Edge of the Wilderness - By Stephanie Grace Whitson Page 0,21

to anyone who came knocking,” Simon continued.

“’Course not,” Potts agreed.

“Well, then, please don’t take offense when I say I am somewhat disturbed by a few things.” Simon stared at Potts as he enumerated, “You don’t seem to know the exact location of the homestead. And you didn’t keep the one letter your beloved sister-in-law wrote.”

“Now look here,” Potts said, shifting nervously on the couch.

Simon pressed on, “You must understand, Mr. Potts, that we love Hope as if she were our own child. The fact is,” he said firmly, “we really aren’t prepared to give her up at all. Not without some very convincing proof that we must.”

Potts glared at Simon for a moment. He stared across the room at Gen and then back. Anger flickered in his deep-set eyes. Mrs. Potts swallowed hard and stared down at her hands.

“The news that your brother-in-law was murdered, your sister-in-law scalped, left you strangely unmoved.”

“I was tryin’ not to embarrass her,” Potts protested, nodding toward Gen. “Anyone can see she’s part Injun’.” He looked back to Simon. ‘And anyone can see you two ain’t even married, so don’t be talkin’ to me about lovin’ my Charlotte Mary—uh, Marie—like she was your own. You got no claim to bein’ anybody’s parents, unless the church has changed its rules about sich things since I was a boy in Sunday school.”

Simon got up and stood behind his chair. His pale eyes flickered angrily as he asked, “Let’s get to the business at hand, Mr. Potts. Exactly how much were you expecting us to pay you to take the next steamship back to Dayton without Hope?”

“A child oughter be with her kin,” Mrs. Potts whined. She raised the handkerchief to her face and began to cry “Oh, my poor dead sister . . .”

“Will you hush up?” Potts said, elbowing her. Instantly, she quieted. Potts studied Simon, whose gaze didn’t waver. Finally, he looked at Sally. “We ain’t here to do harm by the child; are we, Mother?”

“’Course not,” Sally said.

Potts sighed. He leaned back on the sofa and contemplated the ceiling. After a moment he said, “It don’t take a genius to see that Charlotte Marie’s attached to ya both.” He ran one hand through his greasy hair, then licked his lips before continuing. “Fact is, Reveran’, now that we come all this way and we see what a fine house little Charlotte Marie has and all—” He cleared his throat.

“How much, Mr. Potts?” Simon said. He added, “You have no documentation of who you are. You have no proof of anything. But in the interest of settling this peaceably, I’d like to hear the figure you had in mind when you headed our way.”

“Five hundred dollars,” Potts said abruptly. The woman next to him gasped and stared at him wide-eyed, but she did not protest the idea of losing the opportunity to take “precious Charlotte Marie” back to Dayton.

Simon didn’t hesitate. “Done. I’ll have legal papers drawn up to reassure us that you won’t rethink that figure when you get halfway to Dayton. Can you meet with me at my attorney’s this evening?”

Potts ignored Simon’s insult and nodded.

“Then I’ll show you out.” Simon gestured toward the door.

Gen closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, willing herself to be still when all she wanted to do was throw her arms around Simon Dane.

The front door closed, and she waited for Simon to reappear. When he didn’t, she went out into the entryway. She called his name, but the house was obviously empty except for her and the sleeping baby upstairs. Simon’s hat was missing from its hook by the door.

“Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma.”

The sound of Hope’s voice echoed down the broad upstairs hall. With a last glance at the empty hook by the door, Gen headed upstairs.

Six

For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.

—James 1:20

Edward Pope was terrified of “the hos-tiles.” He was a miserable horseman and a worse shot. But Edward could cook. It wasn’t long after their arrival in the scouts’ camp north of Fort Ridgely that Edward had earned a Dakota name. Little by little, the scouts added to Pope’s combined sleeping quarters and kitchen until he occupied a shelter that would have arguably survived a hundred-year blizzard. Edward Pope became the universal favorite in camp, and the scouts made certain he—and Brady Jensen—knew it. Those who could speak English talked to Pope—unless Jensen was within earshot.

“You don’t worry about bad Indians, Good Soup,” Big Amos was heard to say. “We