A Whisper of Peace by Kim Vogel Sawyer

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.