Edge of the Wilderness (14 page)

“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.”