What should she do? Lizzie stood at the pathway’s foot with Naibi clinging to her hand as if she never wanted to let go. She’d told the children they shouldn’t venture into the woods alone, yet she had to send them back. Given the hour of the afternoon, the villagers would be in their yards—the women preparing an evening meal, the youngest children playing, and men gathering in groups to visit. The likelihood of being seen was increased with the activity at this hour. Being seen would create problems.
Naibi pulled on her hand. “Walk with us, Lizzie.”
Even Etu, brave boy that he was, looked at Lizzie expectantly.
Lizzie chuckled to herself. Had there ever been any choice? “Let’s go.”
The path was too narrow for three abreast, and even two made a tight fit when one of the two was a full-grown woman wearing a wide-skirted dress. But Naibi refused to release Lizzie’s hand and walk on her own, unlike Etu, who prowled the path ahead, his hand on the little knife sheath and his fierce gaze searching the bushes for any animal brazen enough to attack. Branches tickled Lizzie’s arm and tried to tear the skirt of her blue-checked dress. She caught a handful of fabric and tucked the skirt closer to her body rather than sending Naibi ahead.
The little girl hummed, occasionally flashing a bright smile upward, which Lizzie couldn’t resist returning. She hadn’t smiled as much in the past two years as she had during the two hours Naibi and Etu visited. She’d laughed aloud, watching them frolic on the grass with Martha and two other dogs. Naibi had admired the beadwork on the coat, and Etu’s eyes widened in amazement when she showed him her cache of furs ready for market. Having them there—talking with them, listening to their childish babble, seeing wonder in their eyes—had given her such a lift.
Her heart ached as she considered the children’s bleak future. If their vitse was as old and feeble as the children had indicated, they might be completely alone soon. But Clay and Vivian were building their mission school. Even though Lizzie still believed they should be cautious in placing too much knowledge of the white world in the children’s heads, surely this pair would benefit from the missionaries being in the village. Someone would be available to provide for Etu and Naibi.
Jealousy twined through Lizzie’s heart—a foolish emotion, but an honest one. Her hours with them had proved Etu and Naibi were fine, good-hearted children, and a part of her wished she could claim them as her own. But she was leaving—and she couldn’t take them with her. She must arrive in San Francisco completely unencumbered to begin her new life. Her father had intimated Athabascan ways had no place in California. She must leave every vestige of her past behind.
Naibi’s toe connected with a root. Lizzie curved her arms around the little girl to prevent her from falling, and Naibi giggled her thanks. Etu glanced back, rolled his eyes in a long-suffering manner, then resumed his protective stance. Naibi swung Lizzie’s hand, a happy melody pouring from her throat.
Lizzie swallowed. Some parts of her past would be harder to forget than others.
Several yards from the village, Lizzie drew Naibi to a stop. “Etu?” The boy whirled, planting his feet wide. “Take your sister on from here.”
Naibi sent a wide-eyed gaze upward. “But what of the bears and wolves? Are you not afraid they will eat us up?”
Lizzie nearly choked, trying to hold back her laughter. Such a conniving little urchin. She smoothed the child’s tangled hair from her cheeks. “You are close enough now to be safe. But go straight to the village.” She aimed the warning at Etu. “No wandering in the woods now, do you hear?”
The boy nodded in agreement. He held out his hand. “Come, Naibi.”
Naibi cupped both hands around Lizzie’s. “You come, too. A bear might get you if we leave you here alone.” Her dark eyes begged.
Lizzie gently disengaged the child’s hands. “Go with your brother now. And remember what I told you—do not come through the woods alone again.” She gave the little girl a slight push toward Etu. He darted forward and put his arm around his sister’s shoulders. Together, the pair moved toward the village. Lizzie remained on the pathway until they rounded a bend and disappeared from sight. Even then she waited, her senses attuned in case Naibi chose to break free of Etu’s arm and run back to her. But the children didn’t return.
Sighing, both relieved and disappointed, she turned to retrace her steps to her cabin. She took one step, and the bushes on her right rustled. Lizzie froze, her breath held in her lungs. Her hand automatically reached for her knife sheath. But it wasn’t there—she’d removed it while working on the coat and hadn’t put it back on. Neither had she brought her rifle. Fear created a sour taste in her mouth, and she poised, ready to run as fast as the blue-checked dress would allow.
Another rustle, and someone emerged from the bushes—a tall Gwich’in woman wearing feathers in her gray-streaked hair. She stepped directly into Lizzie’s path and fixed her with a solemn frown. “Adé, Lu’qul Gitth’ighi . . .” The woman’s chin raised, her gaze narrowing. “How are you, my granddaughter?”
Chapter Nineteen
Lizzie stared at Co’Ozhii—her mother’s mother, to whom she hadn’t spoken since she was a girl so small Pa had carried her from place to place on his hip. She held no specific memories of her own of this woman, yet she knew her well. From her mother’s many woeful tales. She bobbed her head in a jerky greeting. “Adé—hello, Vitse.”
Co’Ozhii lifted one brow. “You stand before me in a dress not of our people, yet you speak in my tongue. Your white father did not rob you of your mother’s language.”
“My father robbed me of nothing.” Her grandmother’s lips tightened into a grim line, and Lizzie instantly regretted her defensive reply. She lowered her head and added in a respectful tone, “He insisted I know the tongue of Dine’e, the People. He said it is my heritage.”
Co’Ozhii’s eyes flashed. “Your father speaks foolishness. And that foolishness resides in you, as well.”
Lizzie bristled. After years apart, her grandmother approached her only to hurl insults? “Why do you call me foolish?”
The older woman’s face twisted with scorn. “You cannot help it. It is the white man’s blood coursing in your veins. Only so little of it in your mother’s, yet there was enough to make her choose unwisely.”
Lizzie frowned, confused.
“And these two white people who enter my village, who build their school and talk of teaching our children.” She snorted, followed by a cough. “They can do no good, planting foolishness in the minds of innocent children. But I see my people become enamored with the man who coaxes music from a box. Intrigued, they listen. They believe learning his language will be of benefit to us.” For a moment, it seemed fear glimmered in the woman’s eyes. “Soon they will accept his ways, and they will change. As my daughter changed. Much harm will come.”
Lizzie shook her head, thoroughly perplexed. “I do not understand what you are telling me.”
Co’Ozhii seared Lizzie with a stern glare. “Then open your ears and listen. Listen with the part of you that still remembers the heritage of your mother.” She paused to cough again, the harsh sound grating. “These white people bring trouble into our village. They defy our laws by consorting with those excommunicated—”
Lizzie’s face heated.
“—and force their teaching on our young. Already conflict arises between husband and wife, parent and child. They need to leave.”
Holding out her hands, Lizzie gave her grandmother a helpless look. “But why do you tell me? I do not live in the village. I have no say in what happens there.”
“But you have made friends with Vivian Selby. She respects you, yes?”
Slowly, Lizzie nodded. “As I respect her.”
“Then tell her to go. Her white skin, her hair of autumn leaves and eyes like grass in springtime . . . our young men look upon her with longing. She brings much trouble by staying in the village. Tell her . . . she must go.” Co’Ozhii’s voice rose in fervor,
and another coughing bout gripped her.
“If I tell her . . .” Lizzie licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “Will you then look with favor upon me?”
For long moments the older woman stared, unblinking, her mouth set in a stern line of uncertainty. Finally she shifted her gaze to stare somewhere into the trees, as if seeing something in her memory. “Favor I cannot offer. It would mean giving you honor. There is no honor for you. You have been tainted by the sins of my grandfather, as was your mother. But . . .” She met Lizzie’s gaze again, cold resolve showing in the unyielding set of her square jaw. “You can spare the same pain befalling another child. Perhaps the High One will choose to look upon you with favor.”
Without offering a good-bye, Co’Ozhii brushed past Lizzie and strode down the path. Lizzie stared after her grandmother, one phrase from their short conversation—“You have been tainted by the sins of my grandfather”—repeating itself in her memory. Troubling ideas began to roll in the back of her mind. She needed answers.
Clay grabbed the bucket that rested on the floor inside the door of his hut. Bending over brought a stab of pain behind his left eye, and he winced. But he couldn’t allow the pain to hinder any further activities. Somehow he’d have to work whether his head hurt or not.
He stepped into the yard and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the evening light. Although the sun still shone, the intensity had lessened as the nighttime hours approached, and he didn’t find it as difficult to bear as he had that morning. He bounced the bucket against his leg, gathering the energy to walk to the river. Hopefully a good wash would awaken him enough to get some work done. He’d slept the entire day away. He rounded his hut and nearly collided nose to nose with Shruh’s wife, Co’Ozhii.
She halted, the feathers in her hair continuing to sway, and met his startled gaze with an unsmiling look. “You are recovered?”
The blunt question, delivered on a note of irritation, tickled Clay. She seemed disappointed to see him on his feet. He gave a cautious nod, aware that too much movement might cause his head to pound again. “I am better, yes. Dogidihn—thank you.”
She snorted. “I will tell Shruh. He wishes words with you.”
Clay watched her storm away, his stomach churning. Going for water now could be misconstrued as an attempt to escape. He turned the bucket upside down and sat on it. Propping his elbows on his knees, he heaved a mighty sigh. What would he tell Shruh? The tribal elder would follow through on his threat to banish him and Vivian if they didn’t agree to stay away from Lizzie. He’d prayed again and again about what he should do, but no answer had fallen from the sky.
“You’re up. . . .” Vivian approached from the mission building. “I have your supper ready.”
The way his stomach felt, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to eat anything this evening. “Shruh is coming to talk to me.”
Vivian crouched beside him. Her eyes were red rimmed, mute evidence of her heartache over their situation. “What are you going to tell him?”
He sighed, rubbing his hand down his face. “What else can I tell him, Viv? If we refuse, we’re done here. The Mission Committee will have wasted time and money on us. I don’t know that we have any choice except to—”
A tear trickled down Vivian’s cheek.
He took her hand. “I know how hard this is for you. I’m sorry.”
Vivian slipped her hand into her apron pocket. “Clay, I received a letter, and—”
Lizzie burst from the bushes. Both Vivian and Clay jumped. She stumbled toward them, the hem of the blue-checked dress dragging in the dirt. Vivian’s face paled. She leapt up and met her. “Lizzie! You shouldn’t be here, especially not now. Shruh—”
Lizzie pulled loose of Vivian’s grasp. “I’m not leaving. I wish to speak to Co’Ozhii.”
Vivian shot a frantic look over her shoulder at Clay as he rose and stumbled toward the women. He curled his hand over Lizzie’s shoulder. “Shruh is already angry.” Protectiveness welled up, surprising him with its intensity. “This isn’t a good time for you to try to speak to your grandparents.”
Voices carried from the village. Vivian clutched at Clay’s arm. “They’re coming.”
Clay lowered his voice. “Lizzie, please go now. You being here will cause further conflict. Please . . .”
But instead of responding to Clay’s request, Lizzie charged forward to meet the approaching cluster of villagers. Clay grabbed Vivian’s arm and started after her. Vivian resisted, but he gave a stronger tug, and she stumbled alongside him, clumsier than he’d ever seen her.
Shruh stopped, forcing everyone behind him to do the same. He pointed at Lizzie. “You . . .” His angry gaze swung to include Clay. “You brought her here?”
“I came on my own.” Lizzie stepped in front of Clay. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought she was trying to shield him. “I need to talk to Co’Ozhii.”
Co’Ozhii’s face pinched with rage. “I have nothing more to say to you.”
Shruh sent his wife a sharp look. “You have spoken to—”
Lizzie interrupted, her gaze boring into Co’Ozhii’s. “You know you do.” She stood with shoulders square, her head at a proud angle. Her hair, unfettered, hung down her back in a thick waterfall of glistening black. In her gingham dress, she faced the accusatory crowd with courage and grace. Clay likened her to David facing the Philistine giant with only a stone and a sling. Just as David emerged the victor against great odds, he suspected Lizzie would win this contest of wills.
Co’Ozhii tipped toward Lizzie, her eyes snapping. She dropped her voice to a raspy whisper. “Will you shame me in front of my own people?”
Shruh stared into his wife’s sullen face while she glared at Lizzie. Then he spun to the tribe members. “To your cabins. We must speak to the white people and to Lu’qul Gitth’ighi alone.”
The group muttered, and Da’ago stepped forward. “A ban or its removal”—he glanced at Lizzie—“must be approved by all elders. We should stay.”
Shruh shook his head, his graying braids slapping against his shoulders. “Ęhę’ę—no. This is a private matter, not a tribal one. Go.”
Although the men still murmured among themselves, they turned and ambled back toward the center of the village. Shruh stepped past Lizzie to address Clay. “We will go to your mission. Come.” He set off with a long, determined stride, and Co’Ozhii hurried after him.
Lizzie turned to Clay and Vivian. “You need not come. As my grandfather said, it is a private matter.”
Vivian clutched his arm, her expression pleading. “Let them go on their own. Then we can . . . talk.”
Shruh spun to face them. “Clay Selby and Vivian, you come, too. We have much to discuss.”
Clay looked at Lizzie. He kept his voice low and spoke in English, knowing Shruh wouldn’t be able to understand everything he said. “It’s your decision. We’ll come with you, if you like, and try to help bring peace between you and your grandparents. Or we’ll stay away. Whatever you want.” He fully expected her to turn them away. She’d proven her independent spirit and had warned them away in the past. But he prayed she’d accept his help. Even if she didn’t need it, he hoped she would want his support.
Lizzie looked at her grandparents by turn, then at Vivian, and finally at Clay. Her gaze lingered, and his scalp tingled at the intensity. Finally, she gave a nod, as if agreeing with some silent voice, and held her hand toward the mission. “We’ll go.” Her expression turned hard. “It will do my grandmother good to share her secrets before all of those she holds in contempt.”
Chapter Twenty
Lizzie, arms swinging with determination, stalked after her grandparents, with Clay and Vivian following behind her. After living alone for so long and facing every conflict without support or assistance, her heart pattered in appreciation for their presence. Their friendship. Their unconditional acceptance. It helped ease the sting of her grandparents’ rejection.
Inside the mission, Clay d
ragged several barrels across the floor and formed a rough circle, then gestured for the others to sit. Lizzie sat first, a gesture intended to indicate she had seized control of the meeting. Her glowering grandfather and grandmother quickly chose barrels directly across from her, their fierce gazes pinned on Lizzie’s face.
Vivian sank onto the barrel next to Lizzie and offered a feeble smile. She leaned toward Lizzie and whispered, “How can you be so composed and strong? I am terrified!”
Lizzie squared her shoulders and admitted in a low tone, “I, too, am fearful. But fear will not earn regard from my grandparents. I must be strong.”
Vivian nodded. Then she sat up straight and lifted her chin, although it quivered.
The moment the seat of Clay’s pants met the lid of the remaining barrel, Shruh spoke. “What do you wish of us?”
Lizzie narrowed her eyes, an expression she knew could be construed as defiant, yet she used it to mask her deep pain. “I wish answers.” Lizzie gazed steadily into her grandmother’s stoic face. “You claimed white blood coursed through my mother’s veins. How can this be?”
Shruh cast an angry glance at his wife. The room seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his fury. But Co’Ozhii did not waver under his glare, her dark eyes boring into Lizzie’s without so much as a blink in response. Neither of her grandparents spoke for several moments.
Clay cleared his throat. “Co’Ozhii, of all the people in the village, you have been the most apprehensive about my presence here. I understand not all white men have treated the Gwich’in fairly, yet your feelings seem to be more . . . personal.” Clay paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck.
Vivian grasped his hand. Lizzie wished she could do the same. She wove her fingers together in her lap as Clay continued softly.
“Was there . . . someone . . . long ago who gave you reason to hate?”
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