“Hold him still,” Vivian said. Lizzie pinned Clay by the shoulders. He fought against her restraining hands, but the native woman held firmly. Vivian was able to continue cleansing the area until she’d removed all of the dried blood and bits of dirt and leaves that clung in his tousled hair. “I need to get bandages from my hut. Stay here—I’ll be right back.”
Once again she dashed through the night and retrieved the box of rudimentary medical supplies her mother had sent with them. She returned to Clay’s hut and knelt beside his bed. She dipped salve with her finger and smeared it on the raw, ugly gash. After Clay’s fall, she’d used one roll of bandages and a good portion of the salve doctoring his many scratches. The little glass jar contained less than half its original contents. “I hope I’ll have enough salve and bandages to care for his injury.”
Lizzie unraveled the roll of white cotton bandage. “I’ll make a paste for you to use. Slippery elm bark and calendula flowers have healing powers.”
Vivian tried to memorize the names of the plants. No doubt the knowledge would prove useful in other times. She took the length of bandage from Lizzie and wrapped it gently around Clay’s head. He didn’t stir, which simplified her task but also frightened her. Was it good for him to be so still, or did it indicate the bullet had done damage inside his head as well?
Tears stung behind her nose, and she sniffed hard. “What Clay will think we need most is someone to chink the mission walls. He doesn’t care about himself—only the mission. He’s worked so hard to finish the building so we can begin teaching. But now—”
“What is this woman doing in Gwichyaa Saa?”
The thundering question stated in Athabascan startled Vivian so badly, she jerked. Her knuckles banged into Clay’s temple, and she immediately cupped his cheeks and examined the bandage covering the wound. Would it start bleeding again?
Lizzie leapt to her feet and backed into the corner, staring stoically at the man who filled the doorway with his ominous presence.
Convinced she hadn’t hurt Clay, Vivian rose. She used her stumbling Athabascan mixed with Kiowa—a combination Shruh would understand better than English—to address the tribal leader. “She helps me.” She flipped her hand toward Clay, who hunched white and silent. “Clay was hurt. She brought him to me so I could tend his wound.”
Shruh stepped into the hut. The narrow space seemed to shrink with his commanding presence. He leaned forward and examined Clay with a fierce frown. “He hit his head?”
Vivian wouldn’t lie, but neither could she tell the truth. She didn’t reply.
Lizzie raised her chin. “I did it.”
Shruh swung to face Lizzie. The room fairly sizzled with the animosity emanating between grandfather and granddaughter. He barked, “How?”
“I shot him.”
Vivian waited for Lizzie to offer an excuse, an apology, or even an explanation. But none came. As much as she admired Lizzie’s courage in the face of Shruh’s derision, she couldn’t allow Shruh to believe Lizzie had hurt Clay on purpose. She started to speak, but Lizzie stepped past Shruh and touched Vivian’s arm.
“If you need me, you know where to find me.” Lizzie spoke in English, sending a furtive glance in Shruh’s direction. “Anything you need . . .” Then she slipped out of the hut.
Chapter Fifteen
Lizzie ran through the woods, fleet-footed as a deer. Images of Clay—collapsed in the ferns, white and still on the travois, face contorted in pain while Vivian cleansed his wound—flashed in her mind, torturing her with the realization of what she’d done.
She’d shot a man. And not just any man—Clay. The missionary who’d come to serve her mother’s tribe. The brother of the woman who’d befriended her. The man who crept through her dreams and made her wish she was white. Guilt entangled her, as tenacious as the wild grape vines that took command of the rose-hip bushes in the woods. A sob escaped her throat, and her race came to a stumbling halt.
She staggered to the nearest aspen and sagged against the pale bark. She closed her eyes, wishing she were asleep in her bed—that the recent events had been only a dream. But wishing changed nothing—this nightmare was real. Sinking downward, Lizzie sat on the mossy ground beneath the tree and buried her face in her hands. Why would her grandparents desire peace with her after what she’d done? How would she face Vivian again?
A groan left her throat, and she pounded the ground with her fists. It was useless now to finish the coat. Useless to expect Vivian to teach her any longer. Useless to stay even another day in this place. Lifting her face toward her mother’s source of comfort, she whispered, “I must say good-bye . . . sooner than I’d planned. As soon as I know if Clay Selby will live, I’ll go to find my father.” Pain stabbed as she realized what leaving early meant. She hugged herself. “My mother will never be at peace now. I’ve failed her. I’ve failed her . . .”
Collapsing over her lap, Lizzie allowed her grief to spill forth in a song of mourning that split her heart in two.
Shruh paced back and forth in the small hut, his anger palpable, although he didn’t speak a word. Vivian gritted her teeth and sat close to Clay’s inert form, allowing the tribal leader as much space as possible. His foot brushed her skirts on each pass, but she didn’t reach out and pull them out of his way. She feared even breathing too loudly, uncertain of how he would respond.
After long minutes of silent, seething fury, he suddenly stopped and clamped his arms across his broad chest. “Vivian Selby, stand.”
Vivian understood the curt command spoken in the man’s native language, but she wished she could pretend ignorance and dive under a blanket to hide. Her limbs quivering, she pushed herself upright and faced him.
“You know Lu’qul Gitth’ighi well?”
Swallowing, Vivian offered a hesitant nod. She struggled to find the right words to communicate clearly. “I have visited her cabin. She teaches me to cook and use a snare.” Tears burned the back of Vivian’s nose. “She is my friend.”
Shruh’s eyes narrowed. “You have defied the village edict of excommunication.” His heavy brows beetled into a thick line of condemnation. “I am willing to grant you allowance because you are not of our tribe and therefore unfamiliar with our ways.”
Vivian’s head ached with the effort of translating his words into English. When understanding dawned, her heart beat with hope. Might he be willing to grant permission for her to continue her relationship with Lizzie? Please, please . . .
“Considering your ignorance, I will not demand immediate removal. I will offer you another chance to be allowed to remain in Gwichyaa Saa.” He jabbed his finger at her. “To stay, you must vow to me that from this moment on, you will have no contact with Lu’qul Gitth’ihgi.”
Vivian’s hope plummeted. “But—”
Shruh held up his hand, stilling her words. “Make your vow.”
Vivian wove her fingers together, pressing her joined hands tight against her ribs. Her entire body trembled in nervousness. “I . . . I cannot.”
The man’s dark face contorted, his eyes nearly disappearing into slits. “Then you choose to suffer the same fate as your friend. By this time tomorrow, you must be gone from Gwichyaa Saa.”
Vivian gasped. She held her hands toward Clay. “But my brother! He is hurt. He needs care. I cannot move him. It might kill him!”
Shruh glanced at Clay’s still form, his face impassive. He met Vivian’s gaze again and spoke in the same emotionless tone Vivian had often heard Lizzie use. “Then vow to end all contact with Lu’qul Gitth’ihgi. You will be forgiven and allowed continued sanctuary in Gwichyaa Saa.”
A war took place in Vivian’s heart, the battle so intense she feared her chest might turn inside out. How could she reject Lizzie . . . and how could she not, given Clay’s dire situation? Tears flooded her eyes. She opened her mouth, but no words spilled forth. From his blanket bed, Clay released a low moan. Vivian dropped to her knees beside him and placed her hand on his tangled hair. She sent
a pleading look to Shruh. “M-may I have until tomorrow to give you my decision?”
Shruh looked again at Clay, and for a moment his stern expression softened. But his voice was harsh when he replied, “Tomorrow. You make your choice.” He tossed the door covering aside and stormed out. Before the blanket had settled back over the opening, Vivian received a glimpse of the night. Dark had finally fallen.
———
A deep moan awakened Vivian. She scowled, uncoiling reluctantly, and her elbow bumped something soft and warm. The moan came again, brief but louder. She blinked into the dim light, trying to make sense of her location. Why was she curled on the floor of Clay’s hut? Then memories of the previous night returned in a torrent, and she jerked to her knees.
“Clay? Clay, are you awake?” She ran her fingers along his prickly jaw, searching his face for signs that he understood her question. His eyelids fluttered, and she sucked in a sharp breath, holding it until his lids slid upward to reveal his bleary, red-rimmed eyes. Happy tears distorted her vision. “You’re awake! Oh, Clay, talk to me.”
He licked his dry lips, blinking so slowly it seemed as though his eyelashes carried weights. “My head hurts.”
Vivian laughed, a joyous explosion that brought a fresh rush of tears.
Clay grimaced, shaking his head slightly. “Not funny.”
She cupped his cheeks, smiling through her tears. “I’m not laughing because I think it’s funny—I’m happy you can speak to me and it makes sense.” She sniffed and swiped at the tears that ran in warm rivulets down her cheeks. “I was so afraid you might—” But sharing her fear wasn’t necessary. Stroking his cheek again, she said, “Are you hungry? Would you like some corn bread?” She started to rise and retrieve the pan she’d baked yesterday evening while waiting for his return.
His hand snaked out and caught her wrist. The grip was weak, but she sank back down. “No food. Not hungry.” He swallowed, making a horrible face. He released her wrist and groped the bandage that surrounded his head. “What happened to me?”
Vivian pulled his hand away from the bandages and held it between her palms. “Don’t you remember?” She hoped he would recall the events himself. She didn’t want to be the one to tell him Lizzie had shot him.
His brow furrowed, his lips pinching into a tight line of pain. “I was in the woods, bringing our supplies . . . what was left of our supplies . . . and I . . . I can’t remember anything after that.”
Vivian took a deep breath and made her explanation brief. “There was an accident and you were shot. You have a nasty gash, and you’ll have a headache for quite a while, I’m afraid, but you’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
Confusion marred his brow. “How did I get here?”
Vivian tried to smile, but her lips refused to cooperate. “Lizzie put you on a travois and brought you to the village.”
For long seconds Clay lay, looking into Vivian’s face without speaking. She read nothing in his blank expression, but she sensed he was silently putting together the pieces and drawing an accurate conclusion. Suddenly he planted his elbows on the blanket and struggled to lift himself.
Vivian released a surprised squawk and pressed him back down. “Lie still! You were unconscious for hours. You need to rest.”
He struggled weakly against her restraining hands. “Our supplies—I left the bags of food in the woods. Some of it was already stolen. We can’t lose the rest of it.”
“I’ll send one of the villagers to search for the food.” They liked Clay—they’d be willing to help him. Unless Shruh, in his anger with her, had ordered the tribe to stay away from both of the missionaries. Clay stopped fighting and relaxed against the blanket. She gave his shoulder a gentle pat. “I want to change your bandage, and then you should try to eat a little something.”
He made a face. “Stomach’s upset. I don’t want food.”
“Then some tea?” Clay had developed a fondness for tea steeped from rose hips. Vivian braced to run into the nearby woods and pluck a few plump pods.
“Later.”
Although she wanted to argue, she decided rest might be his best medicine right now. “All right. Lie still while I heat some water. Then I’ll return and—”
“Vivian Selby?” Shruh’s deep voice interrupted from outside the hut.
Vivian scrambled to her feet and pulled the blanket aside. The man’s appearance was as foreboding as it had been in last night’s deep shadows. His wife, Co’Ozhii, stood beside him, her lined face impassive. Several of the village men clustered near, their expressions severe and their arms folded over their chests. Vivian gulped. “Y-yes?”
“Sidox xinehayh—come talk to me.”
Co’Ozhii tipped sideways and peeked past Vivian. “Clay Selby . . . he is . . . ?”
A strand of hair slipped alongside Vivian’s cheek, tickling her jaw. She tucked it behind her ear, imagining how disheveled she must appear after her restless night on the floor. She replied as best she could in her Indian mix. “Alive. I believe he will be fine.” Then she squared her shoulders and gave Shruh a challenging look. “But he needs quiet and rest. Can we speak later?”
Clay’s worried voice called, “Viv?”
Vivian adopted a soothing tone and spoke to Clay in English. “It’s all right, Clay. Sleep now.” She stepped out of the hut, pulling the blanket across the doorway. She clutched handfuls of the thick woven cloth behind her back and drew again on her limited Athabascan. “I must see to Clay. He is weak. If you have medicine to strengthen him, I would welcome it.” She sent the request in Co’Ozhii’s direction, believing the woman would be most likely to respond.
Shruh cleared his throat. “We need to—”
Co’Ozhii put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Meat will build his strength. And chamomile tea will soothe him so he can sleep.”
Shruh grunted.
His wife offered a disapproving look. “We will not send a weak man’s helper away from the village. If he cannot fend for himself, his death will be on our hands.”
Vivian wondered how the native woman could extend such consideration to Clay—a stranger—while ignoring the fact that her own granddaughter had been left to fend for herself. She bit down on the tip of her tongue. Offending the tribal leaders would gain nothing. She needed time—time to let Clay heal and time to conceive a way to convince the village to allow her friendship with Lizzie to continue.
Vivian lowered her head slightly, a gesture of submission she hoped would pacify Shruh. “I know we must talk, but I ask that you allow me to care for Clay first. When he is able to work, then he can be a part of our talk, too.” She flicked a glance at the man’s face, searching for a small sign of agreement. “Clay is the head of our mission. He should be included—yes?” She held her breath.
Lizzie paused outside the village and peered through a gap in the pin cherry bushes. The sight made her mouth go dry. A group of villagers, led by her grandparents, crowded near Clay’s hut. Vivian faced the angry mob. Although her view was obstructed by the many people in the way, she glimpsed Vivian’s pale face and wide eyes. Her heart twisted in sympathy. After last night’s unpleasant encounter in Clay’s tent, Lizzie had no doubt her grandfather had gathered the others to act in hostility toward Vivian and Clay.
But what should she do? Even though she held deep resentment concerning the edict that banned her from entering the village, her respect for the tribal laws went deeper than resentment. She wouldn’t have violated the ban last night had the situation not been urgent—she couldn’t leave Clay on that trail unattended. Even now, she wondered how she’d found the courage to set foot on village ground.
She glanced over her shoulder at the tumble of supplies she’d carted from the woods. She’d been forced to leave them behind when she put Clay on the travois, but early this morning she’d retrieved them. Clay and Vivian needed the supplies for survival. She’d hoped to place them inside Vivian’s hut while the village slept, but it had taken longer than she
’d expected. Now that the village was greeting a new day, she couldn’t give the items to Vivian without being seen.
The deep rumble of her grandfather’s voice reached Lizzie’s ears. She recognized sternness in the tone, but the birds chattering in the branches overhead masked the words. She pushed a branch aside, gaining a better view. If she could see Vitsiy’s face, perhaps she could construe what he spoke to Vivian. But too many others surrounded him. The statement was lost.
Lizzie sat back, allowing the branches to close and shield her. Chewing her lip in consternation, she placed her hand on the nearest bag, which contained fat potatoes. If she left them here along the pathway that led to her cabin, Vivian would surely come upon them eventually. But if she didn’t find them soon, squirrels and other small creatures would raid the bags. Whatever the animals left behind would be ruined by invading insects.
Then again, Vivian visited her nearly every day. The bags wouldn’t lie here, undiscovered, for long—maybe a day, at most. For a moment, her heart lifted. But grim realization chased away the glimmer of hope. She’d shot Clay. Vivian, caught up in seeing to Clay’s needs, hadn’t blamed her last night, but she’d certainly have changed her mind this morning. Lizzie had done Vivian a terrible wrong by shooting her brother. No one could forgive such a misdeed.
She sighed. She couldn’t enter the camp, and she couldn’t leave the bags here. Unless . . . She clicked her tongue on her teeth. She would come back tonight, after everyone had gone to their cabins for sleep. If the bags were still here, she’d tote them to Vivian’s hut and leave them outside the woman’s door. If the bags were gone, she’d know Vivian had found them and been able to tote them herself.
Although still apprehensive about leaving the bags in the brush, she assured herself she’d chosen the best solution. A glance through the bushes showed the circle of visitors outside Clay’s hut had grown larger, but Vivian no longer stood in their midst. They jabbered softly amongst themselves. Their voices would cover the sound of her creeping away. She braced her hands on her knees, prepared to rise and return to her cabin.
A Whisper of Peace Page 13