A Whisper of Peace (18 page)

Panting, heart racing, she rolled him onto his back. She gasped and sank back on her haunches. A scream of horror built in her throat, and she covered her mouth with both hands to hold it inside.
Clay!
She’d killed Clay Selby.

“Vivian? Vivian, wake up!”

The frantic whisper cut through Vivian’s sleep-fogged brain. Tiredness had finally won out, and in spite of her worries concerning Clay’s continued absence, she’d crawled into her bed and fallen into a restless sleep. Now she sat up and groggily rubbed her eyes. Had she only imagined the voice?

“Vivian!”

She staggered to her feet, finally recognizing the caller. Pulling aside the blanket that covered her doorway, she looked at Lizzie. “What are you doing here?” She flung a frantic look across the quiet village.

“Come.” Lizzie grabbed Vivian’s arm and dragged her behind the hut.

Vivian stumbled on an exposed root, but Lizzie’s firm hold kept her upright. “Lizzie, what—?”

Instead of replying, Lizzie pointed to a travois that lay in a gray triangle of shade. A still, bulky shape lay strapped to the conveyance. Vivian squinted through the dim light—what on earth? Then her knees buckled. She let out a cry of alarm. “Clay!”

She dropped to her knees and placed her hand on Clay’s hair. Something felt sticky. Blood. Her stomach whirled. She looked into Lizzie’s grim face. “What happened to him?”

“I shot him.”

Vivian’s jaw fell open. She tried to speak—to ask why Lizzie would shoot Clay—but words wouldn’t form.

“I was hunting for meat, as he asked me to do.”

Buzzing filled the inside of Vivian’s head. Did Lizzie mean to blame Clay? She forced herself to listen to Lizzie’s words.

“He sounded like a bear, dragging supplies through the brush. So I shot him.” Lizzie held her shoulders stiff. Her low voice held no emotion.

Vivian jerked her attention to Clay. Although he hadn’t moved, his flesh felt warm to the touch. His chest rose and fell in slow but steady breaths. He wasn’t dead. A flicker of hope ignited in her breast. “Help me get him into his hut.”

They each grabbed one support on the travois and dragged it across the brief expanse to Clay’s hut. Vivian panted with exertion. How had Lizzie managed to tote Clay all the way to the village by herself? They weren’t able to maneuver the travois through the doorway, so they lifted Clay by his arms and legs and carried him to his bed.

He lay on the blanket with his arms outstretched and his head lolling to the side like a discarded ragdoll, completely unaware. Vivian knelt beside him. “I need a lantern. There’s one in the corner there. Would you light it, please? You’ll find a tin of matches on that little shelf.” She didn’t shift her gaze from Clay.

Squeaks, a soft
skritch
, and then a flare of light let Vivian know Lizzie followed her directions. A soft yellow glow lit the cabin. Lizzie set the lantern on the floor next to Clay’s head and crouched beside Vivian.

“I thought I’d killed him.” Lizzie’s voice still held no emotion, yet Vivian sensed a deep agony beneath the woman’s surface. “But he breathes. . . .” She pointed at his softly rising chest.

“Yes, I see.” Vivian didn’t add she hoped he would continue to breathe. The comment would only add to Lizzie’s guilt, and what good would it do? She pulled the lantern closer, examining Clay’s head. An ugly wound, four inches long and almost a half inch wide, glared up at her, but to her relief it appeared the bullet had skimmed alongside his skull rather than penetrating the bone.

She had never treated a bullet wound, but she’d tended Clay’s scratches when he fell through the mission roof. Those scratches were healing well. Surely this wound would, too, with the same ministrations. She swung her gaze to meet Lizzie’s stoic expression. “Will you fetch some water and heat it on the stove in the mission school? I want to clean his wound, but the water should be boiled first.”

Lizzie’s face pinched with uncertainty. “I need to leave, Vivian. It will not serve you well if others awake and find me here.”

Vivian grabbed Lizzie’s hands. “Please, Lizzie. He’s unconscious, but if he wakens he might try to get up. He could start the wound bleeding again. He’s already lost much blood—I can see it in his hair and along his face.” The sight repulsed her, and she had to swallow before continuing. “He shouldn’t be left alone.”

Lizzie chewed her lip for a moment. Then she pulled Vivian to her feet. “You get the water and heat the stove. I’ll stay here with him. If the others see you out moving around, they won’t be alarmed. But . . .”

Although Vivian preferred to remain at Clay’s side, she understood Lizzie’s apprehension. Arguing would only prolong seeing to Clay’s wound. “All right. Stay very close.” Her voice caught. “And call me if . . .” Lifting her skirt, she raced out of the hut.

Vivian ran to the river, grateful for the murky sunlight. She scooped up a pan of water and spun toward the village, sloshing water over the rim. Hissing through her teeth, she slowed her pace—she didn’t want to make a second trip.

In the mission building, she added wood to the coals in the stove and placed the pan on top, then dashed to the hut to check on Clay. As she’d directed, Lizzie sat near, her hand on Clay’s shoulder.

“Any change?”

Lizzie shook her head, her braids swinging with the movement. She turned her tortured face to Vivian. “I am so sorry, Vivian.” Her voice broke.

In her weeks of visiting the native woman, Vivian had never seen her express such sorrow. She couldn’t allow Lizzie to carry a burden of guilt—she understood far too well that agonizing weight. Vivian curled her hand over Lizzie’s shoulder. “It wasn’t deliberate. I don’t blame you. Don’t blame yourself.”

Lizzie nodded, shifting her head to look back down at Clay. “Is the water heated?”

Vivian hustled to the school to check the pan. The water wasn’t boiling yet, but steam rose in a wispy cloud. It would do. Using her skirt to protect her hands, she carried the pan to Clay’s hut and then shifted Lizzie out of the way. She retrieved Clay’s shirt—the cleanest piece of fabric she could locate quickly—from the bush outside and dipped it in the water. The heat stung her fingers, but she ignored her pain and gently brushed the wadded cloth across the wound. Clay groaned, rolling his head away from her touch.

“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

L
izzie 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.