A Whisper of Peace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She led the way to the trading post at the far edge of Fort Yukon. Watching her dicker with the grimy, rough-looking owner of the post, Clay’s admiration for the woman doubled. She knew what her furs were worth, and despite her tiredness from their long walk, she was determined to get a fair price. Forty minutes later, she tucked a thick roll of paper money in a little pouch beneath her tunic and sent Clay a tired look.

  “I am finished here.”

  The words held a meaning Clay wished he could ignore, but he offered a nod. “Let’s go.”

  Clay fell behind the travoises so Lizzie could control her dogs. Now that the travoises were all but empty—one still held Lizzie’s trunk of personal belongings—the animals seemed to think their work was done. She clicked her teeth, whistled, and jerked their traces to hold them to a slow walk as they retraced their footsteps.

  Clay called, “Where are we going now?”

  Lizzie didn’t turn around. “The mercantile. I can buy my paddleboat ticket there, and I want to find a ready-made dress. My buckskin tunic can’t go with me to California, and the ones Vivian gave me are too fine to wear while traveling.”

  Clay wondered if the men in California would find Lizzie as appealing in her buckskin tunic and leggings as he did. Jealousy attacked, and he was grinding his teeth when he stepped through the mercantile’s swinging doors.

  The owner turned from straightening tin cans on a shelf and shot Clay a smile. The smile faltered when his gaze bounced to Lizzie, but he offered a halfhearted welcome.

  Clay returned the man’s greeting with more warmth than the owner had exhibited. “Lizzie needs—”

  “Do you have any ready-made dresses?” Lizzie interrupted, and Clay stepped back to allow her to take charge.

  The owner poked his thumb toward the east wall. “Seamstress in town keeps me supplied with a few.”

  Lizzie turned toward the rack without a word. While she perused the limited selection, Clay filled the time by peeking in the barrels at the front of the store. Crackers, shriveled apples, pickles swimming in a briny liquid . . . He’d worked up an appetite with all the walking. Surely Lizzie was hungry, too. Maybe they could have a picnic before she departed.

  Lizzie moved to a tiny room at the back of the store to try on the dresses she’d selected, and Clay asked the owner for two handfuls of crackers and a half pound of fat sausages. “I’ll take a wedge from that yellow cheese behind the counter, too.”

  The man filled the order, his eyes repeatedly flicking to the corner where Lizzie had disappeared. Scuffling noises carried from beneath the ill-fitting door, filling Clay’s head with images he had no business exploring. He forced himself to focus on the owner’s packaging of his purchases.

  Just as Clay paid for the items he’d chosen, the door creaked and Lizzie strode to the counter. The buckskin tunic was gone, and in its place she wore a simple, unadorned muslin gown of deep green—the color of the moss that grew along the riverbank. The brown wooden buttons marching from the rounded neckline to the waist called attention to her lithe frame, and the full skirt skimmed her slim hips and swished above the toes of her moccasins.

  She stopped in front of Clay and held out her hands. “It seems to fit. Is this a suitable traveling dress?”

  Clay held back the words of praise that trembled on his tongue. How could she be so unaware of her natural beauty? He forced his head to bob in agreement.

  “Good.” Lizzie faced the owner. “I’ll take it. I also need a ticket for the paddleboat.”

  Clay inched toward the front door, unwilling to watch Lizzie purchase the ticket that would carry her away from him, but the mercantile owner called him back.

  “Nearly forgot. It’s been sittin’ here near a week now.” He shuffled something around beneath the counter and finally emerged with an envelope in his hand. “You got a letter.” He shoved it across the counter at Clay.

  Clay tucked the bundle of food under his arm and reached eagerly for the letter. He’d been waiting for word from his father—he hoped his pa would offer advice on reaching the villagers—but a glance at the neat handwriting let him know this came from Vivian instead. Although a niggle of disappointment gripped him, he knew Lizzie would be happy to read a message from Vivian. He thanked the storekeeper and hurried outside. A few moments later, Lizzie emerged, a paddleboat ticket in her hand.

  Clay lifted his gaze from the ticket and gave Lizzie a wobbly smile. “I bought some food. Let’s go sit by the dock and eat. We can look at Vivian’s letter together.”

  Lizzie delayed them briefly to enter the bakery and purchase a half dozen loaves of dried-out bread to feed the dogs. Then they found a spot along the riverbank, well away from the boarding dock. Lizzie tossed chunks of bread to the dogs, her expression sad. “The trader who bought my furs said he knew a man—new in town—who was looking for a good team. But I wondered if you . . .” She gave him a hopeful look.

  “What, Lizzie?” When she turned that sweet expression on him, he’d do anything for her.

  “If you’d like to have them.”

  “Me?”

  “You might have need of a team come winter, and they’re all good dogs. They work well together.” She spoke so rapidly, Clay had a hard time catching all the words. “I don’t want to leave them with strangers, and Etu and Naibi could help care for them, and—”

  Clay held up both hands. “Lizzie, Lizzie, slow down.”

  She fell silent and turned her attention back to the dogs. He watched her, considering her offer. Although the dogs would be an added responsibility, they’d be a reminder of her. And perhaps it would make her rest easier, knowing he had them. He touched her arm and waited until she looked at him.

  “I’ll take good care of them, Lizzie. I promise.”

  She rewarded him with a grateful smile that nearly melted him on the spot.

  He gulped. “Are you ready for our picnic now?”

  She swished her hands together and nodded. She sat cross-legged beside him, but when he reached for the packet of food she said, “Can we read Vivian’s letter first?”

  “Sure.” He removed the envelope from his shirt pocket and slit the flap with his pocketknife. When he unfolded the letter, two newspaper clippings flitted into his lap, one falling crosswise across the other. He reached to retrieve them, but Lizzie’s hand shot out and snatched them up. She released a cry of alarm that pierced Clay through the heart.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Lizzie stared at the newspaper clippings, first the article with its bold headline, and then the lengthy obituary. Pa . . . dead? Her hands trembled so badly, the pages rustled. She clenched them tighter and anchored her wrists against her bent knees. Dizziness assailed her, and for a moment she feared she might faint. She took deep gulping breaths. The dizziness passed, but the shock lingered. The papers must be wrong. He couldn’t be dead. She was going to live with him.

  Clay placed his hand between her shoulder blades and leaned close. “Lizzie, what is it? What can I do for you?” He spoke in a gentle whisper.

  A hysterical laugh built in her throat. What could he do? Exactly what he was doing—being nearby, showing he cared. She welcomed his warm palm on her spine and the concern in his eyes. Yet, had she ever felt as alone as she did in those moments? In the years after Mama’s death, she’d comforted herself with the knowledge that she still had a father. Pa was out there, so she wasn’t truly alone.

  Now the illusion was gone.

  Tears flooded Lizzie’s eyes, making the print in the newspaper articles swim. She held the pages toward Clay. “This man—Voss Dawson. He’s . . .”

  Clay scowled briefly at the pages, then understanding broke across his face. “Your father?” He took the clippings from her unsteady hands and examined them.

  Lizzie sucked in uneven breaths and hugged herself. No one waited for her in California. She’d burned her cabin to the ground. Her grandmother didn’t want her. With a moan, she buried her face in her hands.

  �
�Lizzie?” Clay’s voice. Tender. Compassionate. “What are you going to do?”

  Lizzie couldn’t answer. She had to leave, but where would she go? Lowering her hand, she peered toward town. Maybe one of the businesses in Fort Yukon would hire her. She could rent a room, or perhaps even buy a small house with the money from her furs. Although the plan made sense, she possessed no great desire to pursue it. “I don’t know . . . yet.”

  She waited for him to suggest something. To suggest she stay with him. In the past two days she’d been rejected by her grandmother, watched her grandfather die, and learned of her father’s death. She needed him. She needed someone to care. She’d told Etu and Naibi the mission was in place to help people in need. Was there anyone more needy than she at this moment? But even as hope rose within her, reality squashed it. The mission was for the village, and she wasn’t a part of the village.

  Before he could crush her by voicing his inability to offer assistance, she began gathering up their picnic items. “Since I won’t be leaving for San Francisco today, I’ll return to the village and attend my grandfather’s funeral. After that . . .” Her hands stilled, her words falling silent. After that, what would she do?

  All my love, Vivian.

  After penning the final words, Vivian folded the letter, slipped it inside the waiting envelope, and then leaned her head on the back of the chair and sighed. She fingered the envelope, envisioning its contents. How she prayed Mother would read the love between the lines. Spilling her long-held hurts onto the page, asking her mother’s forgiveness for holding herself aloof for so many years, and offering to begin their relationship anew had released a great weight from her heart. And if Mother reached back, she felt certain the joy would make her buoyant. She released a giggle, imagining herself hovering several inches above the ground.

  “Miss Vivian?” Aunt Vesta’s upstairs maid, Lorena, peeked into Vivian’s room from the hallway. “Mr. and Mrs. Stockbridge are back from the doctor. Mrs. Stockbridge asked you to come to the parlor.”

  Vivian’s heart skipped a beat. Aunt Vesta had anticipated positive news on Uncle Matthew’s progress, but Vivian was eager to hear what the doctor had said. “Of course. I’ll be right down.” She scrambled to retrieve her shoes, which she’d kicked off under the desk. As she wriggled her feet into the satin slippers, she held out the envelope bearing the long letter to Mother. “Lorena, would you please post this for me? If it’s too late for it to go out today, tomorrow is fine.”

  “Certainly, Miss Vivian.” Lorena curtsied and departed.

  Vivian took a moment to smooth stray wisps of hair into place and then hurried to the parlor. Uncle Matthew sat in his wicker wheelchair near the window, and Aunt Vesta perched on a nearby side chair. Vivian paused beside the silk tassels framing the parlor doorway and examined both of their faces. Her anxiety lifted, and she gave a little skip as she entered the room.

  “The news is good, isn’t it?”

  Aunt Vesta laughed, curling her hand over Uncle Matthew’s knee. “Ah, so obvious, are we?” She gave her husband a loving look before turning her smile on Vivian. “Yes, the news was very good. Matthew has far exceeded the doctor’s expectations already. He says your uncle should make a complete recovery in time.”

  Vivian steepled her hands beneath her chin and let out a short squeal of delight. She dashed to her uncle and knelt beside his chair, stacking her hands over his on the chair’s carved armrest. “Our prayers have been answered, Uncle Matthew! I’m so happy for you.”

  Her uncle beamed, his blue eyes twinkling. He didn’t reply, but Vivian didn’t expect him to. Even before his stroke, Uncle Matthew had allowed his wife to do most of the talking. Now that the stroke had stolen some of his ability to bring forth words, he seemed content to communicate as he always had—with smiles and nods.

  Aunt Vesta poured Vivian a cup of tea, and Vivian slipped into the chair next to her aunt. “Receiving that excellent report, however, does give me cause for remorse.” She handed Vivian the steaming cup, her lips pursed into a self-deprecating frown. “Had I realized he would do so well, I never would have summoned you from the mission in Alaska. I’m sorry, Vivian.”

  “Please don’t apologize.” Vivian stretched out her hand and patted her aunt’s wrist. She included Uncle Matthew with a smile of assurance. “I’d much rather be here and not needed than not be here and needed.”

  Uncle Matthew chortled, and even Aunt Vesta released a short laugh. “What did you say?”

  Vivian replayed her answer and laughed, too. “I suppose that was confusing. What I meant was if you need me, of course I want to be here. I don’t regret making the trip.” Had she not come, she wouldn’t have had the freeing conversation with her aunt.

  Aunt Vesta sat back, cradling her teacup beneath her chin. “And we appreciate your dedication to us, dear, but it does create a dilemma.” Her gaze whisked to Uncle Matthew, and he gave a subtle nod. Aunt Vesta continued. “Since your uncle is making such wonderful progress, and I find I can meet his needs quite well on my own, there isn’t really a reason for you to remain in Huntington . . . that is, unless you want to.”

  Vivian blinked twice, uncertain how to decipher her aunt’s last statement. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, dear, you know you’re always welcome here. But we did call you away from a rather noble endeavor—ministering to the poor heathens in that humble village.”

  Faces appeared in Vivian’s memory—little Naibi and Etu, stone-faced Shruh, dignified Taima and delicate Magema. And spunky yet elegant Lizzie, her dear friend. She missed them.

  Her aunt set her cup on the marble table next to her chair and smiled at Vivian. “If you want to stay with us, regardless of need, you are very welcome. It would give your uncle and me great pleasure to have you near again. But if you prefer to travel to Oklahoma or return to the mission in Alaska, then we will support your decision and provide travel fare for you.” She rose and took hold of the handles on Uncle Matthew’s wheelchair, giving it a gentle push across the rose-patterned carpet. “We don’t want to detain you from following your heart’s call, Vivian.” She paused beside Vivian’s chair and briefly cupped Vivian’s cheek. “You let us know what you prefer, will you?”

  Vivian nodded, and her aunt wheeled Uncle Matthew around the corner. Vivian remained in the parlor, sipping her tea, and considering her aunt’s comments. “We don’t want to detain you from following your heart’s call . . .” She’d gone with Clay to Alaska to prove her lack of fear both to herself and to her parents. She’d never had a desire to minister in its truest sense, yet she had found pleasure in reaching out to the natives and gaining their trust. In her short time there, she’d grown to love many of them.

  Yet, even while she found beauty in the landscape and the people who resided on the rugged frontier, she had to admit she didn’t care for the primitive conditions. She held the tea beneath her nose, inhaling the pleasant aroma of cinnamon. She adored the smooth feel of fine porcelain in her hands—hands that were no longer chapped and rough looking. Her body relaxed, cradled by the tufted velvet chair, and her eyes feasted on the hand-painted wall coverings, tasseled draperies, and lovely statuary decorating the parlor.

  There was beauty in Alaska, but there was also beauty here.

  Vivian took a sip of the spiced, sweet tea, uncertainty stealing the pleasure of indulging in her favorite beverage. She’d sampled and discovered pleasure in two different worlds, but in which did she belong?

  Four days after Shruh’s death, the village gathered to pay homage to the tribal leader. Clay had observed that funerals in Gwichyaa Saa were ceremonial with unexpected moments of informality. But Shruh’s potlatch contained none of the spontaneous lightheartedness of previous services. From beginning chants to ending dances, all of those in attendance—from small children to the elderly—maintained a solemn, reverent demeanor.

  Clay stayed close to Lizzie throughout the long day of ceremony. On the walk back from Fort Yukon, he had convi
nced her to stay in the mission for a while. He’d returned to his decrepit little hut at night. Bugs and other vermin plagued him, but he wouldn’t complain. At least Lizzie was safe within the village instead of sleeping on the ground outside the charred remains of her cabin.

  Co’Ozhii, to Clay’s surprise, had agreed to let Lizzie prepare some of the foods for the potlatch, and Lizzie confided that twice during their cooking sessions her grandmother had spoken to her in something other than a harsh tone. Clay prayed this small softening was the first whisper of peace between the two women. Co’Ozhii kept her distance from Lizzie during the day of the potlatch, but Clay took heart that the older woman hadn’t demanded Lizzie leave the village.

  Clay wondered if Shruh’s death and Co’Ozhii’s hesitant acceptance might lead to acceptance from the entire village. His heart pattered with hope every time he considered it. He wanted her in the village. He wanted her in his life. But he hadn’t told her so yet. He’d prayed, asking for the Lord’s leading on the matter, but as of yet, he hadn’t perceived a clear answer.

  At the end of the day, when the food trays were emptied of all but crumbs and the dancers ready to collapse in exhaustion, the newly appointed leader of the tribe, Da’ago, stepped forward and raised both hands in the air. Clay recognized the signal. He moved to Lizzie’s side as the entire village fell into formation like soldiers on parade. At the front of the surging, singing crowd, six men carried the travois bearing Shruh’s hide-wrapped body. Co’Ozhii marched directly behind the travois, two women holding her arms to assist her. Lizzie, as Shruh’s granddaughter, should have been at the front, but she waited and joined the last row of villagers.