A Whisper of Peace (16 page)

“You’d never guess it by watching her.” Vivian joined Clay at the window. She rested her elbow on the unfinished sill and propped her chin in her hand. “I’ve never met a more self-sufficient person than Lizzie. She doesn’t seem to have need of anyone.”

Clay raised one eyebrow. “Needs and wants are two different things, Viv. She might possess the skills necessary to survive alone, but I suspect she wants others around. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have welcomed you.” The now-familiar prick of envy accompanied his words. Considering how little time he’d spent with the woman, she had weaseled her way into the center of his thoughts. A part of him wanted her near—he couldn’t deny it.

“I don’t know that she’ll welcome me again, after I angered her so . . .”

Clay, confused by his own thoughts and uncertain how to respond to Vivian’s melancholy reflection, chose not to respond. She’d spoken so softly she might have been speaking to herself anyway. He pushed away from the window. “It’s late—we should get some sleep.” Slipping his arm around Vivian’s shoulders, he aimed her for their huts. “Da’ago offered me the use of his canoe and said I could take his largest travois to tote our supplies from the river to the village. I told him I’d like to go to Fort Yukon tomorrow. While I’m there, I’ll check on our supplies.”

He couldn’t afford a day away from the mission—he still had two full walls to chink—but he feared their precious food stores might be rotting on a dock somewhere, waiting for someone to find the time to deliver them. He also needed to purchase glass for the mission’s windows and hinges for the door, which required a trip to Fort Yukon.

Vivian looked up at him, hopefulness sprouting on her face. “Could you purchase some fabric for me while you’re there? I prefer something lightweight, such as batiste. But I’ll take muslin if that’s all they have—six yards, please.”

Clay paused outside Vivian’s hut door, mentally counting the amount remaining in his money pouch. “Is the fabric a want or a need, Viv? We only have funds for needs.”

Her face flushed with pink. “I assure you, it’s a need.”

“All right, then. I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thank you, Clay.”

“You’re welcome.” He turned for his hut.

“Clay?”

He paused.

“Tomorrow . . . on your way to Fort Yukon . . . might you find the time to stop by Lizzie’s and tell her I still want to be her friend?”

Clay hesitated, torn by the pain in Vivian’s voice and expression.

“I neglected to ask her about hunting for meat for us. You could discuss a trade . . .”

The mission needed a good supply of meat for the winter. And Vivian needed an element of assurance. Besides, the idea of seeing Lizzie was appealing. “All right, Viv. I’ll stop by her cabin tomorrow.”

Vivian’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Thank you.”

“Sleep well now,” he said.

“You too.”

Clay closed himself inside his hut, kicked off his boots, and flopped onto his bed. Propping his hands beneath his head, he stared into the shadows, inwardly planning tomorrow’s activities. One day to visit Lizzie, reach Fort Yukon, purchase glass and fabric and possibly a few food stores if those promised by the Mission Committee were unavailable, and return. At least he knew he’d have enough sunlight to find his way, regardless of how late he returned.

Should he visit Lizzie on his way out or his way back? Lizzie probably rose early, like most of the natives, since she would have chores waiting. The hour might be too late if he waited until the return trip. He nodded, his decision made—he’d see her on his way to Fort Yukon. His heart gave a little leap of delighted excitement, but he told himself he was only eager to restore harmony between the women for Vivian’s sake.

He closed his eyes and ignored the little voice inside his head that scoffed,
You aren’t fooling anyone, least of all yourself.

Chapter Thirteen

I
n the morning, birdsong accompanied Clay on his walk to the river. The sun sent fingers of light between tree branches, gilding the foot-carved pathway. He pulled an empty travois, which he intended to leave at the river’s edge for his use when he returned. The sturdy willow supports stirred decaying leaves and raised the fresh scent of soil. Despite the worries of having too much to do in too short a time, he couldn’t deny a sense of pleasure from the scents, sounds, and sights of nature on this crisp morning.

Vivian’s many trips through the woods to Lizzie’s cabin had created a clear path that Clay had no difficulty following. When he heard the dogs bark, he knew the cabin waited nearby, so he called out a greeting. “Lizzie! It’s Clay Selby.” He announced himself twice before stepping into the clearing beside her cabin. She stood in the center of the yard with her rifle at her side.

He lifted his hand in a wave and paused at the edge of the yard. “May I . . . draw near?” He glanced at the dogs, who continued to bark and paw the fence.

Lizzie sliced her hand through the air and whistled. With a series of whimpers, the dogs calmed.

Clay took her actions as an invitation to enter the yard. He strode within a few feet of her and offered a quick wave. “Good morning, Lizzie.”

“Good morning.”

She wore Vivian’s blue-checked dress, and the sun glistened on her dark hair, which she had fashioned into a misshapen lump on the back of her head. He discovered he missed her braids—the simple style suited her so well. Yet he drew in a breath of relief at the sight. Despite the lack of warmth in her tone and the absence of a welcoming smile, she hadn’t cast aside Vivian’s teachings. Vivian would be comforted when he told her.

“I’m on my way to Fort Yukon, but Vivian asked me to stop by and see you.” The native woman’s sober expression gave Clay an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wished she wouldn’t stare at him so intensely, as if she could examine his thoughts. If she read the deepest ones, he’d scare her to death.

“Is Vivian coming today?”

Since he’d left his stepsister thoroughly scrubbing the interior of the mission school in preparation for fitting the windows, he doubted Vivian would leave the village today. He shook his head. “Not today.”

Lizzie’s face gave away nothing of her thoughts, but he believed he glimpsed a brief flash of regret in her blue eyes. He added, “But she can come tomorrow, if . . . if you’d like a visit.”

“She may visit.” Lizzie’s chin raised. “But I must ask that she—and you—respect my wishes and do not speak to my grandparents about me.”

The stubborn jut of Lizzie’s jaw reminded Clay of Co’Ozhii. He didn’t figure either woman would appreciate the comparison. “Neither of us want to cause you distress, Lizzie. We’re concerned about you, living here alone and fending for yourself. It must be lonely, and even dangerous. We wish the comfort and protection of the village for you.” His voice rose with fervor as he spoke, his desire to provide this woman with comfort and protection overriding all else.

Lizzie lifted the rifle. “I have protection.” She pointed to the pen, where the dogs sat looking in her direction, their faces attentive. “And my dogs provide comfort. I don’t need the village.” She spoke with conviction, but her voice quavered slightly, making Clay wonder if she intended to convince him or herself of her statement’s truth. “I want to learn from Vivian. I’m willing to teach her. But I am the leader of my . . . family . . . and as leader I insist you honor my request. Do not speak of me to my grandparents.”

Could he honestly vow to honor Lizzie’s request? And if he refused, would she then refuse their company? The remembrance of Vivian’s deep hurt and worry from the night before pierced him.

He drew in a slow breath and released it, offering a reluctant nod. “Very well. I will not mention your name to your grandparents again.” But he would still present the idea of forgiveness and reconciliation, and pray the rifts between family members would be mended.

“Good.”

“May I ask you a favor?”

She tipped her head, her brow pinching.

“Vivian and I have need of meat for the winter. Would you kill an elk or moose for us? I’m willing to make a trade—dry goods, clothing . . . whatever you might need in exchange for the meat.”

The slightest hint of a smile twitched at the woman’s lips. “You’re asking me to hunt for you?”

Heat built in Clay’s face. No able-bodied native man would ask a woman to provide for him. Her amusement bruised his pride, but he had to be honest. “My days are full, building the mission. I don’t have time to hunt.” Then he considered all of Lizzie’s responsibilities, living on her own. It was selfish to ask one more thing of her. He opened his mouth to tell her not to bother, but she spoke first.

“I’ll try to make a large kill for you. I wouldn’t want my friend Vivian to starve during her very first winter in Alaska.”

Had she teased him? She looked so sober, he couldn’t be sure, yet he detected a hint of humor in her statement. “Thank you. Please let me know what you’d like in trade.”

“I’ll keep the hide,” she said. “I can sell it in White Horse. That will be trade enough.”

That didn’t sound like a fair exchange to Clay. “Are you sure? I’d be glad to—”

“Vivian is my friend. I choose to help her.” Pink bloomed on her dusky cheeks. “And you.” She pointed toward the woods with her rifle barrel, inching around him. “I must check my traps. Tell Vivian to come tomorrow. When winter arrives, she’ll need warm mittens and a hat. You will, too. If the Great One, Denali, has blessed my traps with rabbits, I’ll show her how to prepare a hide for tanning and help her sew mittens that will keep your hands from freezing.”

“That’s kind of you.” He lowered his voice, injecting fervor in his tone. “And I will pray that God has blessed your traps so you’re able to make what you need.”

Lizzie’s brow furrowed. “Then you will utter a worthless prayer. Your God has no use for me.”

Her blunt statement startled Clay. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m not white.”

Clay shook his head adamantly. “My God—the Father of us all—loves you very much, Lizzie.”

The woman snorted.

Clay ignored the derisive sound. “Didn’t you ask Vivian to teach you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re wearing a white woman’s dress. You style your hair in a white woman’s fashion. Does that mean you accept the things she’s taught you?”

Lizzie’s sky-colored eyes glinted with apprehension, but she nodded.

“Vivian and I both came to teach. So why do you doubt what I tell you? God loves you.” Clay’s heart caught, remembering the day he’d accepted God’s love for himself. Only a child—six years old—but carried to truth by his father’s earnest teaching. In his mind’s eye, he viewed his father’s fervent face proclaiming the truth of God’s great love to the Kiowa people. Holding his hand to Lizzie, he said, “In the Bible it says God loved the world so much, He sent His only Son to die for the sins of the world so we could all be clean and unblemished before Him.
The world
, Lizzie. Everyone ever born. That means you, too.”

Lizzie twisted her lips, as if tasting his statement and trying to decide whether she found the flavor pleasing. Then she stuck out her arm, showing him the back of her hand. “Your words are fine and good for white people. You can be clean. But see my skin? Brown . . . Always brown. I’ll never be clean enough for your God. I can only hope I am clean enough for my father and his family.”

Clay opened his mouth to protest, but she swung away from him.

“I must check my traps. Good-bye, Clay.”

Clay watched her stalk away, his heart heavy. He considered following her, prevailing upon her to listen to him, but too many other responsibilities awaited him. He headed for the river, resolve lengthening his stride. Up until now, he’d denied Vivian’s requests that he visit Lizzie, but no more. Lizzie needed lessons beyond what Vivian had presented. It would mean time away from the mission, but he would make known the truth of God’s love to this native woman who, somehow, inexplicably, had wormed her way into the center of his heart.

———

Clay’s trip to Fort Yukon proved more frustrating than fulfilling. His elation that the Mission Committee had sent supplies was dashed when he discovered the crates and bags had been left, unattended, in the back of a well-frequented livery stable. Consequently, nearly all of them had been opened and scavenged. He located the livery owner asleep in the loft. The man wasn’t happy to have his nap disturbed, but Clay ignored his disgruntled mutters and lodged a complaint about his lost goods.

The man shrugged. “Things come in, things go out.” He coughed, not even bothering to cover his mouth. “I store ’em an’ don’t get so much as a penny for my trouble. Can’t be expected to keep guard, too.” He rubbed his temples and squinted at Clay with watery eyes. “You got issues, mister, take it up with the law.” The man doubled over in another coughing fit, and Clay quickly departed.

Clay suspected Fort Yukon’s lawman wouldn’t care much about the loss of items intended for a native village, so he didn’t bother following the liveryman’s advice. He loaded the remaining supplies in the canoe and then paid a scruffy-looking boy fifty cents to keep watch and holler like his pants had caught fire if anyone approached his belongings. Then he went shopping.