A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Twelve





Lizzie hung the last of the salmon filets over the smoke-darkened beams of her smoking hut and closed the door. She had hoped Vivian might come and assist in preparing the salmon for smoking. Several times during the day, Lizzie had paused to search the break in the trees, eager for the white woman’s arrival, but the entire day had slipped by. Vivian must be with Clay. Desire for companionship stirred in Lizzie’s heart—to never be alone must be a glorious thing. And I will know that glory very soon.

Rubbing the base of her spine with both hands, she angled her gaze to the distance, where the proud mountain Denali disappeared into the clouds. Mama had always said they were never alone because they lived in Denali’s shadow. Mama found comfort in Denali’s presence, but Lizzie wanted more than a mountain as a companion.

Tiredness washed over her, and she longed to enter her cabin and crawl into bed until her aching arms and shoulders found relief. But she had one more chore that must be tended—burying the fish bones and skins between the rows in her vegetable garden. With a sigh, she retrieved her shovel. The stench of the rotting pile drew insects and soured the air around her cabin. No matter how tired she was from her days of fishing and then preparing the meat, she would put that detestable mess underground where it would serve as fertilizer.

With the shovel propped on her shoulder, she trudged to the garden plot between the cabin and the dog pens. Her father had carved away all the wild growth years ago, leaving a clear expanse where the sun could spread its warmth on the corn, squash, pumpkins, cabbages, and carrots. Wearily, she pressed the shovel’s blade into the dirt and turned the soil, creating a shallow ravine all along the garden’s edge. Then, her feet dragging, she plopped shovelful after shovelful of salmon remains into the ravine before scooping the dirt back into place.

Her dogs slept, tired from dragging the huge cache of fish to Lizzie’s cabin. They’d dozed the day away and would probably sleep until tomorrow morning. Lizzie envied their ability to drop to the ground, curl into a ball, and drift away.

She had just begun digging the fourth and final ravine when a rustle in the brush caught her attention. Two of the dogs lifted their heads in curiosity, but after sniffing the air, they lay back down. Lizzie kept her gaze aimed at the place she’d heard the sound, waiting. Moments later, Vivian stepped into the clearing with a basket swinging on her arm.

Lizzie’s spirits lifted at the sight of her friend. Then she looked past Vivian, searching for a glimpse of Clay. She pushed aside the brief pang of disappointment that Vivian was alone and moved to greet the white woman. “You’ve come in the evening? You always come in the morning.”

Vivian smiled. “I know, but it doesn’t grow dark, so I can find my way.”

“But it isn’t as safe,” Lizzie chided. Clutching the shovel with both hands, she said, “Animals hunt in the evening hours. You shouldn’t come alone.” If she frightened Vivian enough, perhaps next time she’d bring Clay with her.

Worry briefly flashed in Vivian’s eyes. “I’ll remember for next time.” Then her expression cleared, a smile chasing away the concern. “I missed you while you were gone.” She wrinkled her nose, waving her hand in front of her face. “But, phew, you smell of fish.” Then she put her hands on her hips. “And you aren’t wearing your dress.”

Lizzie ducked her head. “It gets in the way of fishing.”

Vivian laughed. “I suppose you’re right.” She reached into the basket and lifted out a bundle wrapped in a piece of burlap. “I brought you something. Clay got my stove working, so I was able to bake this afternoon. I made cookies. Shortbread—like the ones my mother baked for me before I left Oklahoma.” Her eyes misted with tears, and she blinked rapidly. “I hope you’ll enjoy them.”

Lizzie dropped the shovel and reached for the package. No one had given her a gift since she was a little girl. She wasn’t sure how to react. So she stood silently with the little bundle balanced on her palms, staring into Vivian’s face. After several seconds, she blurted, “You love your mother.”

The tears reappeared, deepening the green of Vivian’s eyes. “Yes, I do.”

“She’s alive—you’ve told me so. If she is alive, why aren’t you with her?” If Lizzie’s mother were alive, nothing would compel her to go somewhere else.

Vivian sighed. “It’s hard to explain, Lizzie. I love my mother, and I know she loves me, but I lived away from her for many years. Ever since my father . . . my father . . .” She gulped, and one tear trickled down her cheek. “Since he died.” She sucked in a great breath, as if saying the words robbed her of air. “Now my mother and I are . . . strangers. It’s somehow easier to be apart.”

Lizzie frowned. Being apart from her mother and Pa had never gotten easier.

Vivian went on. “So I came here to help Clay. This is my home now.” As she spoke, her voice gained strength. “From now on, I’ll be an Alaskan.”

Lizzie curled her hands around the package of cookies. “This is what you truly want? To stay here, away from the mother you love?”

For a moment, Vivian looked off to the side, as if traveling somewhere in her mind. Then she gave a brusque nod. “Yes. This is where I must remain.” Her chin jerked, and she faced Lizzie again. “Are you leaving because your mother is gone? Or is it because of your grandparents?”

Lizzie took a step backward. “Why do you ask this?”

Vivian stretched one hand toward Lizzie, her expression remorseful. “Please don’t be offended by my question. I only ask because I care. I know your grandparents rejected your mother, but I don’t know why. Clay and I would like to help you bring an end to your differences.”

Anxiety coursed through Lizzie’s chest. The joy of receiving a gift, of seeing her friend come to visit, fled with the rush of emotion. “You have spoken to my grandmother? About me?”

“No, but Clay has. He’s very concerned about—”

“Tell him to leave my grandmother alone. Tell him it isn’t his concern. Tell him—” Lizzie spun and charged to her cabin. She plunked the cookies on the bench inside the door and pressed her fists to her temples. Her mother’s dying wish had been for Lizzie to reconcile with her grandparents. If the white people intruded, then she wouldn’t be able to claim the deed as her own. Her mother’s request would go unfulfilled, and then how would Mama rest in peace?

“Lizzie?” Vivian’s voice came from behind Lizzie, both hurt and puzzled.

Lizzie whirled to face her friend, who stood uncertainly in the cabin’s doorway. She angled her chin high. “You are my friend, Vivian. You’ve given me much—have taught me much—and I am grateful. But in this thing you must not interfere. Teach me, yes. Learn from me, yes. But leave my grandmother alone. If you can’t honor my request, then we can no longer be friends.”

She pushed past Vivian, marched across the yard, and snatched up the shovel. Even though Vivian lingered, wringing her hands and pacing along the edge of the garden plot, Lizzie ignored her. When she finished her task, she cleaned the shovel, put it in its spot in the lean-to, and entered her cabin. She closed the door without acknowledging Vivian’s presence.

Her heart aching, she dropped onto her bed. How it pained her to treat Vivian so callously, but how else would she make the woman understand? She must make peace with Vitse her own way. Shifting her gaze to the window, she sought the great mountain that had given her mother tranquility and security. Her shoulders wilted. Clouds, mottled gray and white, stood guard. Hiding . . . the mountain was hiding.

When she fulfilled Mama’s final wish, would Denali make itself known to her? Then would she, too, know contentment?





“She was so cold, Clay—angry. Lizzie has never been one to be openly demonstrative, but she was friendly to me. I feel I’ve ruined our friendship by prying.”

For the past half hour, Vivian’s tears had flowed despite Clay’s best efforts to reassure her. Although sympathy for his stepsister’s heartache made his chest feel tight, he recognized part of his discomfort was unease. How did a man cope with a woman’s tears?

Clay reached across the table and gave her hand several gentle pats. “She’s probably tired, Viv. Think of how hard it must have been during the days of fishing, all on her own. When people are tired, they react differently. Just wait—you’ll go see her tomorrow, and she’ll be more like the Lizzie you know.”

“Do you think so?” Vivian sniffled, her chin quivering. “I didn’t realize until she closed the door in my face how much I’ve come to depend on her friendship. I . . . I get lonely here.”

Clay could understand Vivian’s hurt feelings, but how could she be lonely in the village? They were constantly surrounded by others. He couldn’t even wash his face and shave in the morning without gathering a small crowd. The natives watched him lather his cheeks and chin, clicking their tongues on their teeth or chortling. They observed his work on the school and followed him into the trees or to the river when he went to gather firewood or water. He always had company.

Vivian released a heavy sigh, her face shiny from dried tears. “I almost regret teaching her to be white because she’ll feel confident to leave now.”

Clay didn’t want Lizzie to leave, either. “I wish we knew for sure why she was going.” He slipped from the barrel chair and walked to the window. He peered out at the quietly busy village. Family groups gathered in small circles in the cleared areas in front of their cabins. Men smoked their pipes and women busied themselves with handwork while youngsters giggled and darted around in childish games. Without turning from the village scene, he mused, “Do you suppose she’d stay if her grandparents would welcome her? Living all alone—relying completely on herself—must be difficult for her.”

“You’d never guess it by watching her.” Vivian joined Clay at the window. She rested her elbow on the unfinished sill and propped her chin in her hand. “I’ve never met a more self-sufficient person than Lizzie. She doesn’t seem to have need of anyone.”

Clay raised one eyebrow. “Needs and wants are two different things, Viv. She might possess the skills necessary to survive alone, but I suspect she wants others around. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have welcomed you.” The now-familiar prick of envy accompanied his words. Considering how little time he’d spent with the woman, she had weaseled her way into the center of his thoughts. A part of him wanted her near—he couldn’t deny it.

“I don’t know that she’ll welcome me again, after I angered her so . . .”

Clay, confused by his own thoughts and uncertain how to respond to Vivian’s melancholy reflection, chose not to respond. She’d spoken so softly she might have been speaking to herself anyway. He pushed away from the window. “It’s late—we should get some sleep.” Slipping his arm around Vivian’s shoulders, he aimed her for their huts. “Da’ago offered me the use of his canoe and said I could take his largest travois to tote our supplies from the river to the village. I told him I’d like to go to Fort Yukon tomorrow. While I’m there, I’ll check on our supplies.”

He couldn’t afford a day away from the mission—he still had two full walls to chink—but he feared their precious food stores might be rotting on a dock somewhere, waiting for someone to find the time to deliver them. He also needed to purchase glass for the mission’s windows and hinges for the door, which required a trip to Fort Yukon.

Vivian looked up at him, hopefulness sprouting on her face. “Could you purchase some fabric for me while you’re there? I prefer something lightweight, such as batiste. But I’ll take muslin if that’s all they have—six yards, please.”

Clay paused outside Vivian’s hut door, mentally counting the amount remaining in his money pouch. “Is the fabric a want or a need, Viv? We only have funds for needs.”

Her face flushed with pink. “I assure you, it’s a need.”

“All right, then. I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thank you, Clay.”

“You’re welcome.” He turned for his hut.

“Clay?”

He paused.

“Tomorrow . . . on your way to Fort Yukon . . . might you find the time to stop by Lizzie’s and tell her I still want to be her friend?”

Clay hesitated, torn by the pain in Vivian’s voice and expression.

“I neglected to ask her about hunting for meat for us. You could discuss a trade . . .”

The mission needed a good supply of meat for the winter. And Vivian needed an element of assurance. Besides, the idea of seeing Lizzie was appealing. “All right, Viv. I’ll stop by her cabin tomorrow.”

Vivian’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Thank you.”

“Sleep well now,” he said.

“You too.”

Clay closed himself inside his hut, kicked off his boots, and flopped onto his bed. Propping his hands beneath his head, he stared into the shadows, inwardly planning tomorrow’s activities. One day to visit Lizzie, reach Fort Yukon, purchase glass and fabric and possibly a few food stores if those promised by the Mission Committee were unavailable, and return. At least he knew he’d have enough sunlight to find his way, regardless of how late he returned.

Should he visit Lizzie on his way out or his way back? Lizzie probably rose early, like most of the natives, since she would have chores waiting. The hour might be too late if he waited until the return trip. He nodded, his decision made—he’d see her on his way to Fort Yukon. His heart gave a little leap of delighted excitement, but he told himself he was only eager to restore harmony between the women for Vivian’s sake.

He closed his eyes and ignored the little voice inside his head that scoffed, You aren’t fooling anyone, least of all yourself.