Edge of the Wilderness - By Stephanie Grace Whitson Page 0,8
Williams swiped a bit of dried food off the canning jar she was washing and winked at Gen.
“Ma-ma-ma-ma!” Hope shouted gleefully.
Miss Jane blew her frizzy red bangs out of her eyes. “Bossy little miss wants her mama to pick her up.”
Gen swallowed, surprised at the lump in her throat, the tears filling her eyes at Miss Jane’s use of the word mama. She ignored Hope’s hand drumming on her skirt just long enough to strip the last five pea pods of their treasure. Then she swept Hope up and sat her on the edge of the table before her, leaning forward to rub noses and kiss the toddler on her cheek.
“I’m not your ‘ma-ma-ma,’ little doll,” Gen said softly, pulling Hope into her lap.
“Closest thing to a mama she’ll ever have,” Miss Jane interjected. She continued scrubbing jars as she added, “And I imagine her first mama is looking on from glory and thanking the dear Lord for sending you and Daniel Two Stars up to that cabin.”
Gen smiled sadly. She lowered Hope to the floor, then extended one finger of each hand for the child to grasp. Hope pulled herself up immediately and began to march across the spotless board floor. As she followed Hope, Gen murmured, “Sometimes I wonder if Hope’s mother would be all that happy to have me raising her child—after what happened.”
“You don’t have any more relation to the Indians who killed that baby’s mama than I have to President Lincoln,” Miss Jane said firmly. “And if you and Two Stars, God rest his soul, hadn’t wandered up to that homestead a few days after the murders were committed, Hope wouldn’t even be alive. And look how she adores you. Can’t anyone argue with that. I’d say the good Lord provided Hope a mother . . . and,” she said with conviction, “I’d say He did a good job choosing.”
Gen had reached the screened back door of the kitchen, following Hope’s baby steps across the kitchen. “I’d say the good Lord did a similarly good job when He led Rebecca and Timothy to you, Miss Jane.” She guided Hope back toward the table and sat down again.
Miss Jane snatched a linen towel down from the shelf above the sink and began to dry the clean canning jars. She sighed.
“Thank you. I have to keep reminding myself that Rebecca and Timothy are only mine temporarily.” She shook her head. “I just don’t understand why someone in St. Louis hasn’t responded to any of Reverend Dane’s letters to the newspapers.” She paused for a moment, absentmindedly putting one hand in her apron pocket. “You’d think anyone with relatives in this part of the country would be desperate to know about them—and thrilled to hear about children who survived.”
“I don’t understand it either,” Gen agreed, handing Hope a wooden spoon and bowl to play with. “Simon has written so many letters about the Suttons—and Hope.” When Hope began to beat on the upturned bowl, Gen grinned at Miss Jane. “It would be just awful if we had to keep them, wouldn’t it?” She bent down and tapped on the bowl, creating her own rhythm along with Hope.
Hope dropped the spoon and, placing her little hands on either side of Gen’s head, grabbed two hands full of thick dark hair and pulled. Gen protested, “Ouch! That hurts!” and scooped the toddler off the floor and back onto her lap, whereupon the child reached into the bowl before her, grabbed a handful of raw peas and shoved them into her mouth. Gen laughed. “If only Two Stars could see what a scamp he rescued!” She ducked her head and swiped unexpected tears away with the back of one hand.
“It’s perfectly natural to grieve, Gen. You needn’t be embarrassed with me,” Miss Jane said gently.
Gen sighed. “I have grieved. I was very nearly a complete idiot for two whole months.” She caressed the back of Hope’s pudgy hand and said quietly, “Simon shouldn’t have to put up with any more of this.”
“Reverend Dane doesn’t consider himself to be ‘putting up’ with you, Genevieve,” Miss Jane said gently.
Gen blushed and led Hope in a rendition of patty-cake before setting her back down on the floor. “Can you watch her while I pick more peas?” she asked. “We have at least four more rows ready. With the weather turning so warm, they won’t last much longer.”
Miss Jane nodded and set a pot of water on the stove to boil. “I’ll get these blanched