A Whisper of Peace (33 page)

He grew warm in his jacket, so he slipped it off and held it over his arm. His timepiece showed twenty minutes past the hour, but he didn’t let the time discourage him. Only twenty minutes late. They might still come. He’d learned over his months in the village that the natives moved at their own pace. The ten o’clock hour meant little to them. They might start ambling in his direction at any moment. He’d stay right here until they chose to come.

At forty minutes past the hour, he sat on the stoop, leaned against the doorjamb, and stretched his legs into the patch of sunshine. A beetle scurried between his feet, and he said, “Did you want to come inside? I’m ready for you.” The beetle disappeared in a crack in the hard ground, reminding Clay of the people hiding behind their planked doors. He stifled a groan.

He considered going inside and retrieving his Bible to review his notes one more time. Not because he didn’t know the sermon well—he’d practice it a dozen times already—but the sitting and doing nothing wore on his nerves. Putting his hands against the rock slab, he started to push himself to his feet. But a sudden thought stopped him midrise. Would leaving his post signal an unwillingness to hold the service? He wouldn’t risk it. He settled back onto the slab and went over the sermon in his mind, rehashing phrases best delivered with quiet fervency and others that warranted a more emphatic tone. Absorbed in inner thought, he lost track of time.

When he glanced at his timepiece again, he gave a start of surprise. Eleven-thirty! A full hour and a half past the time he’d intended to begin. Disappointment, frustration, and—yes, he admitted it—anger swirled through him, all battling for first place in his soul. He rested his head against the rough doorjamb. Closing his eyes to block out the sight of the quiet village, he allowed disappointment to rise to the top.

All of his work to build the mission, all of his prayerful preparation on the sermon, and here he sat, alone.
At least Vivian isn’t here to witness my failure
. The thought did little to comfort him. Being a failure without an audience didn’t change his standing. He’d promised Pa a lengthy letter, disclosing every detail of his first service with the Gwich’in people. The letter would be simple to write. He only required one sentence:
No one came
.

Vivian stared at the passing countryside. Flat, treeless plains greeted her eyes, reminding her of the sparse land that surrounded her parents’ reservation in Oklahoma. Days of travel mushed together in her mind, making it difficult to discern either the date or her location. According to the train’s conductor, however, this was Sunday and they were crossing Kansas. Kansas . . . which bordered the Oklahoma Territory.

I wish I could stop by the reservation and see Mother.

The thought took her by surprise. She’d felt distanced from her mother for so long. Their estrangement held them apart even when they sat side by side in the same room. Most often she wanted to escape the woman’s presence. Perhaps that was part of the reason Alaska had held such appeal. Now, closer in miles but separated by circumstances, she longed to turn back time to her little-girl days. Back to when she felt comfortable with Mother. And a Sunday might be the perfect time to recapture their lost closeness.

Sundays were always relaxed days, especially on the reservation. Her stepfather led the Kiowa in hymns, his rich baritone voice booming over all the others. Then he preached God’s word, his Bible draped across his broad palm as if it were an extension of his arm. Somehow Vivian had felt closer to God in the little adobe chapel on the reservation than anywhere else. Her stepfather’s strong yet tender voice reminded her of what God must sound like—wise, patient, loving.

If she could visit today—on a relaxed Sunday—she and Mother might be able to explore the hurts that had driven them apart. Perhaps they would finally bridge the great chasm between them. For a moment, her heart soared with hope. But then she discounted the ridiculous notion.

The Union Pacific Railroad didn’t extend into Oklahoma. Even if it did, no rails reached the Kiowa reservation where her mother and stepfather served. Besides, a visit would delay her arrival in Massachusetts. She must set aside her desire and continue this trek as planned. Yet the need to communicate with Mother—to connect with her on at least a very small level—persisted.

A letter, perhaps?
She’d taken the time to send a short note along with the article about Voss Dawson to Clay in care of the mercantile in Fort Yukon before leaving Carson City. She hoped Clay had retrieved it by now and had found a gentle way to approach Lizzie. She hoped she was wrong—that Voss Dawson was no relation to Lizzie at all—but she’d rather err on the side of caution and notify Lizzie than allow her friend to discover the news in a less kind manner.

She dropped the curtain over the window and settled into her seat, tapping her lips in silent contemplation. Had the death of Voss Dawson stirred this desire for reconciliation with her mother to life? If Voss was Lizzie’s father, she’d never be able to reunite with him. Might a similar fate await her if she delayed reaching out to her mother? Panic gripped Vivian, shredding the edges of her heart. She’d worked so hard to put aside her fears and live confidently, exhibiting strength and courage rather than constant worry. She was good at pretending. Even Clay believed she had changed. But she knew the truth—her courage was a farce. What would it take to finally overcome the crippling apprehensions?

She closed her eyes, her mind drifting to the day Clay had seen her off at the dock in Fort Yukon. He’d reminded her she wasn’t traveling alone—
“God is only a prayer away,”
he’d assured her. A passage from the Bible, one of Aunt Vesta’s favorite psalms, whispered to her heart:
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me . . .”

Vivian covered her face with her hands and slumped forward over her lap, desire to believe God was with her warring against her long-held resentment.
“Thou art with me . . .”
Where had God been the day her father died?
“I will fear no evil . . .”
Why hadn’t He given her the strength to ignore the fearsome snake and go to Papa?

“Why didn’t You prevent me from letting him die?” The agonized question, explored so many times over the years, wrenched from her lips, but just as in times past, she received no answer.

Lizzie sat in the sheltering band of shade stretching out beside her cabin and painstakingly attached another fluffy red-and-white foxtail to the bottom edge of the moose-hide coat. With careful trimming, she’d managed to make each tail appear identical in length, even though the foxes she’d trapped had been various sizes. Spaced so each bushy tail brushed against the ones on either side, she’d used two dozen tails to completely embellish the edge. The extravagant fringe work would add much value to the coat, as well as increase its beauty.

Today she’d brought white-faced Abigail from the pen to keep her company as she worked. The dog wasn’t as attentive as Martha, but she lay nearby and licked her paws, her presence a welcome diversion from Lizzie’s loneliness. With the children’s departure, she’d leaned more heavily on the dogs for companionship, but she’d tried to distance herself a bit from her favorite ones. It pierced her to witness Martha’s drooping ears and low-slung head—the dog didn’t understand Lizzie’s detachment—but pulling away now might make parting a little easier when the time came. And the time was coming quickly.

“I’ve nearly finished clearing the vegetable garden,” Lizzie informed Abigail, who went on washing her paws as if her mistress hadn’t spoken. “The turnips won’t be ready for a while yet, but I won’t worry about digging them this year. If someone wants to come later and harvest them, that’s fine. But I have corn, and squash, and beans. A good harvest—food that will carry Etu and Naibi”—
and Clay
—“through the winter.”

Leaving the food behind, knowing it would provide for the ones she held dear, comforted her. She cradled the knowledge, assuring herself it, too, would make her leave-taking easier. She’d be remembered.

She spread the coat across her knees. Too heavy for the warmth of midsummer, the weight was uncomfortable, but she left it there and examined every bit of the intricate beadwork. Her mother had possessed a gift for creating beauty, and she’d taught Lizzie well. The sweet forget-me-nots and curving vines created a pleasing design across the shoulders and down the front. A simple zigzag of alternating blue, yellow, red, and green beads added color to the cuffs and the coat’s bottom edge above the red foxtails.

Smoothing her hand over the lush beaver collar, she gave a satisfied nod. “It’s the loveliest coat I’ve ever made, Abigail. And next week, before we leave for Fort Yukon, I will take it to Vitse and Vitsiy’s cabin and give them one more chance to make peace with me. If they refuse, I will take my coat and leave. But my conscience will be clear, knowing I did my best.”

She pushed away the inner reminder that unless she honored Mama’s dying request for peace, her conscience would prick her for the rest of her life. Had Vitse recovered from the fever yet? Clay hadn’t visited in several days. She surmised the village leaders had forbidden him from contacting her. She drew a slow breath, a feeble attempt to ease the pain of missing him. If her grandmother’s spirit slipped away, surely he’d be given permission to share the news with her. Or her grandfather would come instead. If she had to hear sad news, she preferred it came from Clay. At least he cared about her and would seek to comfort her.

Her hands stilled on the coat, her heart
trip-tripping
as she replayed her final thought.
He cares about me
. What a glorious feeling, to know a man cared for her. Although he’d never voiced the words, she’d read it in his eyes. Felt it in the touch of his hand on hers. Witnessed it in his willingness to spend time with her and perform tasks for her. But the glory of knowing he cared was buried beneath the deep ache of separation from him.

He’d come to serve in the village. His heart lay with Etu and Naibi and the Gwich’ins. Hadn’t he told her so many times? He wouldn’t choose her over the villagers any more than Pa would choose Mama over his life in San Francisco.

For the first time, a worrisome thought found its way to the forefront of Lizzie’s consciousness. Would Pa welcome her, or would he tell her she belonged in Alaska, the way he’d told Mama? “He
has
to welcome me,” she stated aloud. “There is no one else to accept me.”

Lizzie set the coat aside and gathered Abigail near. The dog rested her broad head on Lizzie’s chest and whined softly in complaint when Lizzie surrounded her neck with both arms, but Lizzie didn’t release her hold. She needed the comfort of the dog’s warm, sturdy body. “I will visit the village one more time before I go. I will offer my beautiful coat to Vitse. And afterward I will ask Clay to escort me to Fort Yukon. A proper good-bye, Abigail, will help me let him go.”

She kissed the top of the dog’s head and set her aside. Taking the coat with her, she headed for her cabin. She wanted to pray for the strength to release her love for Clay and her ties to this land. Her eyes drifted to the place where Denali stood proudly, its tip masked by an embracing puff of white.

She shook her head at the obscuring clouds. “The High One hides from me again. When will I accept the truth? There is no help for me.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine