys. A sour note blared. She jumped back.

The man laughed softly, his teeth as straight and white as the row of keys on the instrument. “Try pushing one key at a time.”

Lizzie gazed with longing at the accordion, but she shook her head. Obviously only white people could coax beauty from the ungainly box. Only white people could do a lot of things. Saddened, she backed away.

The man’s smile didn’t dim. “I am Clay Selby, and this is Vivian.” He held his hand toward the woman, who gave a quick nod of greeting. “What’s your name?”

“Lu’qul Gitth’ihgi.”

“White Feather,” Clay Selby translated. “It’s a beautiful name.”

Surprised by his knowledge of the Athabascan language, Lizzie blurted, “But I’m called Lizzie.” She clamped her lips together, aghast to divulge something so personal to strangers.

Clay Selby caught the woman’s elbow and drew her to his side. “Vivian and I are here to start a mission school in Gwichyaa Saa.” His smile grew broader, his eyes crinkling in the corners the way Pa’s had when he laughed. He was handsome like Pa, too, with thick brown hair that curled over his ears and collar and a square-jawed face toasted tan from the sun. “We’re going to teach the children to read and write in the English language.”

Lizzie’s stomach twisted into a knot. She’d been right—this man was up to no good. She inched backward.

“Are you from Gwichyaa Saa?”

“No.” Lizzie moved another few feet, keeping her eyes trained on the white man named Clay Selby.

“Are we near it?”

She couldn’t lie—her mother had taught her to be honest—but she pushed the reply through clenched teeth. “Yes.”

“What’s the name of your village?”

Pain stabbed so fiercely her body jolted. “I don’t have a village.” She whirled and darted between the trees, quick as a jackrabbit escaping a fox. The man with the musical box called after her, but she ignored him and raced for home.

“Well . . .” Vivian stared after the retreating native woman. “What an interesting encounter.”

Clay berated himself, remembering the way Lu’qul Gitth’ihgi had tensed when he asked the name of her village. He’d pushed too hard too fast and inadvertently inflicted discomfort. His pa wouldn’t have scared away one of his prospective converts. Clay needed to rein in his enthusiasm if he hoped to establish relationships with the Gwich’in people.

“She startled me when she stepped out of the trees.” Vivian shivered. “So quiet . . . sneaky, almost. Who knows how long she’d been watching us before she made herself known?” She glanced around, as if seeking other natives in the bushes. “Unnerving . . .”

Clay shook his head. “We might have heard her if I hadn’t been playing the accordion.” He slipped to one knee and allowed the box on his back to slide free. Bits of dry leaves drifted upward, making him sneeze.

Vivian frowned as he plucked the carpetbag from the accordion’s case and placed the instrument inside. “You aren’t going to keep playing? But what about bears?”

At Vivian’s request, he’d played the accordion since they left the canoe. He wasn’t sure he appreciated being asked to use his music to scare away wild animals, but it had given his uneasy stepsister a measure of assurance. He closed the latch on the case and heaved the box onto his shoulders. “We’re close to the village—the native woman said so.” He bit down on his lower lip, sympathy for the woman called Lizzie welling in his chest. If she didn’t have a village, how did she survive? He added, “It’s unlikely we’ll encounter a bear if humans are nearby.” Clay pushed to his feet and staggered a bit finding his balance on his tired legs.

Vivian shook her head, peering in the direction the woman had disappeared. “I hope the next Gwich’in we meet is friendlier than she was.”

Clay chuckled. Catching the handle on the carpetbag, he set off again. “Didn’t Pa tell you the people might have difficulty accepting us at first? Unfortunately, many of the white people who intrude on native lands don’t treat the Indians well.” Was that why she’d run? Had someone mistreated her in the past?

Vivian huffed along beside him, stirring up dried pine needles and decaying leaves with her skirts. “But the Indians at the reservation talked to me—to all of us. They treated our family as if we were part of the tribe.”

“They were used to us there, Viv.” Vivian couldn’t know how hard Pa had worked to earn the trust of the Kiowa people. After Pa and Vivian’s mother had wed, they’d sent the girl to live with an aunt and uncle in the East rather than subject her to the harshness of reservation life. She’d returned to Oklahoma a little over a year ago at her mother’s request, but she’d never really settled in at the reservation. Why she’d begged so hard to be allowed to accompany Clay to Alaska, he couldn’t begin to fathom. Did she think living on the frontier would be less stressful? If so, she was in for some rude surprises.

Clay paused and examined the telling moss climbing a tree trunk. He adjusted his steps accordingly. “By the time you moved in with us, Pa and Ma had worked for several years to establish relationships with the Kiowa. So they accepted you as a part of our family without question. It will take some effort to gain a connection with the Gwich’in people.” He frowned, voicing the same warning he’d given her before they’d left the reservation. “Setting up the mission school won’t be like hosting a tea party. It’ll take a lot of work and—”

She held up her hand. “I know, Clay, I know. I’ll do whatever it takes.” She squared her shoulders and heaved a mighty sigh. “Contrary to my mother’s opinion, I’m not a hothouse pansy in need of constant cosseting. I’ll do my fair share of the work.”

Clay suspected Vivian didn’t have an inkling what her fair share of the work would encompass, despite Pa’s lectures and her mother’s warnings. But Vivian could be as stubborn as a mule when she wanted to be, and he was too tired to argue. So he trudged onward, forcing his weary legs to carry him the rest of the way.