A Whisper of Peace (26 page)

Vivian lay on her side, facing Naibi, who slept soundly beside her. Dried tears left shiny trails on the child’s cheeks. She’d finally cried herself to sleep half an hour ago. As much as it had pained Vivian to listen to the child’s mournful sobs, she couldn’t deny impatience at being forced to put off her conversation with Clay again.

After the burial, the villagers had danced well into the evening hours. She and Clay had stayed for the dancing, and Clay even joined in—although he’d looked ridiculously out of place in his black wool suit alongside the embellished buckskin tunics of the other dancers. His participation seemed to comfort the children, however, so even if the custom was very different from the solemn funeral affairs of home, Vivian hadn’t complained.

When everyone returned to their cabins, she’d asked Clay to join her in the mission building. But Etu clung to Clay’s arm, and Naibi clung to Vivian’s waist, and Clay had suggested they put off their talk until tomorrow. Would she ever have the chance to tell Clay she needed to leave?

Or maybe I’m not meant to leave
.

The thought had teased her mind since Aunt Vesta’s letter had arrived. She shifted on the bed, cringing when the pine needles beneath her crackled. But Naibi didn’t stir. Vivian carefully rolled to her back and stared at the dark bark ceiling. What should she do?

When she’d stated her intentions to accompany Clay to Alaska and assist him in establishing the mission, her mother and stepfather had done their best to discourage her. They told her the work would be too hard, the frontier too rigorous for her. But finally, they’d given their blessing, and Vivian had inwardly celebrated. She’d have the opportunity to prove herself capable and useful. She’d fully intended to stay in Alaska forever.

Until the letter came, informing her of Uncle Matthew’s stroke. Aunt Vesta needed her. When she’d needed somewhere to go—when Mother didn’t want her—her aunt and uncle had taken her in. They’d offered the love and security Mother, in her grief and anger over Papa’s passing, was unable to give. How could she deny her aunt’s request?

She had to go to Massachusetts. Clay would understand. He was strong and able—he’d be able to run the mission by himself. What did he need her for, anyway?
Cooking, cleaning, teaching the children to read . . .
Would he be able to do all of that and preach, too? Vivian pushed aside the arguments that filled her mind. He could hire a native woman to cook and clean. As for the teaching, he knew how to read and write. Anyone who knew how to perform the tasks could show someone else how to do them.

Even if she had only a few snatches of time with Clay tomorrow, a few minutes would be enough to say what needed saying. She practiced the statement, whispering into the quiet night, “Clay, Aunt Vesta needs me and I’m going to Huntington.” She waited for a feeling of satisfaction to wash over her, but instead a cloak of dread seemed to fall from the ceiling and smother her.

Naibi wriggled, moaning in her sleep. Vivian automatically reached out to rub the child’s back. The child quieted, curling her body until it nestled against Vivian’s side.

When Vivian finally fell asleep much later, tears were still drying on her cheeks.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I
f you really must go, I understand.” Clay forced the assurance past stiff lips. Underneath, he raged against Vivian’s proclamation that she was needed elsewhere. As much as he’d originally balked about bringing her, he’d come to depend on her. And now she wanted to leave. He supposed he should have expected as much—they all knew Vivian was too fragile for this harsh lifestyle.

He set his fork aside and patted his stepsister’s arm. “I’ll contact the Mission Board as soon as possible and make arrangements for your transport to the States.”

Vivian sighed, her head low. She dabbed at the gravy in her plate with a folded piece of bread. “Thank you, Clay.” For someone who’d just been given approval to do what she wished, she didn’t seem happy. “How . . . how long do you think it will be . . . before you hear from the board?”

Clay pushed his empty plate aside and rested his elbows on the table’s edge. “Given the slow nature of communication, I would assume two weeks at least.” Two weeks—he’d need to use the time to complete the sleeping rooms inside the mission building. Etu and Naibi could share one, and he’d take the other one.

“I’m glad you’ll have the children with you.” Vivian lifted her chin and offered a sad smile. “At least you won’t be alone.”

Clay nodded. He’d been greatly relieved when Shruh had agreed to allow him to assume responsibility for the children. Now, knowing Vivian wouldn’t share in the caretaking, he hoped he hadn’t taken on more than he could comfortably handle. But Vivian was right—the children would be company. And, he reassured himself, they could help in the mission.

Etu had already proven his usefulness by helping chink the walls. Naibi was small, but she could push a broom and wield a dust rag. Even if they couldn’t teach or cook, as he’d planned for Vivian to do, they were willing to assist through whatever means they could. The moment they’d finished supper this evening, they’d dashed off in search of berries so Vivian could bake a pie. He should ask her to teach him so he’d be able to bake pies after she’d left.

“Do you suppose Shruh’s consent for you to care for Etu and Naibi means he won’t cast you away from the village?”

Clay considered Vivian’s question. He still hadn’t openly declared his intention to abandon his relationship with Lizzie, but Shruh and the others had stopped pressing him. An odd sickness had entered the village—a deep, wracking cough accompanied by fever—and the villagers’ focus had shifted to fighting the illness. Co’Ozhii was among those stricken, and Shruh spent his days with her.

“I pray so,” he finally answered.

Vivian began clearing their dishes.

He followed her outside to the wash bucket. “I’ll send word to the Mission Board as quickly as I can.” He watched her make a stack of the dishes on the half-log that served as a work surface. “But until we receive a reply, it would be helpful if you’d continue here as usual. I’d rather the children didn’t know you were leaving until we have a date set. They’ve already lost so much.”

Vivian cringed. Her hands stilled in their task, and she sucked in a long breath. She held it for several seconds, and then released it. Raising her head, she sent Clay a repentant look. “I don’t want to leave, Clay. Honestly. I wish . . .” She lowered her gaze again, biting down on her lower lip. Tears glittered briefly in her eyes, and she blinked several times. “I wish things could be different, but Aunt Vesta needs me. How can I refuse her?”

“You can’t.” Clay hadn’t meant to speak so abruptly, but his inner frustrations came through against his will.

Vivian pinched her lips into a scowl that seemed half rebellious, half regretful. “Aunt Vesta and Uncle Matthew took me in when Mother didn’t want me. They didn’t have to love me, but they—”

Clay frowned. “What do you mean, your mother didn’t want you?”

Vivian released a little huff, fixing Clay with a chastising look. “Come now, Clay, if you know how my father died, you surely know that my mother could no longer bear to look at me. I served as a reminder of his death. So she sent me away.”

Shaking his head, Clay plopped down on the far end of the worktable. “She sent you to your aunt and uncle to protect you. She knew establishing the mission in Oklahoma would be even more rugged than living on the Dakota plains. She wanted what was best for you.”

Another disbelieving huff left Vivian’s lips.

Clay grabbed her hand. “Viv, believe me—you weren’t sent away as punishment, but as protection.”

She refused to meet his gaze.

With a sigh, he released her hand. “But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. You go do . . . what you need to do.”

Without a word, she went back to clinking dishes together.

Clay considered pursuing her flawed beliefs about why she’d been sent to Massachusetts, but the stubborn jut of her jaw dissuaded him. Instead, he made a silent note to write to his stepmother and encourage her to send assurances to Vivian. Maybe Myrtle would be more convincing. The decision made, he changed topics.

“I assume you’ll want as much time as possible with Lizzie before you go.” He leaned against the mission wall and crossed his ankles, hoping his relaxed pose would decrease the tension between them. “She hasn’t learned all she needs to know to live in San Francisco, has she?”

“No. And I still need to finish sewing her—” Vivian’s face flamed. She snatched up the bucket. “I’m going after water.” She bustled off, leaving Clay wondering what she’d meant to say. As Vivian headed for the river, Etu and Naibi burst from the brush at the opposite side of the village.

Etu held out the basket. “We found many berries, Mister Clay!” The boy, his face flushed and sweaty, beamed. He looked around. “Where is Missus Vivian? I want to see if this is enough.”

“We want two pies—one for each of us.” Naibi held up two pudgy, purple-stained fingers, her smile bright. “She will bake them, yes?”

“I’m sure she will,” Clay assured the pair, “but not until tomorrow. It’s too close to bedtime. Put the berries inside the mission, and then take the buckets to the river for water. You two need to wash before you turn in.”

The children groaned. Etu groused, “Mister Clay, you are always making us too clean.”

“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” Clay quipped. The children’s brows furrowed in confusion. Clay laughed. “Being clean is a good thing. It will keep you from getting sick. Now do as I said.”

They grumbled under their breath, but they moved to obey. Once they were heading down the pathway toward the river, each swinging a bucket, Clay stepped inside the mission and turned a slow circle, examining the structure with a critical eye. He’d made a great deal of progress, but there was still much to accomplish. The sense of urgency that plagued him whenever he thought of his purpose here returned, but even stronger than before. Vivian’s departure would change so many things.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “When she leaves, Lord, I’ll have to do my own cooking, cleaning, and clothes washing. I’ll have to teach as well as preach. I’ve come to rely on her assistance, and now I wonder . . . can I truly run this mission on my own? I need a helper, Lord—one who has the strength and desire to live in this untamed land.”

Behind his closed eyelids, a picture formed of Lizzie standing tall and proud in the face of Shruh’s fury. His eyes popped open and he shook his head hard, dispelling the image. He couldn’t rely on Lizzie—she wasn’t welcome in the village, and she intended to leave. Clay’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Unless the Mission Board sent someone from the States to be his assistant, he would be on his own.

I don’t think I can do it, Lord. Please help me.

Lizzie filled the dogs’ water trough and made her way out of the pen, holding her skirts well above her ankles to keep from catching them on the wire enclosure. Outside the pen, she let the folds of fabric fall, and she moved easily across the ground toward her cabin.

Over the weeks of wearing the blue-checked dress, she’d finally begun feeling comfortable in the full, sweeping skirts and snug-fitting bodice. The hem of the dress appeared frayed, however, and she’d rubbed one spot on the back of the skirt nearly all the way through on her cleaning stone trying to remove a sticky smear of pine sap. The weary-looking gown was fine for working, but she would certainly shame her father if she appeared at his doorstep in the dress.

She entered her cabin and crossed to the stove to check the pan of corn bread she’d prepared earlier. It looked browned, so she used her skirts to protect her hands and removed it. She set it on the windowsill to cool, then stood staring out at the quiet side yard. Ever since her encounter with Vitse and Vitsiy, she’d caught herself on several occasions staring unseeingly across the grounds.

The realization that she truly was more white than Athabascan had come as a shock, and she wondered if the recognition should change how she viewed the world. Yet her eyes took in the same familiar fern- and moss-covered ground, the same thick pin cherry bushes and tall aspens, the same garden plot awaiting her attention. Nothing on the outside had changed. So why did she feel so different on the inside?