A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Five





Lizzie groaned as she rolled out of her rope bed Sunday morning. She pushed her feet into her well-worn hand-sewn moccasins and shuffled to the window to peer out at the already bright day. Birdsong rang from the treetops, and the dewy ground glistened beneath the sun’s golden rays. No sign of the drizzle that sometimes accompanied the beginning of summer. She sighed in appreciation for the beautiful day.

Her gaze wandered to the dog pen, and she released a soft giggle. The dogs were sitting up, their attentive faces aimed toward the cabin door as if they wondered why she hadn’t yet emerged. She smiled, grateful they hadn’t barked to rouse her. She’d slept hard and well last night—her first good sleep in weeks. She’d needed it after her hard work preparing the moose hide, its meat, and her garden plot.

She yawned. Now that the seeds were safely in the ground, assuring her physical needs would be met, she could put her hands to work on Vitse’s coat. The moose hide had lain waiting, ignored, for too long. But today she could begin its construction. Her heart pounded in eagerness. A dog whined, reminding her the animals needed tending.

She snagged the water bucket from its spot on the half-log bench beside the back door and headed outside. The sun’s brightness proved deceptive when she stepped into a damp, chill morning. She’d left her fur cloak on its peg and she considered retrieving it, but the dogs were already yipping and leaping against the fence in eagerness for their breakfast. She could ignore her discomfort long enough to feed and water her faithful companions.

Swinging the bucket, she headed to the burbling creek. A rose finch swooped from its perch, its red plumage a bold splash of color against the green backdrops of pines. “Did you see that?” Lizzie gasped in delight, then sobered. Who was there to respond to her query? Sadness fell over her as she bent to fill her bucket. She glimpsed her reflection in the water—a solemn face, empty eyes. She straightened and headed toward the cabin, moving as quickly as possible without spilling the water.

She filled the dogs’ water cans and then retrieved dried salmon for their breakfast, hardly mindful of their enthusiastic yips of pleasure. Even after living on her own for so long, the loneliness still took her by surprise at times. When she, Mama, and Pa all lived here, she hadn’t missed other people—her parents had served as friends and playmates as well as teachers and providers. But as much as she loved her dogs, they couldn’t replace the need for human companionship.

“If I join Pa in San Francisco, I’ll never be lonely again,” she whispered to the dogs. Busy eating, none of them so much as looked up. Swallowing a sad sigh, she left the pen and fetched another bucket of water for her own use before returning to the cabin. She slipped inside and sat on the edge of the bed, the cheer of the first morning minutes forgotten. “I miss you, Mama . . .”

With thoughts of her mother, another longing rose. Sundays had been special days before Pa left—his one rare day of no work. They played games such as checkers, crokinole, or a matching game using a worn deck of cards. Mama always prepared an extra-special meal from the recipe book Pa had brought from his California home rather than cooking her traditional Athabascan foods. Pa loved sweets—any sweets—and Mama favored him with as many as she could bake in their tiny rusted cookstove. Lizzie’s mouth watered, recalling Pa’s favorite treat.

Eager to grasp just one small piece of the happiness she once possessed, Lizzie dashed to the apple crate she used as a bookcase and pulled out the battered cookbook containing American recipes. She turned the pages with great care, and she let out a happy gasp when she came to a page with a turned-down corner. Setting the book aside, she hurried to her storage tins. Flour, sugar, baking powder, lard . . . She had everything she needed. Her mouth began watering in anticipation. The day suddenly seemed much brighter.





Clay placed his accordion into the case and closed the lid. As soon as he buckled the case, sealing the instrument away, the villagers rose from their squatted positions and ambled toward their own huts. He winked at Vivian. He’d been right—the moment he’d begun to play, they’d gathered around, drawn by the music. When the mission school was completed, he’d add Bible-reading and a short sermon to the accordion playing. The natives were so fascinated by the accordion, surely they’d be willing to hear everything he had to share once he was ready to begin services.

Vivian tugged her skirts aside and pushed to her feet. “It must be noon. My stomach is growling. Should we eat?”

Clay managed to hide a grimace. Vivian, despite her best efforts, still hadn’t managed to conquer the challenge of cooking over an open flame. Everything was either underdone or charred. But he’d eat whatever she fixed. He needed food to keep up his strength to finish building the school. “Sure.” He slapped his belly and forced his lips into an eager smile. “What’re we having?”

“Stew.” She scurried across the cleared ground to her hut.

Clay followed and peeked into the pot that held their dinner. A thick grayish broth burped up lumps of potatoes, carrots, and—judging by the smell—some kind of fish. Clay’s appetite fled. Vivian approached with two tin bowls and a ladle. Spoon handles poked out of her apron pocket. She pressed the bowls into his hands and dipped the ladle into the stew. Steam rose as she lifted a scoopful and filled one bowl. She scooped a serving for the second bowl then dropped the ladle into the pot.

She looked at the felled log where they’d sat to eat all of their meals so far, and she pursed her lips. “I wish we at least had a decent table and chairs at which to sit.”

Clay stared at the bowls’ unappetizing contents, his nose twitching at the strong fishy odor rising with the steam. “Would that help the food taste better?” He hadn’t intended to voice the thought, and he instantly regretted his slip of the tongue.

Vivian snatched up her skirts and stormed to the hut. She gave the blanket that covered the opening a fierce toss and disappeared. If there had been a solid wood door to slam, Clay felt certain his ears would be ringing. He heard a couple of deep chuckles, and he glanced over his shoulder to find two native men watching. Clay’s cheeks burned with humiliation. He set down the bowls and scurried to Vivian’s hut.

“Viv, can I come in?” He kept his voice low, aware of listening ears.

“No. Go away.”

Another rumble of chuckles from the men behind him squared his shoulders. Even though he knew he’d face Vivian’s ire, he said, “I’m coming in.” He pushed the blanket aside and stepped into the hut. With a blanket guarding the door and no windows to allow in light, murky gray shrouded the small room. Only a few thin bands of sunlight sneaked between tiny cracks in the walls and ceiling. He blinked a few times before making out Vivian’s stiff form in the opposite corner.

She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “I told you to go away.”

Clay took two steps into the room, nearly closing the gap between them. A scuffling noise came from outside the hut, and Clay knew the men had drawn near, eager to hear his exchange with Vivian. He wanted to be gentle with her, as his father had directed before they’d left home, but would the men think him weak and therefore lose respect for him? Inwardly praying for his stepsister’s cooperation, he said, “I heard what you said. But my going away won’t change anything.”

Her chin jerked upward, her lips forming a grim line of irritation. Before she could form a retort, he leaned forward and whispered, “We can’t talk here—let’s take a walk in the woods where we’ll have privacy.”

Mutterings and another chuckle sounded from outside. Vivian’s gaze zipped to the doorway, then returned to Clay. She gave a brusque nod and moved past him to push the blanket aside. The two Gwich’in men jumped back in surprise. Clay hurried after Vivian, with the men’s chortles ringing in his ears. He waited until they were well away from the village before he grabbed her arm and drew her to a halt.

“Vivian, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did.” Her expression remained stony. He sighed. “I know you’re trying. Maybe we should see about having a stove shipped to us here in the village.”

Her lips twisted in derision. “A stove takes up room, Clay. I hardly have the space to turn around in my little hut without bumping my elbow on something.”

She was right—their huts, although they provided shelter, were much too confined to accommodate even a small cooking stove. Eventually, after they’d established themselves well with the natives, he hoped to build each of them a large log cabin, but it might be a full year before he had the time to spare. “What if we put it in the mission school? And I could build a work counter where we could pull up a couple of stools and take our meals.”

Hope flared in her eyes. “Truly? That would be lovely. Even such a small measure of civility would—” Her head jerked sharply toward the west, her eyes widening.

Clay’s heart gave a jolt, and he looked in the same direction, fully expecting to see a bear or some other predator advancing. What else could have brought about such a strong reaction? But only trees, shrubs, and ferns greeted his eyes. He looked at her again. “Viv, what—?”

She sniffed the air, her face lighting. “Do you smell that?”

A delightful aroma found his nostrils. Saliva pooled under his tongue and his stomach rolled over in longing. He swallowed. Vivian took off. “Where are you going?”

She paused midstep and shot him an impatient look. “I want to know where it’s coming from.”

“But—”

“Do we have work to do today?”

“No. This is our day of rest.”

A smile burst across her face. “Then let’s go!” She shot toward the trees.

The delightful aroma enticing his senses, Clay decided not to argue. He trotted after her.





Lizzie used a mitten made of rabbit fur to protect her hand as she removed the tray of cookies from the stove’s belly. Just as her fingers grasped the blackened tray, her dogs began a raucous chorus. She slid the tray to the top of the stove, slammed the door, and ran to the window. The dogs leapt against the fence, teeth bared, their angry barks mingling with snarls.

A chill attacked her frame. Wild animals rarely ventured near enough to stir the dogs’ fury, but the occasional hunter, gold seeker, or trapper entered her clearing. Not all of them were good-hearted. She grabbed Pa’s rifle from its pegs on the wall and charged out the back door, the barrel aimed in the same direction the dogs faced. “Hush!” At her command, the barking ceased, but the dogs continued to snarl and growl low in their throats, straining against the fence. Lizzie called, “Who’s there?”

The brush rustled, and two people emerged, both with white, wary faces. The same two people Lizzie had encountered a few weeks ago. The tip of the rifle barrel wavered as Lizzie considered lowering her weapon. But she’d better wait until she knew their intentions. She cocked the rifle, squinting. “What do you want here?”

The man—Clay Selby, Lizzie recalled—held up both hands. His gaze zinged back and forth between her rifle and the bristling dogs. “We don’t mean any harm. We . . .” He licked his lips, showing his nervousness. “Vivian smelled something good, and—”

His woman darted in front of him. “Are you baking shortbread?”

Lizzie blinked twice in surprise. The woman had appeared meek at their first meeting, yet today she interrupted her man. No Athabascan woman would be so bold. Lizzie answered without thinking. “Sugar cookies.”

The woman’s face fell. “Oh. I’d hoped . . .”

Lizzie lowered her rifle. Slicing her arm through the air, she commanded, “Dogs, lie down!” Although they whined, they obeyed. Silence fell, lengthening as Lizzie stared across the small clearing at the pair of white people and they stared back. They’d received an answer to their question—why didn’t they leave? Lizzie turned to go inside, but as she reached her door, the same loneliness that had plagued her earlier returned. Wouldn’t it be pleasant to have someone to talk to? And they were harmless—a pair of cheechakos.

She whirled around. “Do you want one?”

They’d turned toward the woods, but at her abrupt question they halted in unison and peered over their shoulders at her. The man said, “One . . . what?”

“A cookie.” Impatience sharpened Lizzie’s tone. “You said you smelled them. Do you want one?”

The woman nodded eagerly. She took hold of the man’s hand and pulled him forward. When they reached Lizzie, the woman’s gaze bounced to the rifle cradled in Lizzie’s arms. “We’d feel much more secure if you were to put away your weapon.”

Lizzie felt more secure with the rifle in hand. What if they took advantage of her hospitality and tried to steal her furs? Unsmiling, she searched their faces, and a bit of her apprehension melted. They may have come to bring change in the Gwich’in village, but she sensed they didn’t intend her harm. “Come in.” She marched inside and placed the rifle on its pegs.

They entered, and their gazes roved the cabin, seeming to examine every detail. Lizzie pointed to the rough-hewn table her father had constructed. “Sit.” As compliant as her dogs, they crossed the hard-packed dirt floor. Clay Selby pulled out a chair for Vivian before seating himself. An odd spiral of longing rose in Lizzie’s breast at his unexpected gesture. Did white men serve their women rather than waiting for their women to serve them? Pa was white, and she’d never witnessed him performing such a courtesy for Mama.

Confused by her reaction to Clay Selby’s kind action, she whirled to face the stove. She scraped the cookies off the now-cool pan onto a battered tin plate and carried it to the table. Placing it between the pair, she commanded, “Eat.” Then she returned to the stove to prepare another batch for baking. The dough had become sticky in her time away, but by flouring her hands she managed to form small amounts into balls and press them flat with the bottom of a tin can dipped in sugar. Soon the pleasant aroma of baking cookies filled the small cabin once again. Lizzie inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet scent that brought back equally sweet memories.

“Ahem.” The sound of a clearing voice chased away her daydream. She turned toward the table, where her guests sat perched like a pair of otters watching guard from a flat rock. The man smiled, crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes. “Are you going to join us?”

His kindly worded invitation, coupled with the gentle smile on his tanned face, affected Lizzie in an unfamiliar way. Nervous, but uncertain why, she shifted her gaze from his friendly expression to the plate on the table. It remained untouched. Confused, she looked at the man again, and then the woman. “I thought you wanted a cookie.”

The woman smoothed her skirt over her knees and tipped her head slightly. Even though her hands looked chapped and a smear of dirt marred her chin, she carried herself regally. She spoke in a soft, pleasant voice. “It is customary for the hostess to be seated before guests partake of any treat.”

Lizzie sensed no recrimination in the woman’s tone or expression, yet defeat bowed her shoulders. No matter what Mama had said, Lizzie would never fit into her father’s world. She didn’t even know she should sit and eat with guests. She would bring shame to her father’s household if she went to him. Yet she had no other choice.

Her gaze zipped from the man to the woman, her heart pounding so hard and fast her breath came in little spurts. They might deny the request that formed in her heart and strained for release, but for Mama’s peace, she had to ask. Stumbling to the table, she held out her hands to the pair of visitors. “Will . . . will you teach me all that is customary? Will you teach me . . . to be white?”