“School is over for today. You two go to Tabu now,” he directed the children as he stepped outside. He moved toward the center of the village, his gaze seeking. He spotted what appeared to be a spiral of smoke lifting above the trees. He stopped near a group of women and asked in Athabascan, “Is someone smoking meat?”
Most of them ignored him, but the one standing nearest looked at him the way Tabu often looked at the children. He half expected her to call him stupid. “Too large for a fire from a smokehouse. And too black.”
“No firebolts have come from the sky,” another one said, confusion underscoring her tone. “So it must not be trees.” The others mumbled their agreements.
The one who had first addressed Clay bobbed her head, sending a knowing look across the group. “See the size? And the black smoke? Dead wood. Much dead wood burns. It is a cabin fire.”
The women wandered off, chattering amongst themselves. Clay stared at the black spiral that rose and then drifted with the breeze, marring the clear blue sky with dingy smudges. It appeared more ominous by the moment. A cabin fire, the woman had said—Lizzie! His heart leapt into his throat and, without a thought for the possible consequences, he took off running through the woods.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lizzie stood next to the dog pen, her hand buried in Martha’s ruff, and watched her cabin burn. Smoke swirled above the treetops. Flames danced behind the windows and licked their way beneath the eaves. The roar and crackle became a melody of cleansing. Although a part of her ached to see her home destroyed, a greater part of her rejoiced that she would never have need to imagine strangers within its walls.
Martha whined, bumping her master’s hand with her dry nose. Lizzie automatically stroked the dog’s head. “Shh, girl, we are safe. All is well.”
The heat touched her face and raised perspiration on her forehead. She swiped it away with the back of her hand and then wiped her hand on her tunic. The Gwich’in villagers will have no record of my presence here. I will carry my memories of Mama and Pa away with me and leave only ashes behind. The thought brought equal measures of satisfaction and regret.
She turned and faced the dog pen. The dogs crowded against the wire fence, their curious eyes fixed on her face. She smiled and cupped Martha’s square jaw in her palms while allowing her gaze to sweep over all of them. “You needn’t worry. The fire will burn itself out. I’ll put you in your rigging soon and we’ll—”
“Lizzie! Lizzie!”
The frantic cry carrying from the woods brought Lizzie’s words to a halt. She turned from the pen to see Clay burst from the trees, his face etched with fear. He dashed halfway across the yard and then stopped so abruptly it appeared he’d collided with an immovable force. His head bobbed here and there, seeming to take in the scattered furniture and the blazing cabin. Then he spun around and spotted her beside the pen. Relief broke across his face.
“Lizzie!” He raced to her and, without warning, swept her off her feet. His face pressed against her hair. “Lizzie . . . oh, Lizzie . . . thank the Lord you’re safe . . .” He rocked her, continuing to murmur.
His encircling arms bound her own to her sides so she couldn’t reach up and return the embrace. But she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. Her heart nearly burst with the all-consuming wonder of being held in this man’s arms. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, glorying in being held. In feeling valued. In feeling loved. Tears sprang into Lizzie’s eyes, an overflow of the myriad emotions welling in her chest.
Finally, Clay set her down and cupped her cheeks. He peered directly into her face, his dear gray-green eyes alight with concern. “You’re all right?” He shifted back a few inches. His hands smoothed her hair, her shoulders, her upper arms, and then returned to gently cradle her face in his palms while he looked her up and down. “You aren’t burned?”
She curled her hands around his wrists and smiled at him through the tears that distorted her vision. “I am fine. Unhurt. Don’t worry.” But hold me again. Please hold me again. . . .
As if reading her secret thoughts, he wrapped her once more in his embrace. She nestled against him, the warmth of his body and the musky scent of his skin more welcome than anything she’d known before.
His voice rasped, “Thank God. When I saw the smoke, I thought—” He pulled back again and turned his face toward the yard. His brow furrowed. “How did you get so many items out of the cabin?” He clamped his hands over her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “You might have been killed trying to save your belongings!”
Looking into his fear-filled eyes, compassion swelled in Lizzie’s breast. She touched his whisker-shadowed cheek, offering a reassuring smile. “I took everything out before I started the fire. I was never in danger.”
The furrows in his brow deepened. Then he released her and stumbled back. “You . . . you started the fire . . . deliberately?”
She couldn’t determine from his tone whether he was angry or merely confused. “Yes. I am leaving, so . . .” The explanation died in her throat. She was leaving. Leaving this land. Leaving this man. The ecstatic bliss of moments ago faded into a blur of mingled regret and sorrow.
Clay clenched his fists and pressed them to his thighs, a futile attempt to bring his tangled emotions under control. When he’d seen the smoke—and had envisioned Lizzie in danger—he’d reacted on instinct. His frenzied race through the woods left him breathless and terrified. Then, when he’d seen her safe and untouched by the flames, gratefulness had nearly buckled his knees. Capturing her in his arms as an expression of his great relief, however, resulted in the mightiest reaction of all.
Even now his arms tingled from their contact with her, eager to once again enfold her—to hold her tight to his heart. She’d fit so perfectly, her head nestling into the curve of his neck, her slender form aligning to his contours. Like two pieces of a puzzle they were, designed for one another. But what foolishness, to allow himself to embrace Lizzie. Now that he’d held her, how could he let her go?
“But why burn the cabin?” he asked. Unbidden, anger swelled. He’d spent weeks building the mission, yet Lizzie had set fire to a perfectly good home.
“I . . . I couldn’t bear to think of others using it.” She toyed with the buckskin tie on one braid. “An empty cabin is an invitation. I didn’t want strangers in my home.”
What difference did it make if she no longer had use for it? Clay snorted. “It was a selfish act, Lizzie.”
Her face contorted—in anger or hurt?—but before she could respond, a roar filled the air. Instinctively, Clay dove for her, shielding her with his body. Arms wound around one another, they watched the cabin’s roof and walls collapse inward, sending up a great shower of sparks. Yellow and orange flames shot up to swallow the sparks. Soon the cabin would be reduced to chunks of charred wood and a pile of black ash. Clay feared his heart would bear a similar fate if he didn’t release this woman. He forced his traitorous arms to relinquish their hold.
Stepping several feet away, he spoke sternly, more for himself than for Lizzie. “Why not burn everything, then?” He swept his arm to indicate the items standing under the sun in the yard. “Were you also going to burn your furnishings one by one?”
“No.” Her dark eyes flickered with uncertainty. “I meant to offer them . . . to you. For use in your mission. But . . .” She ducked her head.
He stared at the part in her raven-dark hair, guilt chasing away his anger. “Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another . . .” The words he’d asked Etu to recall earlier that afternoon winged through Clay’s heart, flaying him in admonition. He’d told the boy it was always wrong to hurt someone, and he’d chosen harshness for the purpose of distancing himself from Lizzie.
He stretched his hand toward her. “Lizzie, I’m sorry. The cabin . . . it was yours, and you should be able to do whatever you wish with it. Even if that means burning it.”
She tipped her head slightly, peering at him through her fringe of lash
es.
“I was scared. For you.” Clay gulped. If she didn’t stop looking at him in that crestfallen way he might do more than put his arms around her. He might wash away the expression with a torrent of kisses. He pushed his hands into his pockets and spoke again, using the tone he might use to comfort Naibi. “I let fear make me speak in anger. Will you forgive me?”
Slowly, so slowly he thought he might have imagined it, she bobbed her head in agreement.
He smiled, and when she offered a shy smile in return he nearly melted. Such a beautiful woman with a tender heart.
But she can’t be yours.
She lowered her head and smoothed the grass with her moccasin-covered toe. “I . . . I also have a full cache. Moose and salmon, vegetables . . .” She flicked a glance at him and then looked down again. “I have no need for it, since I am . . . I am leaving.”
Did her voice break, or did he only imagine it? Between the dogs’ persistent whining, the continued noise of the fire, and the wind’s whisper through the trees, he found it difficult to hear her.
Lizzie’s head bounced up, her gaze colliding with his. “You will take these things from me? The food? The furniture and . . . and the pans and other things? You will use them?” Her dark eyes seemed to beg.
Clay nodded emphatically. “Yes. And each time I use them, I’ll” —he swallowed—“think of you.”
Her face lit, transforming her. The apprehension, the hint of anger—all disappeared beneath a beaming smile of gratitude. But Clay should be the grateful one. She’d just given him a tremendous gift. He wanted to gift her in return, but how? Her beautiful face, aimed at him with such admiration and appreciation, put inappropriate ideas in his head. Turning away, he spotted the travoises waiting beneath the shelter of aspen trees. He pointed. “You’re taking those with you?”
She stepped to his side. Her nearness, although she didn’t touch him, sent a tingle of awareness from his scalp down his spine. “Only to Fort Yukon. I must sell the furs for money for my journey.”
“May I . . . accompany you?” Surely she’d appreciate having someone with her. Someone to see her off, to give her a proper good-bye.
“You would do that for me?”
Her astonishment touched him. He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “It’s not so much.”
But her eyes told him it was much. Very much. For long seconds, she held him captive with her adoring gaze, and then she sucked in a sharp breath. “If you would go with me to Fort Yukon, might you . . .” She let out several little huffs of air, as if gathering courage. She bustled to one of the travoises and lifted a coat from the top of the pile. Holding it toward him, she said, “I made this.”
Clay walked slowly toward her, admiring the coat. He’d seen many beautifully embellished coats worn by the natives at the funeral potlatches, but this one far exceeded all others. He smoothed his hands across the thick beaver ruff. “This is lovely, Lizzie.” A sudden thought struck, and he jerked his hand back. “You aren’t giving this to me.”
She hugged the coat to her chest, her eyes wide. “To Vitse. For a peace offering.” Once again, she dipped her head, shrinking inside herself. “So my mother might be honored.”
Clay had witnessed the last ugly exchange between Lizzie and her grandmother. He couldn’t imagine the older woman softening enough to accept this coat. But he wouldn’t speak of that to Lizzie. He offered, “Would you like me to be with you when you speak to your grandmother?” How he wanted to help her—to give her strength. He held his breath, waiting for her reply.
“I would like that, Clay. Thank you.”
Clay released the breath, relief making his legs weak. He leaned against the nearest tree. “You want to do this before going to Fort Yukon, yes?”
She nodded.
“Well, then, let’s go see her now.” He pushed away from the tree and reached for her hand. “But first, Lizzie, let’s pray and ask God to prepare the way to healing between yourself and your grandparents.” If she could experience one miracle—one seemingly impossible happening—then perhaps she could leave with the knowledge of God in her heart. And if he knew she carried God with her when she left, surely he would have an easier time letting her go.
He knelt, looking up at her expectantly, his hand still stretched toward her. She stared at the cabin, where red coals glowed in a blackened pile of timbers. He waited, praying silently for God to win the battle taking place inside her soul. Finally, she sighed. She draped the coat back over the furs, knelt, and placed her hand in his.
“Pray to your God, Clay Selby. And may He have ears to hear.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lizzie lifted the moose-hide coat from the first travois. Sending a stern look toward the wriggling, eager dogs, she said, “Down.” She waited until they obeyed. “Stay.” She ignored their complaining whines and followed Clay to the door of her grandparents’ cabin.
She allowed Clay the privilege of knocking on the weathered door. Her hands, trembling and clumsy, refused to obey her wishes. Clay’s prayer—a prayer requesting peace and a restored relationship between Lizzie, Vitse, and Vitsiy—echoed in her mind. His impassioned yet personal tone as he addressed the God he called Father reminded her of Mama’s voice when she spoke to the High One. How she wanted to believe all those prayers would finally be answered.
Clay stepped back from the door and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “They don’t answer. Do you want to—”
The door swung open, revealing Co’Ozhii. Lizzie stifled a gasp when she got a view of her grandmother in the sunlight. In the weeks since they’d argued at the mission, it seemed Vitse had aged a dozen years. Her skin hung in sallow folds on her face, and deep purple smudges underlined her sunken eyes. Her tunic hung loose on a frame far too thin. Her gray hair, lank and lusterless, flared out from unraveling braids.
Vitse turned her unsmiling gaze from Clay to Lizzie. “What do you want?”
Not even a hint of her former defiance colored her tone. She just sounded tired. So very, very tired. Even after all the pain this woman had inflicted, Lizzie’s heart stirred with concern. The illness had taken much from her grandmother.
“I wanted to see you.” She took care to speak in the Athabascan tongue. “I am leaving soon, traveling to California. Then I will trouble you no longer.” She searched her grandmother’s face, seeking a sign of either relief or—better—regret. But the woman’s face remained impassive. Lizzie held out the coat, which draped across both of her arms. “I brought a gift. I made it. For you.”
Vitse’s eyes flicked to the coat, but they didn’t linger to admire the foxtails, delicate beading, or flawless hide. She lifted her tired gaze to Lizzie once more. “Why?”
Lizzie stepped forward, forcing Clay to move aside. But he stayed close, providing comfort and support with his presence. “To bring peace to my mother’s soul.” She needed to provide no further explanation. Her grandmother would understand the value and purpose of a peace gift. She bounced the coat slightly, battling the urge to force it into Vitse’s hands. “Will you accept it?” Will you let peace blossom between us before I leave you forever?
A deep, wracking cough sounded from inside the cabin. Co’Ozhii whirled toward the sound. The sudden movement must have made her dizzy, because she clutched for the door frame and missed. Clay jumped forward and caught her before she fell. He guided her into the cabin, and Lizzie followed, concern making her stomach twist.
Clay pressed Co’Ozhii into a chair and then crouched beside her. “You are still sick?”
Clay spoke with such kindness. He truly cared about her grandparents.
“I am recovered.” Vitse’s weakness disproved her words. “But now Shruh lies ill. I gave the fever to him.” She gestured to the deeply shadowed corner where a blanket-covered lump signified Shruh’s body. “I must see to him.” She tried to rise, but her legs gave way and she collapsed into the chair.
Clay rose and crossed to the pine-needle bed. He spoke to Shruh in a
soft voice, but Lizzie couldn’t hear the words. She considered going to her grandfather, too, but she feared her grandmother might fall from the chair if someone didn’t remain near. She placed the coat on the table and pulled out another chair to sit close to Vitse.
Lizzie stared at her grandmother’s hands—wrinkled hands with crooked joints and yellowed nails. Old hands. The sight made her sad. “How long has the cough held him?”
“A week.” Vitse sighed, her gaze never wavering from the bed in the corner. “He tired himself, caring for me, and then he fell ill. Now I care for him.” Her flat tone took on a slightly bitter edge. “If our only child did not betray us and did not now lie cold in a grave, I would have—” She bit down on her lip. Her head swiveled quickly, her hard gaze boring into Lizzie’s. “It is too late. One cannot make peace with the dead.”
Lizzie leaned forward slightly. “But you could make peace with me. Then Mother can lie at rest, knowing peace exists between her daughter and her mother.”
“And if we make peace, you will stay here as a daughter would, and care for your aged vitsiy and vitse?” Vitse released a derisive snort. “You go, daughter of a white man, and live in his world. There is no peace for us.”
The lump in the bed shifted, bringing Vitsiy’s face into a weak beam of sunlight drifting through the open window. “My wife, come near with our granddaughter.”
Lizzie cringed at his weak, trembly tone. The wizened man calling from the bed bore no resemblance to her powerful grandfather. She rose and held her arm to Co’Ozhii. Her grandmother made a face, but she took Lizzie’s arm and allowed her to assist her to the bed. Clay moved aside, and Co’Ozhii sat on the mattress near Shruh’s hip. Lizzie stood beside her grandmother, looking over her shoulder at her grandfather’s thin, pain-riddled features.
A Whisper of Peace Page 25