A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Fourteen





Vivian paced outside the mission school, watching for Clay’s return. Even during the hours she’d stayed busy—hoeing and watering the garden, picking the first plump pea pods, and sweeping the mission school’s floor with a handmade willow broom until it practically gleamed—she’d caught herself looking toward the break in the brush where he’d disappeared that morning, pulling an empty travois behind him.

She leaned against the corner of the building and gnawed on a hangnail. Although no stars showed in the sky, nighttime had arrived—the little pendant watch Aunt Vesta and Uncle Matthew had given her their last Christmas with her proved it. And still no Clay. What if something had happened to him? The fretful thought wouldn’t leave her head.

She tried so hard to resist living with a cloud of fear haunting her, but no amount of effort successfully held the worries at bay. So many unpleasant things could befall a person. He could have been attacked by a bear or a moose. Perhaps his canoe overturned and the river carried him away. In town, might he have met with some unsavory fellows who accosted him to steal his supplies? Vivian’s imagination conjured one tragedy after another until her heart pounded so hard it hurt to draw a breath.

Simply waiting was too difficult—she needed to stay busy. She’d already completed the chores Clay had left for her, as well as a few of her own choosing. A fresh pan of corn bread waited for Clay in his hut, she’d stacked a good supply of wood inside the school for the stove, and she’d even ventured into the deeper brush to set her snare. What else could she do? She clapped her palms together. Washing! Clay wore the same trousers and shirt every day for work, but he’d donned clean clothes before leaving for town. She could retrieve his dirty clothing and wash it.

She carried bucket after bucket from the river until she’d filled the rusty tin washtub that sat outside her hut. As she’d come to expect, a small number of native women gathered to watch her. Each time she or Clay used the wash bucket to clean their hands and faces or Vivian prepared to launder their clothing, the natives stood nearby, jabbering and chortling to themselves. Vivian had grown accustomed to having an audience, even if the lack of privacy occasionally frustrated her.

Tonight, however, she appreciated their presence. They unwittingly offered a welcome distraction.

Vivian shaved a bit of lye soap from a bar into the water and stirred it with her hands, managing to create a few dismal suds. She plunged Clay’s shirt into the water again and again, glancing up to acknowledge her grinning audience every few seconds. When she felt she’d removed the majority of the grime, she shook it out, spraying the watching crowd with water droplets, then draped the shirt over a bush to dry.

She reached for Clay’s trousers, but a little girl with round, rosy cheeks and two missing front teeth thrust a little calico dress at her. “Missus Viv-ee-an, ngideloy ton-gilax?”

Vivian mimed placing the dress in the washtub and repeated the child’s request in English. “Wash your clothes?”

“Wass,” the child said, and the women broke out in a fresh round of guttural murmurs.

Crooking her finger, Vivian gestured for the child to step between her and the washtub. Hunching her shoulders and giggling wildly, she complied. Vivian gave her the dress and then, holding the child’s hands, she pushed the dress and the little girl’s arms into the water. The child squealed, and Vivian laughed. Together, they gave the dress a thorough scrubbing while the watching women oohed and made clucking sounds with their teeth. The little girl hung the soggy dress next to Clay’s shirt to dry. Then she dashed away, her bare feet slapping the hardened ground and her delighted giggle filling the air.

With the child’s departure, the others apparently decided it was time to turn in. They ambled toward their cabins, leaving Vivian to finish the final pieces of laundry. Alone again, her thoughts once more turned troublesome. How she wished she had someone to talk to—someone who would understand rather than judge her fearful thoughts. Mother, Aunt Vesta, even Clay’s father repeatedly lectured her that being afraid meant she didn’t trust God to take care of her and those she loved. But how could she completely trust God when He’d let her down before?

Vivian dipped a bucketful of the murky wash water and carried it to the garden so it wouldn’t be wasted. Midstride, she paused and stared at the open spot in the brush, willing Clay to emerge from the thick growth. The hour neared ten o’clock—what could be keeping him?





The rustle in the brush alerted Lizzie to an animal’s presence. A large animal, based on the amount of noise. She slowly separated the boughs of a thick rose-hip bush with the tip of her Winchester rifle and stared down the barrel, waiting for the creature to cross her path.

Late at night or early in the morning—either were ideal times for hunting. It didn’t seem to matter to the creatures that light still shone rather than giving them the cover of dark. The thick trees offered the security of shadows. They were hungry, and so they ventured out to forage, giving Lizzie an opportunity to fill her cache with meat. Or to fill Clay’s—Vivian’s, she corrected herself—cache with meat.

The thrashing grew louder. The animal was near. Lizzie hunkered low, her back stiff, one eye squinted shut, her senses alert. She cocked the hammer slowly, cringing at the muffled click. But when the animal—a bear?—showed itself, she’d be ready. Lizzie held her breath, her finger poised on the trigger. A lumbering shape, cloaked in gray shadows, emerged from the brush. She squeezed the trigger.

A scream rent the air. The animal—but not an animal, Lizzie now realized—flailed, bringing up his head where a weak band of sunlight briefly illuminated his features. Lizzie bolted out of the bushes and raced for him, watching in revulsion as he crumpled and landed facedown in the fern-strewn forest floor.

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.