Edge of the Wilderness - By Stephanie Grace Whitson Page 0,30

and looked up at him. “I suspect you could learn, though, Simon.”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling, “I suspect I could.”

Eight

There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.

—Proverbs 30:18–19

July 4, 1863

My Dear,

I begin this letter with a term not meant to patronize, but rather to remind you my heart holds you dear . . .

Simon read the words he had just written, exhaled sharply, crumpled the piece of paper, and sent it the way of its predecessors into the small stove in the corner of his room. He struck a match and dropped it in the midst of several wads of paper. Closing the stove door, he crossed the room to stand looking out the window as dawn illuminated the river town of Davenport, Iowa. He had been here several weeks but thus far had sent only one letter—a pitiful missive in what he had come to think of as Old Simonese formal, distant, cold. It would not do to send Genevieve another like it—not when she had smiled up at him with those eyes and said she would like to be courted through the mail.

He sighed, oblivious to the city just outside his window. Life held so many unpredictable elements. When he had wanted to hold her close, she remained distant. Now that she was willing to cross the distance between them, had even invited it, he could not find the words to realize the goal. Help me, Lord. I feel she is Your gift to me, but I don’t quite know how to claim her. You know me, Father. I’m from the old school. Ellen and I didn’t show our true feelings often, even in the private moments. Genevieve won’t put up with that. She’s completely different. Wonderful. Show me how to court her. Show me how to love her. Simon’s eyes strayed to the table beside his bed where his Bible lay, yet unopened that morning. Please look down on this poor old preacher and help me, God. Simon went to his Bible, opened it to the Song of Solomon, and began to read.

The thunder of horses’ hooves in the distance announced Camp McClellan’s morning cavalry parade through town as the men took the first of their two daily treks to the river. It seemed to Simon that a cloud of dust had hung in the still air since his arrival. Already this morning he could feel grit collecting beneath his shirt collar. Unbuttoning the starched collar, he laid aside his Bible, rolled up his sleeves, and returned to the small desk near the window. Casting a plea to heaven for help, he wrote:

My Dear,

If all I meant to accomplish in this letter was to tell you about the city of Davenport, to describe the condition of the Dakota prisoners and the status of our work here, I would not have destroyed several earlier versions of my writing. Have you any idea how awkward I feel convincing my old self to move aside so that you can get a clear view of the man who loves you? The old Simon Dane would never have engaged in anything like a courtship by mail. But then that Simon Dane was a fool blessed by the love of a woman he did not deserve. I am amazed, dear Genevieve, at how history has repeated itself, for even as I attempt to cast aside my formal, distant self I am once again blessed by the interest of a woman I do not deserve. How is it that God has chosen to bless me in such a manner not once, but twice in a lifetime?

I pause to reread the above paragraph as I sit at my desk looking out on the city of Davenport, and I realize that this is hardly a letter suitable for the ears of my children. I entrust to you the task of interpreting this letter for their ears in a manner that protects our privacy and yet conveys my love to them. How I miss them! Just last evening when I was walking back to my little room from the prison, I glanced in at one of the hotel windows to see a family dining, and the long amber-colored curls of a little girl about