Whisper of Peace , livre ebook

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© 2011 by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Cover design by Brand Navigation
Cover photography by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studio, Inc.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3379-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
For Don ,
who walks with me through sunshine and shadow.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Back Ads
Back Cover
“ Thy righteousness is like the great mountains . . .
How excellent is thy lovingkindness, O God!
therefore the children of men put their trust
under the shadow of thy wings.”
Psalm 36:6a, 8 (KJV)
Chapter One
Near Fort Yukon, Alaska May 1898
N ot once in all of her twenty-one years had Lizzie Dawson seen a moose behind her cabin. The dogs’ noise always kept wild game at bay. Even squirrels—brazen, chattering creatures—avoided her small plot of ground. She couldn’t imagine a timid moose possessing the courage to come near the team of dogs. Yet there one stood, unconcernedly nibbling at the pin cherry shrub a mere twenty feet from her open back door, its proud antlers glowing pink in the morning light.
Lizzie hid behind the doorjamb and absorbed the peaceful scene so unexpectedly displayed before her. The soft crunch-crunch of the moose’s teeth on the pin cherry’s tender tips joined the wind’s whisper in the aspens—a delicate melody. Silvery bands of light crept between branches, gilding the moose’s tawny hump. It was a young moose. No evidence of fights marred its hide. She’d seen the damage the animals caused one another with their sharp, slashing hooves and antlers.
An unblemished hide . . . Lizzie’s heart skipped a beat. Surely this moose had come to her as an offering! Let the dogs stay sleeping . The wish winged from her heart as she tiptoed to the corner where her bow and arrows waited. A rifle was easier, but the bow and arrow was silent—she wouldn’t frighten the animal away by cocking a noisy lever.
She returned to the doorway and stood in the shielding slice of shadow. Her elbow high, she slowly drew back the gut bowstring. The string released a faint whine as it stretched, and she cringed. But the big animal didn’t even flare a nostril in concern. She held the hand-carved bow securely, her left arm extended as straight as her father’s rifle barrel. The arrow’s feather fletching brushed her jaw, but she ignored the slight tickle and kept her gaze on her target.
Magpies began to call from the treetops. The dogs would awaken soon—she needed to shoot before she squandered the gift. But she wouldn’t release the arrow yet. As her mother had taught her, she offered a brief prayer. Thank you, brother moose, for giving your life that I might live. She clenched her jaw and released the string.
The high-pitched twang brought the moose’s head up. The arrow whirred across the short clearing and its tip penetrated the animal’s neck. The moose dropped, a few pale green leaves still caught in its lip.
Birds lifted in frantic flight from the trees, squawking in protest as joyful barks exploded from the dog pen between the sheltering aspens. Lizzie stepped into the yard and whistled—one sharp, shrill blast. The dogs ceased the clamorous barking, but they continued to whine and leap against the chicken-wire enclosure in excitement. Lizzie set the bow aside and crossed the mossy yard, her moccasin-covered feet nearly silent on the cushiony bed of deep green. Sorrow pierced her as she gazed down at the magnificent animal. Death always saddened her. But she pushed the emotion aside. She would celebrate this kill. This gift.
Quickly, the routine so familiar she could perform the actions without conscious thought, she removed her knife from the sheath she always wore on her belt and bled the moose to prevent the meat from spoiling. Thank you, thank you, her thoughts sang. How fortunate that the animal had come in the early hours—before the dogs awakened and frightened it away. How fortunate that it had ventured near during the first days of nearly endless sun, when she could work late into the night and still be able to see to skin it, prepare the meat for the smokehouse, and boil the bones for future use. Everything about the kill felt miraculous.
She turned toward the cabin to retrieve her skinning knife, but her gaze drifted to the pen where the dogs lined the fence, their tongues lolling, mouths smiling, tails wagging. Lizzie chuckled softly. The carcass could wait a few minutes while she greeted her companions. As she neared the enclosure, they leapt, bouncing off the wire fence and springing over one another’s backs in eagerness.
Lizzie reached for her favorites first. George and Martha served as the lead dogs for her sled. The two worked in accord with each other. And with her. The pair had been her father’s, which made her love them all the more. Surely there were no two finer dogs in all of the Yukon. She wove her fingers in their thick ruffs, and they wriggled around, their identical black-and-white snouts nuzzling her palms. She scratched them beneath their chins, laughing when they tipped their heads for more.
The other dogs swarmed her, nudging George and Martha out of the way. Lizzie tried to pet each one by turn, but slowly they drifted away, sniffing the air and panting. They whined again, but from deep in their throats, and Lizzie knew the breeze had carried the moose’s scent to their keen noses. She hoped her dogs were the only animals that had picked up the scent of the kill. She had no desire to fight a grizzly for her moose. But she’d do it if she had to—she needed the meat as well as the hide. If she had to fight, the dogs would help. Their faithfulness to her knew no end.
“I must go to work now,” she told the dogs. “Be good, and you will have fresh meat for your dinner today.”
The dogs, as if able to understand, leapt in circles, their white teeth biting at the air in happiness. Still laughing softly, Lizzie hurried to the cabin to retrieve her skinning knife. Just before slicing the blade through the moose’s thick shoulder, she paused and allowed herself a moment to admire the smooth, flawless hide—the biggest miracle of all. Gratitude filled her. If everything went well, the gift of this moose’s hide might make reconciliation with her grandparents possible.
And once peace existed between Vitsiy and Vitse and herself, she’d finally have the freedom to leave this place and join Voss Dawson. Thank you, moose.

Clay Selby strapped the wooden accordion case onto his back, shrugging to adjust the bulky weight on his spine. He turned to his stepsister, Vivian. The weeks of travel had taken their toll. She looked ready to wilt. He’d tried to convince her to stay behind with their parents—if she found the Kiowa reservation on the Oklahoma plains formidable, living in a village in the Alaskan wilderness would certainly be difficult for her to endure. But she’d insisted she could be of use in opening the mission school.
Now she sagged against the railing that lined the paddleboat’s deck, bedraggled and with dark circles under her eyes. She caught him looking at her. With a jolt, she stood upright and curved her lips into a weary smile. “Almost there.” Despite her brave posture, her voice wavered.
Clay hoped she’d make it. He’d have more than enough to do, getting the school started. If he had to mollycoddle Vivian, too . . . “Give her a chance, son,” his father had said. “She’s an intelligent girl, and you will need a partner for this ministry. You can’t do it all yourself.” Clay offered Vivian a smile and echoed, “Almost there.”
Other passengers pushed past them, nearly sending Clay onto his nose. He planted the soles of his boots and held his footing, curling a protective arm around Vivian’s waist. He waited until everyone else reached the paddleboat’s gangplank before grabbing the handle of their large carpetbag. “Let’s go.”
Vivian lifted the smaller valise, and together they fell behind the line of rowdy men whose eager voices proclaimed their intentions to get rich in the goldfields. Clay also hoped for riches, but of a completely different kind.
Holding Vivian’s elbow, he stepped off the paddleboat. His gaze searched up and down the riverbank. He’d been told he’d have no trouble hiring a canoe to take them upriver past Fort Yukon. But with so many people milling in impatient confusion, he wasn’t able to determine which men were hiring canoes and which were offering them for use.
He contemplated elbowing his way through the crowd to the riverba