Laura Abbot - The Gift of a Child

* * *

Sunlight filtering through Rose’s bedroom window woke her from fitful dreams. Disoriented, she gasped in recognition when she saw the small boy sitting cross-legged on the trundle bed, weaving and reweaving strands of the afghan fringe through his little hands. “Alf?” she said quietly. Ducking his head, he cringed, shrinking in on himself in a self-protective fashion. His cheeks were rosy from sleep. He waited still as a statue, like a wary animal daring her to approach. She slowly sat up, then faced him, her hands outstretched in invitation. Finally he turned his head and cautiously stared up at her through long, dark lashes. When she gathered him in her arms, he stiffened but did not resist. She sensed he was a child who had been schooled to keep quiet and attract little notice. “Alf,” she said again. “I won’t hurt you. You are safe.”

He relaxed against her. “Nawah,” he said in a cracked voice.

She had no idea what the nonsense syllables meant, but she decided to answer in kind. “Nawah,” she crooned. “Nawah.”

He laid his head on her shoulder and began sucking his fist.

“Oh, little one, you must be hungry.” She stood and still clutching him to her, managed to put on her wrapper. “Let’s see what we can find.”

In the kitchen, her father had already stoked the fire and was boiling water on the stove. Rose had an inspiration. “Nawah,” she said to Ezra, who raised his eyes speculatively.

To her surprise and joy, the boy pointed at Ezra and whispered, “Nawah.”

Catching on to Rose’s ploy, Ezra looked straight at the child and said, “Nawah, Alf.”

“Alf,” the boy echoed as if commending the older man for his acumen.

Rose gently set the boy on her father’s lap. “Let me get him some bread.”

Rose sliced a thick piece, buttered it and slathered on some plum jam. Alf picked up the bread and attacked it as if he hadn’t seen food in days. How distressing to think he’d been ill fed, Rose thought, as she quickly set a skillet on the stove for ham and eggs and poured a glass of milk, which she handed to her father to give to the boy.

“Nawah is a Pawnee word of greeting,” Ezra said.

“How do you know that?”

“From the occasional Indian I treated at Fort Larned.”

“Do you think he’s Pawnee?”

“From the looks of him, I’d say he has at least some Indian blood.” Her father rolled up one of the child’s pant legs. “See these bruises? I reckon he’s had some tough times lately.”

Rose gasped at the thought that just came to her. “Do you think someone’s abused him?”

“Possibly. Or maybe he’s been out on the prairie for a time. Hard to tell.”

The mere thought that the child might have been mistreated roused Rose’s ire and concern. “He could be safe with us, Papa,” she said in a not-so-subtle attempt to avoid the inevitable actions her father had planned.

Ezra held the glass of milk and guided the boy’s hands around his so that he could drink. “Please, no arguments. We are obliged to do what we must to locate the parents or relatives.”

Tending to the eggs and ham sizzling in the skillet, Rose bit her lip lest she scream out her opposition. Alf slithered from her father’s grasp and walked across the floor to her, clutching her around the knees with his jam-sticky hands. “E-nah?” he said. Then he moved toward the door, crying more insistently, “E-nah?” Rose looked helplessly at Ezra.

“I think he’s looking for his mother. As I recall, E-nah is Pawnee for ‘mother.’”

The boy pounded on the door, repeating his cry. Rose approached him and led him back to the table, where she sat down, pulling him into her lap and uttering soothing sounds.

Ezra stepped to the stove and dished up the food. As Rose spooned egg into Alf’s mouth, his trembling subsided and then he said another word: “Good.”

Relief flooded Rose. The boy might know more English than she had first thought. “Yes, good,” she echoed.

Ulysses came into the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to stretch, yawn and lick his lips.

Alf watched the animal warily. Ulysses paused at the table, rubbing his furry back across Alf’s leg. The boy recoiled in alarm, but when Ulysses repeated the motion, he leaned forward to watch. “Cat,” he finally said, then turned to look at Rose. “My cat?”

“Our cat,” Rose gently corrected. “Our cat.”

After breakfast, with great difficulty, Rose and Ezra succeeded in divesting the boy of his threadbare clothes and getting him into the wash tub. His limbs displayed bruises, both old and new, and his skinny body suggested poor nutrition. After wrapping him in a warm towel, Ezra proceeded to examine him while Rose stood anxiously by.

“For the hardships, of whatever kind, that he’s had to endure, he’s in fair shape,” he said. “Medically, he’s a trifle malnourished and his growth is a bit stunted for a boy I’d guess is around four. He seems somewhat detached emotionally, but fear will do that. I suspect English has been his second language, thus affecting his facility in it. For as long as we have him, he will need lots of love and attention.”

Rose could do that. But she quailed at her father’s words, “For as long as we have him.” Right then and there, she made a bargain with God. You have given this child into my care, Lord, and I will tend him with all my heart and soul. Help me to be part of Your greater plan for Alf and to accept Your will for him.

As she carefully redressed Alf in his tattered clothes, her father picked up his hat and turned to her with words that scalded her ears. “I’m off to the mercantile store to find some new togs for the little feller. After that, I’m obligated to notify Sheriff Jensen.”

Rose shrugged, unable to summon words of farewell.

* * *

Seth glanced with satisfaction at the lumber stacked in the wagon. Last week he’d hired two more ranch hands, necessitating an addition to the bunkhouse. Before he hauled his load home, he needed to stop at the mercantile to pick up items for Sophie and Lily. Entering the store, he was greeted by Horace Clay, the proprietor. “What brings you to town, Montgomery?”

“We needed supplies from the lumberyard. No way, though, would the ladies let me escape without filling their list.” Reaching in his pocket, he handed Clay a creased piece of paper.

Scanning it, Clay nodded. “Shouldn’t take long. Make yourself at home.”

Seth looked around, uncomfortable in the cramped space crowded with bolts of cloth, tobacco tins, cosmetic potions and ladies’ fineries. After walking aimlessly up and down the aisles, he decided to wait on the bench out front. When he opened the door to leave, he was nearly bowled over by Doc Kellogg.

“Whoa, Ezra. What’s your rush?”

“Sorry, Seth. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m in a hurry.”

Clay looked up from filling Seth’s order. “Doc, can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so.” He glanced around uncertainly. “Do you carry any ready-made children’s clothes?”

Curious about the doctor’s request, Seth edged closer.

“Not many. Some dungarees and shirts. A few pairs of shoes. What size?”

When Ezra shrugged in bafflement and held his hand thigh-high, Clay rounded the counter and led him toward the back of the store. “Let’s see what I’ve got.”

Seth scratched his head. He’d rarely seen the doctor so agitated or secretive. After a few minutes of mumbled conversation, the two men reappeared with a stack of clothing and one small pair of shoes. “Lemme get Doc fixed up,” Clay said, “and then I’ll finish your order.”

When Ezra turned around with his wrapped bundle, he ducked his head at Seth in a follow-me gesture. Once outside the store, Ezra mopped his brow, then looked straight at Seth. “We’ve got us a...situation. One Lily needs to know about today. Can you get her a message?”