A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Twenty-Four





Clay handed Vivian her valise. Apprehension churned in his middle as he looked beyond her to the paddleboat that would transport her to Fairbanks. From there, she would catch a train for the second leg of her lengthy journey through Canada, into the United States, and eventually to Massachusetts. “I don’t feel right, sending you by yourself.” Anything could happen to a woman traveling alone.

Vivian lips twitched into a funny half smile. “I’ll be all right, Clay. Don’t worry.” She released a light laugh. “These next weeks of travel will be good for me. I’ll have to depend on myself rather than on someone else.”

“Remember God is only a prayer away,” Clay said. He committed to praying daily for her safety and strength. “He’ll always be there for you.”

“I know.” The words carried surety, but her tone lacked confidence. Before he could say anything else, she tipped forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Take good care of Etu and Naibi. As soon as they’ve learned to write, have them send me letters.” Tears flooded her eyes. “I . . . I shall miss them.” She tugged a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed her cheeks.

The paddleboat captain blasted the air horn, and Vivian jumped. Their gazes connected, and he said, “It’s time.” She gave a slight nod, and he escorted her onto the boat. At the end of the gangplank, he gave her a hug and whispered, “Take care, Viv. Send me word when you get there, and I pray you will—” He stopped himself before he uttered, “heal.” He wished he’d had the time to help her overcome whatever fear or pain held her captive. He felt as though he’d failed her somehow.

“You write, too, so I know how the people of Gwichyaa Saa are faring.” She backed up slowly, the valise bouncing against her knees. Her eyes glittered, but she blinked several times and gave him a wobbly smile. “And take the children to see Lizzie—she’ll be lonely without their company.”

“I will—as often as I can.” His heart skipped a beat as he made the promise. He wanted the children to have time with Lizzie, but he wanted time with her, too. All too soon, she would leave, and he would lose the opportunity to share God’s unfailing love with her. As if in response to his inner thoughts, his feet shuffled backward, carrying him to the shore.

Workers dashed out to release the restraining ropes, setting the paddleboat free of the moorings. Clay waved his hand over his head. “Good-bye, Viv! God bless you!”

She waved back, wind tossing little strands of hair around her face. Then she turned from the spindled railing and left the deck. With Vivian gone, Clay had no reason to remain on the bank staring across the water, but his feet remained rooted for several minutes. Behind him, men loaded boxes, barrels, and sacks into waiting wagons. Voices—some angry, others pleading—filled the air. Life in Fort Yukon went on as usual, but for Clay, everything had changed. He was now on his own.

But didn’t you just tell Vivian God is only a prayer away?

The admonition might have come from the heavens, it resounded so loudly in his head. He was the worst kind of hypocrite, standing there feeling alone after lecturing Vivian on the same topic. Slapping his hat onto his head, he turned and forced himself to wend his way through the milling activity of the docks to the center of Fort Yukon in search of the doctor. After several inquiries, someone directed him to one of the local saloons.

Unpleasant aromas—stale tobacco smoke, yeasty beer, and men’s body odors—assaulted his nose as he stepped into the rough wood structure. He breathed as shallowly as possible as he made his way to the bar, where the doctor hunched over a tall mug of amber liquid. He cleared his throat to gain the man’s attention. The doctor turned his bleary gaze in Clay’s direction and grunted.

“Sir, I wondered if I could purchase some medicine from you.” Clay explained the malady spreading from one villager to another. “I fear there will be deaths if we’re not able to bring the fever under control.”

The doctor took a swig of his drink and backhanded his lips. “Have it here in Fort Yukon, too. Somebody brought it in and it’s been bouncing all around town. Spreads like a bad habit.”

“So you have a medicine that works?”

“Nope.” The man pushed off the stool and stood before Clay, wavering slightly. “Just been telling everybody to keep to themselves—less likely to catch it that way.”

Clay restrained a snort—the doctor might be telling people to keep to themselves, but based on the number of folks he’d just seen working at the docks and frequenting the stores, they weren’t listening. “So there’s no treatment?”

“Treatment’s simple—ply ’em with whiskey for the cough, keep the patient cool, and hold off on feeding them ’til the fever’s run its course.”

Considering how long some of the villagers had suffered from the fever, they might very well starve the victims to death if he followed the doctor’s advice. Clay scowled at the man. “Are you sure this is what you’re telling everyone, or is the treatment only for the natives?”

The doctor scowled back. He pointed a stubby finger at Clay. “Don’t be hurling insults at me, young man. I took a pledge to treat all folks the same. I’m telling you what I’d advise anybody, and that’s a fact.” The man whirled toward the barkeeper. “Sell this fellow the biggest bottle of whiskey you got.” He squinted at Clay. “Tablespoon as needed to stop the cough. That’s the best I can do for you.”


———


Even though Clay knew he should hurry back to the village—he’d left Etu and Naibi in the care of an older Athabascan girl named Nayeli—he decided to make a stop at Lizzie’s cabin and check on her well-being. Vivian hadn’t mentioned Lizzie coughing or seeming ill, but he’d seen how quickly the sickness could strike. He’d rest easier if he knew she was all right.

As he approached her clearing, he heard her dogs bark in warning. Having had a bullet bounce off his skull once, he didn’t care to repeat the experience. He paused and cupped his hands beside his mouth. “Lizzie! Lizzie Dawson! It’s me—Clay. Can I come onto your yard?”

A shrill whistle pierced the air, and the dogs fell silent. Then he heard her call, “Come ahead.”

His pulse immediately sped. He pressed his palm to his chest, willing his heart to settle down. The threat of being fired upon was gone—so why the racing heartbeat? He pushed through the brush to enter her yard. And when he caught sight of her, his heart fired into his throat and lodged, making it difficult for him to draw a breath.

Lizzie stood just outside her cabin, attired in a buttery, swoop-skirted gown bedecked with layers of frothy lace. The pale yellow accented her glimmering hair of darkest night and made her eyes appear even more vividly blue. He came to a stumbling halt, staring in shock at the change. Vivian had worked a miracle in transforming the earthy native woman into a lady of culture.

“Y-you’re beautiful.” Clay spoke without thinking.

Lizzie toyed with a stray strand of hair that lay along her long, graceful neck. “Th-thank you.” She drew her hands down the length of the gown, her expression bashful. “I was missing Vivian, so I tried on one of the dresses she gave me. I . . . I did not realize I would have anyone visit.”

Clay gulped, happy he’d taken the time to stop by. He wouldn’t have wanted to miss seeing Lizzie in such finery. He whistled through his teeth, shaking his head in wonder. “You will certainly set the city of San Francisco on its ear when you arrive.”

She took a step closer, revealing a bare foot beneath the gown’s hem. Her dusky toes poking out from the flurry of lace amused him. “I don’t care about the city. I only care about one man.”

Clay nearly staggered. “Do . . . do you have a beau in San Francisco?”

“A beau?” Her brow puckered for a moment, then cleared. “No. My father is there.”

Clay’s jaw dropped. “You know your father?” He regretted his impulsive outburst when she folded her arms over her chest and gave him a stony glare.

“Of course I do. He built this cabin. He lived here with my mother and me until my twelfth year.”

Clay gentled his voice. “And you’ve been in touch with him over the years? He wants you to come to California?”

Lizzie’s face didn’t change expression, but something akin to desperation flickered in her eyes. “Why would he not? He is my father. Would not any father want his child to be with him?”

Clay wondered why her father hadn’t taken her with him in the first place, but before he could ask, she continued.

“My mother wished me to go to him. I intend to honor her request.” She turned her gaze to the side, releasing a sad sigh. “I have nothing holding me here anymore.”

Clay wished he could gather her in his arms and ask if he might be a reason to stay. But he jammed his fists into his pockets and pushed the desire aside. It would be selfish to ask her to change her plans. Yet worry nibbled at the back of his mind. “Lizzie, have you been in contact with your father? Does he know you’re coming?”

Lizzie set her lips in a firm line. She smoothed a few dark tendrils of hair from her cheek and raised her chin. “Did you come today for a reason?”

Clay blinked twice, scrambling for the initial purpose of his call. He rubbed his finger beneath his nose to rein in his galloping thoughts. “I wanted to make sure you were well. We have a sickness in the village.” He patted the bag that hung from his shoulder, made bulky by the rectangular whiskey bottle. “If you need medicine, I’ll leave some for you.”

Lizzie’s eyebrows flew high. “The doctor—he gave you medicine for the Gwich’in people?”

Clay made a face. “Well, not medicine exactly. He said there wasn’t medicine for this sickness. But . . .” He slipped the bottle free and held it up. “This should help with the cough.”

The gown’s gentle movements made Lizzie appear to float as she glided across the grass to reach him. She leaned forward and read the bottle’s label, then pulled back with a sour look on her face. “Spirits. That isn’t medicine. It steals a man’s intelligence.”

Did she think he would be foolhardy enough to encourage drunkenness? Under ordinary circumstances, he wouldn’t offer whiskey to anyone, but the sick people needed relief. “I’ll only give a small amount to anyone who has the cough.”

Lizzie didn’t look reassured.

Her lack of confidence pierced him. He slipped the bottle back into his bag. “Now that I know you’re all right, I suppose—”

She held her hand to him. “My grandmother . . . she is one of the sick ones?”

Clay nodded. “Yes, Co’Ohzii was one of the first to fall ill.” He wouldn’t tell Lizzie how worried he was about the older woman. Even though she refused to allow him to visit, he’d gotten a glimpse of her thin, pale face when he’d knocked on the door and Shruh opened it wide enough for him to peek in. He didn’t approve of drinking alcohol, but if the liquid in the bottle would stifle her cough and allow her to rest and recover, he’d make sure Shruh gave it to her.

Lizzie looked to the side. Clay watched a myriad of emotions—fear, anger, worry, and finally grim resignation—play across her features before she jerked her gaze to meet his again.

Her expression turned pleading. “Send Etu and Naibi to me. Here, away from the village, they will be less likely to fall ill, too.”

Clay worried his lip between his teeth. Her suggestion made sense, but he didn’t relish losing the children’s companionship. Besides, Shruh had entrusted them to him. If he sent them away, to a woman banished from the tribe, the man would have further reason to condemn Clay. “I . . . I’m not sure that’s wise. . . .”

Lizzie’s brow pinched. “You do not trust me to care for the children?”

“I trust you,” Clay assured her. He explained his hesitation.

Lizzie’s expression gentled. She offered a nod that made her hair bob up and down. “But would they not be safer away from the sickness? Surely Shruh couldn’t fault you for trying to protect the children he placed in your care.”

Clay contemplated Lizzie’s reasoning. The children would be safer here, where the cough couldn’t reach them. He’d be lonely without them, but he’d also be free to work long and hard and finally finish the mission building. Of course he’d visit them daily to be certain they fared well . . . which meant he’d see Lizzie each day.

He drew in a steadying breath. “It’s a fine idea, Lizzie.” Very fine. “I’ll bring them tomorrow morning.”