A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Thirty-Five





Lizzie 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?”

He brought up his free hand and smoothed it over her hair. The touch brought back treasured memories from childhood when Pa brushed her hair from her face. A longing for Pa, for a father—for the Father—created a quake in the center of her being. She gripped Clay’s hand. “I want to be His daughter, Clay. Will you help me?”

With a gentle tug on her hands, he seated her on the bench. He then retrieved his Bible and read to her—verses about sin separating man from God, verses about Jesus submitting to the pain of the cross to serve as a sacrifice for man’s sin and then rising to life once more, verses that sent fingers of truth into Lizzie’s seeking, needy heart. Realization swept through her—only a Father who loved with His entire being could make such a sacrifice. And He’d sacrificed all . . . for her.

Clay finished in the tenth chapter of Romans, verse nine. Lizzie closed her eyes as she listened to his deep, reverent voice recite, “ . . . if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.”

Her eyes still tightly closed, her fingers twined together beneath her chin, Lizzie whispered a prayer to the Father confessing her desire to receive Jesus as her own Savior. Love bloomed within her heart—a love as real and immovable as the great mountain Denali. The warmth of acceptance filled her, infusing her entire body with a joy so intense her eyes flew open.

Clay sat before her, his smile swimming through her tears. She laughed—a genuine, delight-filled laugh. The heart-lifting sound trickled into silence as she pondered her ability to laugh. She had no home, no family, no idea what she was meant to do next. Nothing had changed. Yet everything had changed. Instead of facing a bleak future alone, she was loved eternally by Father-God. Tears coursed down her face past her smiling lips. Thank You, my Father . . . Never again would she be alone.