A Whisper of Peace (40 page)

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 convinced 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.

Lizzie moved stiffly, as if her legs had forgotten how to function. She sent Clay an anguished look. “This is the hardest part—putting him in the ground and watching them cover him up.” She swallowed. “It’s over then. He’s really gone.”

Clay linked hands with her, fitting his fingers between hers. “It’s only his body they place in the ground, Lizzie. His soul has already gone to his Father.” Clay’s soul rejoiced, knowing where Shruh now resided. In those brief minutes before the old man closed his eyes for the final time, Shruh had asked Clay to help him find the High One. With Clay’s assistance, he’d given himself into God’s care. When the time was right, he’d share Shruh’s decision with Lizzie. But he hadn’t yet sensed her readiness to hear it.

While the leaders chanted their good-bye prayers, Clay offered a silent prayer for each of the people surrounding the grave that one day they would see Shruh again.
Let us all gather in Your house one day, Father. And please . . . please
—longing rose up with such intensity, tears stung his eyes—
let Lizzie be among those welcomed home.

Chapter Thirty-Five

L
izzie smoothed the blanket into place over the mattress and then sat on the bed, elbows on knees. Vivian would tell her she’d chosen an unladylike pose, but what difference did it make? She wouldn’t be living in San Francisco as a lady in her father’s house.

She shifted her gaze to the four-drawer bureau standing between the two beds in the little sleeping room. Pa’s old bureau fit well in the room, just as the breakfront cabinet—now holding books and supplies rather than dishes—seemed to belong in the back corner of the mission’s main room, and her old table and chairs found a perfect place in the corner of the second sleeping room for Clay’s use as a desk. Her furniture belonged here. But did she?

A bird’s cheerful song interrupted her reflections. With a sigh, she pushed to her feet and scuffed to the window, seeking the singer. But the oiled paper made the view appear murky, out of focus.
Much like my life
. She drew her hand down her face. What was she going to do?

The ringing clang of an iron pan meeting the stovetop alerted her to Clay’s arrival. He must be starting breakfast. She should cook for him out of gratitude for the shelter he provided. Quickly, she sat on the edge of the bed, whisked the blue-checked skirt out of the way, and tugged on her moccasins. Then she scurried out the door.

“Let me do that.”

He flashed a smile over his shoulder. The man smiled more than anyone she’d ever known. Even when things went awry—when Etu and Naibi fussed at each other or one of the villagers snubbed him—he maintained an even, cheerful attitude. She envied his innate happiness. Although she’d never been one to wallow in despair, she couldn’t honestly say she held the same penchant for joy that Clay possessed.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve learned to cook pretty decently since Vivian left, if you don’t count my bread. Still can’t figure out how to make the loaves rise.” He withdrew a speckled egg from a basket on the edge of the stove. “We’ll be having a treat this morning. When I fetched water, I spotted a duck nest and helped myself.” He cringed. “I feel bad for the mother duck, but I couldn’t pass up the chance for fried eggs.”

A little bubble of laughter tickled the back of Lizzie’s throat. He felt badly for the duck? The giggle emerged, and she quickly covered her mouth, aghast. She should be in mourning. How could she laugh at Clay’s antics?

His brows pinched. “Lizzie? What’s wrong?”

She sat on the bench closest to the stove and sent Clay a serious look. “I’ve been here a full week already, and I still don’t know what I’m to do. Should I build a new cabin on my land? Or should I buy a house in Fort Yukon or White Horse and seek work?” She hunched her shoulders, wishing she could crawl inside a shell like a turtle and hide from the world. “If I believed my father had told his wife and children about me, then maybe I could have . . .”

With a fierce swipe of her hand, she forced the thought away. Each time she considered the obituary with its list of survivors—excluding her name—pain and anger swelled. Contempt filled her voice as she added, “Pa erased his memories of me from his heart. So I must do the same for him.” She glared up at Clay, fury making her limbs tremble. “I’m glad I burned the cabin. At least I never have to look at it again and remember the years we lived there together.”

Clay looked at her for several seconds, his expression unreadable. Then he placed the egg in the basket, shifted the skillet to the corner of the stove, and sat beside her. He didn’t take her hand. She wished he would. She needed comfort—connection.

“Lizzie, you’re angry at your father, and you have a right to be. He wronged you by leaving, and he wronged you by never telling his family about you.”

I am his family!
She jumped up and stormed to the door. Propping her hand on the frame, she stared across the village. Families mingled in yards. Children playing, women stirring cookfires to life, men standing in small circles to discuss the day’s plans. A happy scene. A scene in which she had no part. The anger drifted away on a fierce tide of sorrow. “I’ll never know how it feels . . .”

Clay moved behind her, so close his breath stirred her hair when he said, “How what feels?”

Her lips quivered. She swallowed hard. “To belong.”

Clay took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Lizzie, you
can
know how it feels. There’s a place of belonging waiting for you—there’s a Father standing with open arms right now ready to welcome you into His family. All you have to do is lean into His embrace.”

She swayed toward him, remembering the bliss of his embrace when he’d run into her yard the day of the fire. She wanted—
needed
—that bliss again. But his hands remained on her shoulders, holding her away from him. She slipped free of his gentle grip and moved to the other side of the bench inside the door of the mission.

“No father wants me. Vitsiy didn’t want me. Pa left me behind.” Lizzie grated the words, torturing herself with the truth. She waved one hand toward the village. “All of those families out there—none ask me to be a part of their circle. No one wants me, Clay Selby!” Her knees began to quake, but pride stiffened her spine. She wouldn’t cower and cry before this man. “And I don’t want them.”

Clay took two steps toward her, tears glinting in the corners of his gray-green eyes. A sweet, tender smile touched the edges of his lips. “Yes, you do. Or it wouldn’t hurt so much to be excluded.”

The gently worded admonition stung like a wind-thrown willow branch slapping across her face.

He came ever closer until his knees bumped against the log bench. Close enough that he could touch her if he tried. Her gaze dropped to his hands, waiting for them to lift and reach for her. But they remained at his side. She started to run to the sleeping room, to hide in shame and agony, but he spoke again, sealing her in place.

“Even more than you want them, Father-God wants you.”

His statement coiled around her like wild honeysuckle vines encircling a tree trunk with scent and beauty. The sensation of being encompassed was so strong, her senses filled with the sweet aroma of delicate blossoms. A tingle climbed her spine—her body’s response to awareness of a presence that hovered just out of sight and reach. She stared at Clay, unable to turn away. Her pulse increased. Tiny, rapid puffs of air escaped her parted lips.

Clay clasped his hands—the way he did when he prayed—and spoke in a voice so soft, so tender, her heart ached listening to him. “Thousands of years before your birth, God sent His Son into this world to serve as the bridge between Himself and man. Even then, the Father knew one day a woman named Lizzie—White Feather—would walk the earth. Even then, the Father loved you. Even then, the Father longed for you to seek His Son and find your way to Him. All this time, Lizzie, He’s been there, waiting for you, loving you.”

One hand reached across the bench, his fingers landing softly on her forearm. He slid his fingers downward until he found her hand. His warm, firm fingers took hold, the touch becoming a symbol of Father-God reaching across the separation she’d created . . . and capturing her in a precious bond of love.

Clay’s gaze drifted to the open door and returned. He tipped his head, his thumb slipping to her wrist where her pulse raced in an eagerness she didn’t quite comprehend. “Lizzie, you live in the shadow of Denali, the High One. Clouds mask its peak, yet you know the mountaintop exists, yes?”

Very slowly, afraid a rapid movement might destroy their moment of intimacy, she offered a single nod.

“How do you know?”

She licked her lips, forcing her clumsy tongue to form an answer. “Because there are days the sun burns the clouds away, and its fullness is revealed.”

A smile burst across Clay’s face. “That’s right—the sun burns the shielding mask away so the High One is revealed.” He tugged her hand, drawing her snug against the opposite side of the log. His face only inches from hers, he whispered, “Just as accepting Jesus the Son removes the clouds of doubt and reveals the glory of Father-God.” The fervency in his tone and the lovelight shining in his eyes stole Lizzie’s ability to breathe. “He wants you for His own daughter, Lizzie. Won’t you open your heart and believe?”