Edge of the Wilderness

Thirteen


For the LORD seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the LORD looketh on the heart.”

—1 Samuel 16:7

“Welcome home,” Gen whispered, hugging Simon. Her joy faltered when she realized how thin he was. She looked up at him with a little frown of concern. Fatigue was etched in his face, aging him considerably.

Simon released her quickly and opened his arms to Meg and Hope, staggering backward when they flung themselves at him. “Whoa, there, girls,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “Let your old father sit down.” He held their hands and together they went into the parlor where it did not escape Gen’s notice that Simon sighed with relief when he sank into a cushioned high-backed chair.

Aaron lingered behind his father, his arm around Gen. He did not miss her look of concern. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “He’s just tired.”

Gen patted Aaron on the back and then left his side to join the small group gathered around Simon.

“We want to hear everything,” Miss Jane said.

Samuel and Nina Whitney murmured their assent while the children sat quietly on the braided rug, miraculously well-behaved and quiet in the face of Aaron and the reverend’s homecoming.

“You talk first, Aaron,” Simon said, smiling up at his son. He kissed Hope on the cheek and then let her down with the other children while Meg nestled back against him.

Aaron sat down on the couch next to Gen. He studied the floor for a moment, obviously struggling to organize his thoughts. “Crow Creek is—” He shook his head. “I can’t begin to tell you. The worst place possible. The idea of farming there is ludicrous.” Aaron looked at his father and shrugged. “There isn’t much anyone can do.”

“Wrong,” Simon interrupted gently.

With a look in his father’s direction, Aaron nodded. “We’re fairly helpless to relieve the physical difficulties.” He continued, “Although we helped plow up a few new acres for planting in the spring, it will all be pointless unless the drought breaks.” He paused, thinking. “I got to know a few of the old men.” He looked around the room. “There aren’t many boys my age. Most of them have died. The rest are too sick to do much.” The situation Aaron went on to describe was worse than anything the group had imagined. Aaron finally gave up with a helpless shrug. “You can’t really imagine it until you’ve been there.”

“But,” Simon spoke up, “we have witnessed some amazing things spiritually.” He looked at Aaron. When their eyes met, something passed between them.

“Yes,” Aaron confirmed. “Father told you how we put up a booth—you know,” he said as he held his hands over his head to illustrate for the children, “poles set in the ground with brush for a kind of roof. As soon as we had it finished there was a crowd ready to attend the first meeting.” Aaron grinned at Gen. “Amos Huggins would have been amazed if he could have heard the hymn-singing.”

“Amos Huggins?” Nina Whitney asked.

Miss Jane explained, “Amos helped translate many of the hymns in the first Dakota hymnal.” She lowered her voice almost reverently. “He was among the first killed in the uprising. He had just returned from having the hymnal printed. They found his body on the road.”

“Singing is one of the favorite parts of the day,” Aaron said. “We sing hymns at every meeting. And they love to hear Father teach.” He looked at his father with unabashed pride.

“Tell them about the trip back to St. Anthony,” Simon broke in.

“Perhaps over supper,” Miss Jane interrupted. “You men must be starving.” She was already headed for the kitchen. “We’ve a roast turkey in the oven and the first harvest of squash.” She motioned to the children. “Come along—time to set the table.” Aaron got up to help her, but she pushed him back. “You get unpacked and talk to the grown-ups.” She flashed a huge smile at him. “I declare, you’re very nearly an adult, anyway. I can’t believe how you’ve grown!” She herded the rest of the children into the hall and toward the kitchen.

Simon pushed himself up out of his chair. He sighed. “Miss Jane is right, Aaron. We’d best be getting unpacked and cleaned up.” He patted the sides of his vest. “I think there’s at least ten pounds of road dust in these rags.” He walked by the couch and patted Gen on the shoulder. “It’s good to be home.”

Gen closed her eyes and put her hand on his. “I’ll go help Miss Jane with dinner.” She walked to the door with Simon, kissing his cheek when they parted. From the doorway, she watched him trudge up the stairs. “Simon,” Gen called from below. When he turned to look back at her, she said softly, “There’s plenty of time for you to lie down before dinner. You must be exhausted.”

He nodded. “Perhaps I will.”



“Where’s Father?” Aaron wanted to know. He bounded into the kitchen and swept Hope up in his arms. “I knocked on his door before I went out to the garden nearly an hour ago.”

“I’ll check on him,” Gen said quickly. She flew up the back steps to Simon’s door, knocking gently at first, then with more force. When there was no answer, she turned the knob and called softly, “Simon. Supper is ready. Simon?” When the only answer was soft snoring, Gen pushed the door open a little farther. Simon was lying face up on the bed, fully clothed. He did not stir while Gen removed his shoes, then his socks. When she covered him with a lightweight blanket and tucked a pillow beneath his head, he sighed happily. It was not until she gently undid his tie and began to unbutton his top shirt button that he woke. Without opening his eyes, he took her hand and kissed it, whispering, “It seems that I do have a guardian angel, after all.” He opened his eyes and stared up at her. “I was dreaming about you, Miss LaCroix.”

Gen knelt beside the bed. She stroked the gray hair along his temple. “You’re completely worn out, Reverend Dane.”

He mumbled, “Guilty as charged.” He took a deep breath, obviously fighting the temptation to close his eyes.

“Sleep,” Gen whispered gently. She kissed his forehead before getting up. He was sound asleep before Gen got to the door.



“He’s resting,” Gen said when Elliot Leighton knocked at the kitchen door the next afternoon. She was sitting at the kitchen table, a box of apples on the floor beside her, a pile of peelings in a bowl in her lap. “If you wish,” she said without getting up, “I can send Aaron for you when Simon comes down.” She cut the apple in her hands in half, cored it, and began slicing it into the first of seven pie shells waiting on the table.

When Leighton did not reply, Gen looked up. “If you are waiting for an invitation to tea, Mr. Leighton, I’m afraid you’re to be disappointed. We should be civil to one another for the sake of the children. You needn’t pretend when no one else is here. Do you want me to send Aaron for you or not?”

“It’s very important that I see Simon right away,” Leighton insisted.

“Not as important as it is that he get some uninterrupted rest,” Gen shot back. She didn’t look away, but stared at him stubbornly. “Aaron just took Hope out for a walk. He should be back soon. As soon as his father is awake, I’ll send for you”—she shot him a wilting glance—“not in the servile sense, you understand.”

The front door slammed shut and Miss Jane came charging down the hall. She managed to get only halfway to the table when the handle on her market basket broke and everything dropped to the floor with a thud. “Mercy!” she exclaimed, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Let me help,” Elliot said, kneeling down and beginning to pick things up and set them on the table.

“Oh, don’t!” Miss Jane exclaimed, scrambling to pick up a dozen small packages, wrapped in brown paper. “I can do it!”

Leighton shot back vehemently, “So can I—even with only one hand!”

Miss Jane retorted, “It has nothing to do with one hand, Elliot Leighton. It has to do with my embarrassment at being such a graceless ninny.” She snatched up the last package, clutching it to her as if it were a priceless treasure. Her cheeks were blazing red, her eyes crackling with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

Gen looked on with a confused frown. Whatever was going on between those two?

“Will you stay for tea, Mr. Leighton?” Jane asked abruptly. “Thank you, Miss Williams.”

“Well, sit down then and let me get my bearings.” Still flustered, Miss Jane stared down at the pile of packages on the table. She pointed to each one, mumbling to herself, “Brown sugar, cinnamon, flour—ah—” She grabbed a small package and turned toward the stove. “Tea.”

Gen had finished peeling half the box of apples and filled all the pie shells with apple slices by the time Miss Jane had tea ready. “Care to join us?” Miss Jane asked Gen.

Gen shook her head. “I’ll just get the top crusts ready.” She turned away, rolled up her sleeves, and began rolling out the dough waiting on the wood counter against the wall. When the seven pies were ready for the oven, Gen washed and dried her hands, rolled her sleeves back down, and excused herself. “I promised Meg we’d finish the story we began at bedtime last night as soon as she came home from school.” She glanced up the back stairs and said to Miss Jane, “If Simon comes down—”

“—I’ll send him to the parlor,” Miss Jane said quickly.

“No, I wasn’t thinking that,” Gen said reluctantly. “Mr. Leighton came to talk to Simon. Actually, I just wanted you to let me know that he was up.”

Miss Jane reached out and squeezed Gen’s hand. “He’s fine, Gen. I’ve seen it happen before on the mission field. When men don’t have a woman caring for them, they don’t care for themselves. They don’t eat properly, they don’t rest—they work themselves into a frenzy, and then they fall apart. We’ll just have to see that it doesn’t happen again.” She smiled at Gen, who nodded and left.

Elliot sipped his tea and watched as Miss Jane finished putting away her market packages. She untied a small bundle of cinnamon sticks and put them in a clean jar. Brown sugar and flour were put into crocks in the pantry, tea in a dark brown box on a shelf over the stove. Finally, she slid three pies into the oven and then, pouring herself a cup of tea, sat down opposite Leighton.

“Suppose you tell me what the problem is between you and my friend Miss LaCroix,” she said abruptly.

Leighton raised his eyebrows and eyed Miss Jane for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said carefully.

“Of course you do, Mr. Leighton.” Miss Jane sipped her tea. “Every time the two of you are in the same room, it positively frosts over.”

Leighton put a teaspoon of sugar into his teacup and stirred it. “I apologize,” he said quickly, “if I’ve made you uncomfortable. And I don’t want to say anything that might reflect poorly on Miss LaCroix, since you obviously care for her.”

Miss Jane shifted in her chair. Leaning forward, she said, “Let’s be clear on something, Mr. Leighton. I have no use for people who dance around an issue. I’ve asked you to say what’s on your mind, and I’d appreciate an honest answer.” She sat back and waited for him to respond.

“Very well,” Elliot said abruptly. “I’ll be brutally honest.” He nodded toward the front of the house where Gen had gone. “That woman’s people have committed horrible, horrible, things. You cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. And you cannot make a civilized human being out of an Indian.”

Miss Jane blinked rapidly a few times and bit her lip, willing herself not to speak for a moment. Presently, she reached across the table and tugged on Leighton’s left sleeve. He let her pull his injured arm onto the table where she laid his hook in the palm of her hand. She looked up at him, her eyes glimmering with emotion when she said, “I believe your people have done a few horrible things from time to time as well, Mr. Leighton.” She arched one eyebrow. “But you don’t hear Miss LaCroix saying how much she hates you because the United States military killed the man she loved by mistake.”

“Please,” Elliot said, pulling his arm back and concealing his hook by sliding it onto his lap beneath the table. “Not another story about the great Daniel Two Stars.” He brushed his white mane of hair back from his face. “I’ve heard all about him from Meg.”

“He’s only one hero from the uprising,” Miss Jane said quickly. “If you’d just listen—”

“I don’t need to hear stories about Indian heroes to know that I have no intention of letting my sister’s children be dragged to the edge of the wilderness just because my brother-in-law has some misdirected notion of piety’s demands. And I most certainly will not have them raised by a half-breed Indian.” He sneered the last word.

“I believe,” Simon said from the bottom of the stairs, “that that is my decision to make, Elliot.” He was leaning against the door frame and neither Elliot nor Miss Jane knew how long he had been listening.

Elliot glanced at Miss Jane, whose cheeks were flaming red.

Simon ignored Miss Jane as he walked across the room to perch on the edge of the table, one hand on the table beside him and one hand on his knee. When he spoke his voice was so quiet Leighton had to strain to hear the words. “I thought it was odd that you would trek halfway across the country just to see your niece and nephew, Elliot. Especially when you haven’t written them once since their mother’s death.”

“If you will recall, Simon,” Leighton said, putting his hook back on the table. “I had to learn a few things more important than writing.”

Simon stood up. “I apologize, Elliot. I truly had forgotten that you were left-handed before you were wounded.”

Aaron burst into the kitchen with Hope in tow. “Uncle Elliot!” he nearly shouted. “I came to the hotel to surprise you, but you were gone.”

Leighton stood up, obviously flustered by Aaron’s exuberant greeting. He extended his hand, but Aaron ignored it, preferring instead to engulf his uncle in a bear hug. When he released him, Aaron stood back. When Leighton grimaced, Aaron apologized quickly, “I’m sorry, Uncle Elliot—I thought you were all healed up. Did I—did I hurt you?” He looked down at Elliot’s hook.

“No, no, it’s not that—” Leighton mumbled. He recovered and forced a smile. “How tall are you going to get, young man?” Without waiting for Aaron’s reply, he looked at Simon. “I think he got the Leighton height, don’t you, Simon?”

Simon smiled and followed his brother-in-law’s lead. “I think he got all of the good things about his mother’s family—including height. Isn’t he nearly as tall as you were when you were that age, Elliot?”

Leighton surveyed Aaron carefully. “I think he’s a bit taller. And he looks much older. You are only twelve, aren’t you, my boy?” He put his hand on Aaron’s shoulder. When Aaron nodded, Leighton frowned. “You’re growing up entirely too quickly. Stop it immediately. Your grandmother won’t recognize you when you visit.”

“Father said we’d have a studio photo taken to send home with you,” Aaron said.

“Your grandmother would love that,” Elliot said. Then, looking across the room at Simon he added, “But she would much rather have the living, breathing version come for a visit.” He looked back at Aaron. “What do you say, my boy? Would you like to go back to New York with me for a visit? We’d take Meg, of course.”

“I’d love to.” Aaron didn’t hesitate. “But I can’t.” He nodded toward where Simon stood. “Father and I have much too much work to do. I’m to attend school here in St. Anthony this winter. Then in the spring I’ll be heading back to Crow Creek.”

“You could just as easily attend school in New York as here,” Elliot said. Then, sensing the tension rising in the room, he backed off. “But that’s a topic for a later discussion.” He slapped Aaron on the back. “It’s good to see you, my boy.” He nodded at Simon. “Perhaps we can have supper this evening? At my hotel?”

“Of course.” Simon nodded. “Eight o’clock?”

“Eight o’clock,” Elliot said. He thanked Miss Jane for his tea and left.

Just when the screen door closed, Gen came down the stairs. “You must be starving,” she said to Simon. Going to the oven and opening the door she said, “And I’d say I can offer you fresh apple pie in a matter of moments.”



If there was one thing in the world that Elliot Leighton despised, it was a lack of self-discipline. Self-discipline had brought him back from near certain death, had conquered the threat of gangrene, had taught him to use his right hand when he lost his dominant left hand, had wrested a semblance of life from the gloomy existence accepted by other war casualties. Any weakness, any challenge, Leighton reasoned, could be made his enemy. Through self-discipline, he could wage war against it and either bring it under submission or cut it out of his life completely. This exercise in self-discipline was successful in every area of Leighton’s life except one. Try as he might, he could not seem to conquer his persistent attraction to women. It caused him unending difficulty and a deep hurt that he barely acknowledged to himself.

He had been slow to accept the reality that any possibility of worthwhile feminine companionship had been blown away with his left hand. For a season he had thought the situation only temporary. Once he was rehabilitated, he thought, women would stop seeing him as an invalid and begin to view him once again as a man. After all, Leighton reasoned, surely they must realize that the loss of a hand did nothing to affect a man’s virility.

Strangely, none of the women he had known before the war seemed to grasp this basic truth. One look at his hair, whitened overnight in battle, one glance at his hook, and something happened to them. Their eyes clouded over, their faces took on a pained expression, their voices dripped with unwelcome pity. The day he realized that even Betsy, the maid he had once scolded for her impertinence, seemed to see him as an object of sympathy, Leighton began to think that no woman would ever again see him as anything other than a victim at best, or a freak at worst. Fools, he thought.

By the time Leighton headed for Minnesota to rescue his sister’s children, he had cut off most of his prewar social contacts and devoted himself almost entirely to managing his father’s considerable estate, thereby convincing himself that his self-discipline had eradicated any desire for feminine companionship. Until Miss Jane.

Leighton thought it absurd that after swearing off younger and more beautiful women, he should find a rather plain, willow-thin spinster attractive. Even more absurd was the fact that what he liked most of all about Miss Jane had little to do with either her figure or her features. What he admired was her manner. She was all business, amazingly focused on her duty to God and her adopted family. She had a fiery disposition. She had suffered her own battles, did not consider herself a victim, and apparently did not appropriate the title to him, either. Not once had he seen pity in her eyes when she looked at him.

When Leighton found himself unable to conquer his attraction to Miss Jane, he took solace in the fact that he would soon be returning to New York with Ellen’s children. And that, he thought, would be the end of that. It was, therefore, totally disarming when Miss Jane pulled on his shirt sleeve and laid his hook in the palm of her hand, apparently without revulsion. It was equally unnerving when, not two hours after he had left the Whitney kitchen, a hotel maid knocked at his door and presented him with a calling card informing him that a certain Miss Jane Williams was waiting to speak with him in the hotel dining room.

When Leighton descended to meet her, Miss Jane stood up to receive him. She had donned a severe black dress and a magnificently outdated hat and yet, Leighton thought as he walked toward her, her manner lent a measure of grace to the costume. She returned his handshake firmly and sat down, quickly waving a waiter over and ordering tea. It did not go unnoticed by Leighton that she handled the entire exchange as if she did it every day. He suspected that it had been at least ten years since Miss Jane had had any opportunity to order tea in a hotel dining room. He could not keep from smiling inwardly at the woman’s ability to adapt to situations.

As soon as the tea was put before them, Miss Jane said abruptly, “I’ve come to discuss your difficulty with my friend Miss LaCroix.” She looked directly at him and he did not miss the spark of emotion in her eyes. “It would appear, based on your previous comments, that you determined to dislike her even before you came to St. Anthony.” Placing her hands on either side of her cup and saucer, she said earnestly, “I am waiting, Mr. Leighton, for you to say something to convince me that you are not really so simpleminded.”

Leighton pursed his lips. He lifted his chin and reached up to adjust his cravat. “Of course I’m not so stupid as that. I’m very well-read on the subject of the Indian problem.”

Miss Jane leaned forward. “Tell me something, Mr. Leighton, exactly how many Indians had you known personally before coming to Minnesota?”

He was defensive. “You know the answer to that. It doesn’t matter. As I said, I have researched the subject extensively.”

“It isn’t a subject,” she snapped. “It’s people. People who bleed and hurt and love and have families and grieve. People who know what it is to be lonely, to have dreams ripped out of their hands through no fault of their own—”

“Lo, the poor Indian,” Leighton said sarcastically.

Miss Jane sat back and eyed him carefully. “Miss LaCroix and I were together when the war party decided to move all the captives farther north. A fellow named Otter had charge of us. Charming fellow. Liked to make things as difficult as possible for his captives. On this particular day, he decided to toughen us up a bit. He decided we shouldn’t be allowed on the road with the rest of the group.” Miss Jane looked out the window as she relived the event. “Otter drove us like cattle. We walked for miles without water, without rest. He had made it perfectly clear that if we faltered, he would shoot us. He was tired of us by then.” She turned and looked at Leighton, satisfied that she had his attention.

“The landscape was dotted with thickets of brambles and berry bushes. Of course Otter rode around these things. But he drove us through them. It wasn’t long before the children’s legs and arms were running with blood. When it became apparent they weren’t going to be able to continue, Gen and I had an idea.” Miss Jane stood up. “We put them directly behind us. Had them wrap their arms around our waists. Put our arms over theirs.” She clenched her hands in front of her. “Like this.” She shrugged and shook her head. “It wasn’t perfect, but it did get us through those bushes.” Miss Jane quickly unbuttoned her cuffs and pulled her sleeves up. Her forearms were covered with jagged red scars. She sat down and continued talking while she rolled her sleeves back down and buttoned her cuffs.

“Miss LaCroix’s scars are deeper than mine.” She glared at Leighton. “I was able to wear the men’s moccasins. But it was a while before anyone could find a pair small enough for her. That afternoon, Gen was barefoot. But she kept going, kept protecting Meg’s arms against the worst tears. Finally, she was limping so badly an elderly Indian woman named Mother Friend shamed Otter into putting Gen in a wagon alongside the old woman.” Miss Jane went on, “That old woman shared every bit of food, every drink of water, every tepee, every cabin with us for the entire rest of the time we were held. I saw her deprive herself of food so your niece and nephew would not go hungry.” Miss Jane leaned forward, her eyes flashing angrily. “So don’t you sit there and tell me about ‘that woman’s people,’ Elliot Leighton.”

Leighton protested gently, “All right, Jane, all right. Perhaps there are a few good souls among them. I met a Secesh or two who seemed to be good men too. It doesn’t change the fact that hundreds of Indians scalped and raped and murdered hundreds of innocent settlers. Am I really supposed to ignore those facts because you have other facts?”

“You are supposed to investigate things and use the brain God gave you, Mr. Leighton,” Miss Jane snapped. “Or did the same shot that took your hand off also somehow remove part of your brain?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, Miss Jane winced. Her entire face reddened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Leighton. That was completely uncalled for.”

Leighton ignored her apology. Instead, he asked calmly, “And how would you suggest I investigate these matters, since you claim the newspaper accounts are untrustworthy?”

“Go to Crow Creek with Reverend Dane. Meet the people. See what he has in mind for his family.”

Leighton snorted. “That’s an absurd notion.”

“Why?” Miss Jane said quickly. “Haven’t you ever wondered what it was about mission work that captured your sister’s imagination? Haven’t you ever wondered how the Dakota people won her heart? Anyone would agree that your motive to do the best thing for your sister’s children is good. But you can’t just sweep them away from the life she chose for them without ever having understood it.”

“Idealism isn’t very practical, Miss Williams,” Leighton said abruptly. He held up his hook. “Look what it did for me.” He leaned forward and said slowly, “And it killed my sister.”

Miss Jane met his gaze and didn’t look away. Clearing her throat, she replied, “I don’t deny that idealism plays a role in the missionary’s call—especially if she is young. But idealism is quickly destroyed in the face of reality. Your sister was a woman of purpose, Mr. Leighton, not an idealistic fool. You do her an injustice not to realize that. She accepted reality and gave her heart and soul to it. It’s a pity that her brother cannot follow her example.”

Noting Leighton’s look of surprise, Miss Jane hurried on. “You have a mental image of Indians that you won’t adjust, even when faced with someone like Genevieve LaCroix. You continue to operate on the premise that Reverend Dane is the same self-serving, self-righteous man your sister married, even though you must see that he has changed.” She swallowed and persisted. “The tragedy in it all, Mr. Leighton, is that your bitterness and anger and unhappiness hurt you the most. Your beliefs won’t change the way we all feel about Gen. And they certainly won’t change her devotion to us. Nor will they change Reverend Dane’s commitment to his calling. But you, Mr. Leighton—” She stood up slowly. “If you let these beliefs and feelings continue to burn inside you, they will destroy you.” She laid a gold coin on the table. “It would be a pity for such an attractive, intelligent man to allow that to happen.”

She bid him good day and swept out of the room.