Nodding, he gritted his teeth and heaved himself onto the roof. On hands and knees, he inched his way to the bulge. The scent of the grass-covered sod filled his nostrils, a fresh scent that made him want to smile. When he reached the bulge, he pulled several tufts of grass loose and scooped out the sod. A circular tin pipe peeped out, and Clay nearly shouted in exultation. He shifted fully to his knees and grasped the pipe with both hands. Slowly, firmly, he pulled until he’d freed a suitable length of pipe.
With one hand stabilizing the pipe, he used his other hand to reach beneath his shirt for the cap. His weight shifted to his right knee with the movement, and the sod beneath his knee dipped. Alarmed, Clay angled his body the opposite direction. To his horror, the sod beneath both knees crumbled. He dropped the cap and reached to support himself, but his knees broke through the sod and caught in the branches that held the sod in place. He wriggled to free himself, but the movement only resulted in more sod breaking loose.
He forced himself to hold perfectly still, but his heart pounded as he peered through the opening in the branches to the floor of the mission school below. Would the branches give way and send him plummeting? His mouth dry and chest heaving, he searched the village grounds, seeking anyone who might be able to assist him. The only people within shouting distance were a few women working in the garden and a group of giggling children playing a chasing game.
He’d have to depend on himself. He drew in several calming breaths, bringing his erratic pulse under control. Then, gingerly, he began working his left leg free of the tangle of branches. Hope soared when he managed to release his leg, but the elation was short-lived when the shift in weight pushed his right leg deeper into the roof. His leg twisted in the branches, and pain shot from his knee to his hip. Grunting with frustration, Clay planted both palms on the sod and tried to arch his back to release his right leg.
Sharp points of branches tore his pant leg, digging into his flesh, but he gritted his teeth and pulled again. Several smaller branches broke, their cracks sounding above the pound of his heartbeat in his ears. One more pull and—
The branches gave way. Clay plunged through the narrow gap.
Chapter Ten
Vivian licked her fingers, then giggled to herself. Had she ever displayed such poor manners? But who would have believed rabbit fried in bear fat could be so delicious? She didn’t want to waste a single morsel.
Lizzie bobbed her head at the picked-clean bones on Vivian’s plate. “The rabbit . . . you enjoyed it?”
“Oh yes. It’s the best meal I’ve had since Clay and I arrived in Alaska—even better than anything we ate on the way.” Although initially queasy, Vivian prided herself on observing the entire preparation process and then cutting the skinned, gutted rabbit into pieces herself. With Lizzie’s supervision, she’d then cooked the meat to perfection. Lizzie was an excellent teacher.
She heaved a deep sigh. “I feel badly, though, for having such a wonderful lunch when poor Clay is eating dried beef and yesterday’s corn bread.”
Lizzie used her finger to pry loose a tiny bit of meat from the last bone on her plate. “It was his choice to return to the village.”
Vivian nodded thoughtfully. Yes, it had been Clay’s choice to leave. He’d almost given the impression of one escaping when he’d darted back toward the village. Clay’s drive to complete the mission school—to begin his ministry—was admirable. He pushed himself so hard. Regret mingled with guilt twined through Vivian’s middle. She’d spent too much time away today. She needed to return and assist him, as he’d requested.
Giving her thumb one last swipe with her tongue, she pushed away from the table. “Let me help you clean up, and then I should go back.”
Lizzie dumped the bones from Vivian’s plate on top of her own. “I don’t need your help. Go.”
The dismissing words would have hurt Vivian if she hadn’t already spent quite a bit of time with Lizzie. She’d learned the native woman was often abrupt, but Vivian didn’t believe Lizzie intended to be unkind. “Are you sure?”
“Take the snare we made and set it up in the brush near your hut. Check it in the morning.” Lizzie, plate of bones in hand, headed out the door. Vivian scurried after her as she continued. “Maybe you’ll be able to serve your man rabbit for breakfast tomorrow.”
Heat filled Vivian’s face. She caught Lizzie’s arm. “Lizzie, Clay isn’t my man. He’s my brother.”
Lizzie gawked at her, her face more expressive than Vivian had ever seen it. “Brother? But I . . . I thought . . .” Lizzie jerked loose of Vivian’s hold and darted toward the dog pen.
Vivian followed, hoping Lizzie might complete her thought. But the dogs provided too much of a distraction. They lined up along the fence, wagging their tails and yipping in excitement. Lizzie tossed the bones over the enclosure. Snarls and sharp barks erupted as the animals scrambled to retrieve a treat. Only half of them secured a bone, and the lucky ones hunkered low, snarling over their prizes. One brown-faced dog tried to snatch the bone from another male, and he got his paw nipped for his efforts. Whimpering, the unsuccessful dog slinked to the corner of the pen to lick his wound.
Vivian pointed to the injured dog. “The poor thing . . . Why didn’t you wait until you’d killed a second rabbit? Then there would be enough bones to go around.”
Lizzie sent Vivian an odd look. “I throw in fewer pieces so the dogs establish leadership amongst themselves.”
Vivian stared at Lizzie in shock. “But that’s so . . . heartless!”
“Not at all.” Lizzie spoke matter-of-factly. “Some of them have to follow. Otherwise they’d never be able to pull my sled as a team.”
Vivian gazed at the sad dog in the corner of the pen. “But it doesn’t seem fair.”
Lizzie shrugged and whirled for the cabin. “Many things aren’t fair. Learning is often hard. But hard-won lessons usually serve us the best.”
Vivian turned away from the pen and hastened again after Lizzie. “I’ll go now, but I’ll try to come back tomorrow.”
Lizzie dropped the empty plate into the wash bucket by the back door with a tinny clang, then headed for the table. “I won’t be here. The salmon are running. I’ll miss securing my catch if I don’t go soon.”
“But I thought you planned to leave by winter.” Vivian reached for the skillet in the middle of the table, but Lizzie snatched it up first. She followed the native woman back to the wash bucket.
“I do.” For a moment, Lizzie paused in her endless rush of busyness and stared out the open door, as if seeking something. “But if Denali doesn’t show me favor, I might have to . . .” Her voice drifted away, her eyes clouding.
Vivian touched Lizzie’s sleeve. “Lizzie, why do you want to leave this place? It’s your home.”
Lizzie shot Vivian a sharp look. “You left your home to come here—to Gwichyaa Saa. If Clay is . . .” The strange blush crept across Lizzie’s face again. “Your brother, he has no authority over you. So why did you come?”
Vivian blinked twice in surprise. “I came to teach.”
“And your reasons are important to you?”
Vivian contemplated Lizzie’s question. If she were successful at teaching, if she could help Clay in the saving of souls, perhaps God would finally forgive her. She nodded. “Yes. They’re important.”
A knowing smile curved Lizzie’s lips. “Yet you don’t share the reasons with me.”
Vivian bit down on her lower lip. She couldn’t share the deepest reason. Not without divulging the horrible thing she’d done. Lizzie would certainly run away in revulsion if she knew Vivian had killed her own father.
Lizzie pointed to her chest. “I have reasons, too. But I think it’s not as important for you to know them as it is for me to know them. So I will keep mine inside, as well.” She picked up a bucket. “You need to go, and I need to fetch water. I’ll return from my fish camp in four days. Come back then if you’d like to learn to dry the salmon.”
“Four days
? But what of your dogs?”
Lizzie shook her head, clicking her teeth on her tongue. “The dogs go with me, of course.” She marched around Vivian and out the door, calling over her shoulder, “Come back in four days’ time. You still have much to learn.”
Clay sat on the floor, rubbing his aching hip and staring up at the ragged hole in the roof. He silently berated himself—how could he have been so foolish? He should have known poking that hole would weaken the roof. Why hadn’t he taken the time to place several branches crosswise and used them as a support before climbing across the sod? He’d been too impatient to complete the task, unwilling to admit he needed help.
Proverbs 29:23 flitted through his mind like an admonition: “A man’s pride shall bring him low . . .” He slapped the hard-packed floor. His pride had plummeted him from the roof to the hard ground below. Even so, the Lord had watched over him. Other than several scratches and bruises, he didn’t believe he’d done any real damage to himself. He’d heal. It would take more effort to correct the damage done to the roof and the stovepipe.
He glared at the bent pipe pointing at the patch of blue sky. “Another delay.” Groaning, he pushed to his feet. Chunks of sod, shattered bits of tree branches, and tufts of grass littered the floor beneath him. He hung his head, discouragement weighing him down. His father wouldn’t have made such a mess.
Sighing, he limped into the sunshine in time to see Vivian step out of the trees. A smile graced her face, and she hummed a cheerful tune. Her lightheartedness in the face of his despondence stirred his anger.
Balling his hand on his hip, he scowled at her. “It’s about time you showed up. Didn’t I tell you to hurry?”
The tune died on her lips. “I would’ve been here sooner, but I stopped to put out a snare Lizzie and I made so—” Her eyes widened, and she dashed forward, reaching for his face. “Clay! What happened to you? You’re all beat up! Did the villagers attack you?”
Her fingers traced his cheek, the touch bringing a fierce sting. He pushed her hand down. “You and your ridiculous imagination. No one attacked me. I fell through the roof.”
“You—you what?”
“Fell through the roof.” He ignored her aghast expression and pointed, disgusted. “Trying to get the stovepipe up. The roof collapsed on me, and I bent the flue pipe. So now I’ve got another mess to fix before I can move on to chinking.”
“Oh, Clay . . .” Her dismayed tone matched his feelings. “I’m so sorry.”
Clay set his jaw. “Sorry doesn’t fix it.” The hole seemed to mock him, proclaiming his incompetence. “It means more time before I can open the mission for classes.” He shook his head. “I’ll need to weave some branches in where I broke through to strengthen the roof support before I lay on more sod.” Clay retrieved his hatchet from his hut and then turned toward the woods. His right hip ached worse than a bad tooth, and it stabbed when he put pressure on the leg, but he kept moving. “I hope I can find some dead branches so I don’t have to cut down a sapling or two—not sure I’m up to it.”
Vivian caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “Clay, please, come to my hut and let me tend your wounds.”
Her fingers dug into his flesh, and he grimaced. “I don’t have time! I need to—”
Her hold tightened. “I know, I know, you have all of these other tasks waiting. But you’re bleeding! Mother well equipped me with bandages and salve. Let me help you. Please?” She tugged at him, trying to draw him back toward the huts.
Clay glowered down at her. If a few scratches upset her this badly, she’d be useless to him in a real emergency. Impatience sharpened his tone. “I don’t need tending. I need to collect branches.”
Her fingers fell away from his arm. Tears glittered in her eyes. “But you’re hurt, Clay. And I . . . I need—I want t-to help.”
Looking into her fright-filled face, Clay suddenly understood. He grasped her by the shoulders and gentled his voice, hoping she’d accept his tender tone as apology for his earlier impatience. “I’m not hurt that badly, Vivian. I won’t bleed to death over a few scratches. Your father—”
She jerked loose, backing away from him with her eyes as wide and terrified as a cornered rabbit’s. “H-how do you know about my father?”
Clay shrugged slowly, his muscles complaining. “Pa told me years ago when I asked how he’d died—said he’d bled to death after cutting his leg with an axe.” He held out his arm. A tear in his sleeve revealed a scratch, the blood already dried into a jagged scab. “But look. Just scratches. So you don’t need to be troubled over me.”
She worried her lower lip between her teeth, her brow furrowed into lines of distress.
Clay sighed. “If I let you put some bandages on these scratches”—unconsciously, he emphasized the word, revealing his inner frustration—“will you then allow me to gather the branches I need?”
She nodded rapidly, twisting her fingers together at her waist. “But I want to come with you. May I come with you? I’ll carry the branches for you.”
“All right. But hurry. I have work to do.” He followed Vivian to her hut, but his thoughts railed against the delay. Lord, when will I be able to begin the ministry of my heart?
Chapter Eleven
Lizzie pulled her handmade dip net from the water and flung the wildly flapping salmon onto the bank. Her dogs, tethered well away from the edge of the river, barked in excitement. She decided not to quiet them—hearing them celebrate the catch encouraged her to keep working. Over her two days at the fish camp, she’d brought in almost seven dozen fat salmon. She wanted to catch ten dozen—half of what she’d caught last year—and then she would return to her cabin.
Ignoring the ache in her shoulders, she swung the net into the water again and waited for the tug that signaled a catch. From upriver, chattering let her know groups of villagers from Gwichyaa Saa were also at work, catching salmon. They would remain at their summer camps for weeks, drying the salmon and enjoying one another’s company. Mama’s childhood stories of going to fish camp with her parents had always stirred Lizzie’s envy. As a girl, she’d wished she could be part of the village merriment. She still carried a desire to belong, but not with the villagers. Never again with the villagers.
As soon as she’d caught what she wanted, she would load the fish onto travoises and give her dogs the chore of carting the fish to her cabin. There, she would dry the salmon in her drying hut and then turn her attention to the chores that had gone neglected over her time away. If she had a family, the duties would be distributed, but—her heart panged—only she bore the responsibility for gathering food, tending the garden, and caring for the dogs. And she still had a coat to complete.
A salmon caught in her net. Two-handed, she tossed it up with the others, and then dipped the net again, the actions as natural as breathing. Her thoughts drifted to Vitse’s coat. By now she’d hoped to have the pieces sewn together, ready to receive the elaborate embellishments that would take weeks to complete. But her time with the white woman—learning table manners, proper conversation topics, and appropriate means of dress, as well as teaching Vivian ways to cook, clean, and trap, had stolen her precious free time. Yet she couldn’t begrudge her time with Vivian. For the first time since Mama’s death, she felt as though she had a friend. And she’d gained so much knowledge.
Embarrassment flooded her frame as she recalled how she envied the woman. She’d believed Vivian had a tender husband, one who performed little kindnesses and looked after her. Lizzie had often wondered how Vivian resisted running her fingers through the thick curls framing Clay’s ears and neck. Now she understood—a sister wouldn’t behave affectionately toward her brother. Lizzie sighed. If Clay were her man, she would explore those soft-looking curls at every opportunity.
She gave herself a little shake. She must stop thinking of Clay in such familiar ways. When she’d finished the coat and honored her mother’s dying request, she would leave this place. Clay and Vivian intended to stay. Allowing herse
lf to ponder what it would be like if Clay were her man did her no good. Her chest panged painfully. Before she’d met these two white people, she had no reason to stay. But she would miss Clay and Vivian more than she cared to admit.
She glanced down at her customary buckskin clothes. Vivian wouldn’t be happy to see her wearing something other than the blue-checked dress, but she couldn’t stand ankle-deep in water with a skirt dragging in the current. She’d considered wearing it with the skirt pulled between her legs and tied at her waist to keep it out of her way and allow her to move freely. But Vivian had indicated a lady didn’t show what she wore beneath a dress. Pulling up the skirt would expose her leggings, and the remembrance of Clay’s startled reaction the day she’d revealed her leggings made her face heat. So she’d donned her buckskin tunic instead and hoped neither Clay nor Vivian would wander by and catch her.
Behind her, the dogs set up a series of growls and low-pitched barks. She spun to see them leaping against their tethers, teeth bared, their pointed faces all aimed at the bank where she’d tossed the caught salmon. Frowning, she turned in that direction, and to her shock, the pile of rose-colored fish appeared smaller. Lizzie dropped the net and dashed to the area, seeking animal tracks. Had a bear been brazen enough to wander close enough to steal her catch? Usually the smell of the dogs was enough to keep the big marauding creatures at bay.
Lizzie sucked in a sharp breath. No paw prints were imbedded in the moist ground, but she found evidence that a pair of two-legged predators had prowled around her salmon . . . and apparently sneaked away with some. The prints led directly into the brush. Her dogs continued to growl in warning, but her sharp hiss hushed them. In the silence that fell, she tapped her lips with her fingertips, trying to decide what to do.
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